Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You've never had an issue being the person you were. Life was fairly simple for you in every aspect of the word, and you liked that. There was never an issue with school, friends, or your teachers, for that matter. You weren't a boring person, but you never went out of your way to gain unwanted attention. When you were forced to attend a school like Derry, you either self-taught yourself to stay out of everyone's business, or it was beaten into you.

The students usually kept to themselves and their respective friend groups, never standing too far across the line of public existence to gain too many eyes, but never too far behind the line to be regarded as a loner. Everyone seemed to float in their own space, bound by a quiet, unspoken understanding that there were limits to how much attention anyone could draw.

You, personally, learned this quickly.

It wasn’t like anyone had outright told you the rules — it was more the looks, the hushed conversations, and the occasional sharp warning that cemented said rules into your mind. People kept their heads down, even in crowded hallways, as though eye contact itself could spark something dangerous.

It became second nature to drift along, staying close to the edge of social circles but never really stepping into the spotlight. There was a kind of freedom in the predictability of it all, the way the routines never changed, and everyone knew their place. You could almost move through the day on autopilot, gliding from one class to another, nodding to familiar faces without getting too close. Friendships here were kept at arm’s length, surface-level connections that, while polite, never ran too deep.

It was safer that way.

But then, of course, there were always exceptions — the students who didn’t quite fit the mould, who somehow managed to challenge the balance without trying. They stood out not through loud words or rebellious acts but through a quiet refusal to blend in completely. The biggest example that came to mind was the Losers Club, not a nickname they'd personally decided, but more so a name they were branded with.

The Losers Club didn’t try to grab attention; if anything, they actively avoided it. But there was something about them — an unwillingness to bend, to fall in line with the school’s unspoken rule of quiet conformity that made them impossible to ignore. They seemed to carry a certain defiance, a spark that drew curious glances and wary stares alike.

It wasn’t that they were loud or confrontational; they simply just didn’t fit the description that Derry expected, and maybe that was enough to make them feel like a threat.

You’d see them, here and there, standing in their little huddle by the lockers or clustered around a table in the cafeteria. They didn’t care about the usual boundaries, the invisible lines that kept others apart. There was a closeness about them, something rare at Derry, like they’d managed to create their own tiny world within the school’s walls.

It was almost enviable.

For a while, you didn’t think much of them. Sure, they were an odd bunch, but they didn’t seem to bother anyone else — and you knew better than to get involved in things that didn’t concern you. But, inevitably, the Losers Club had a way of breaking through that careful indifference. One by one, they wormed their way into your awareness, their presence just loud enough to disrupt the comfortable silence of your everyday life.

Maybe it was the way they stood up for each other, even when it meant attracting the wrong kind of attention. Or maybe it was how they didn’t back down when others tried to put them in their place. But somewhere along the way, they became more than just a curious anomaly; they became a reminder that there was a world outside of the lines everyone else so dutifully stayed within.

And before you even realised it, you found yourself looking their way a little longer, wondering what it was like on the other side of that invisible boundary. How a group of what the entire school had described as freaks seemed happier than anyone else in here. But, of course, there were some who couldn’t stand the Losers Club and made it their mission to remind them of their place.

The Bowers gang.

Notorious for their cruelty, especially toward the Losers. They seemed to have a personal vendetta, like their lives depended on making life miserable for anyone they deemed weaker. There were some pretty fucked up rumours about each of them — none of them good.

Henry, obviously, was the ringleader, infamous for his violent streak and willingness to cross boundries others wouldn’t in common sense even think of doing. Victor Criss was known as the quieter one, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous; he pretty often took part in the bullying with a chilling sense of calm. Belch Huggins, with his hulking frame, was the muscle of the group, more than willing to throw his weight around to intimidate whoever was unlucky enough to be in his path.

Then, there was Patrick Hockstetter.

Who didn’t shout or even say as much but was arguably the most disturbing of the bunch, with whispers about things he’d done that made even the toughest students uncomfortable. Patrick didn’t show up with the gang as often, but when he did, it was impossible to ignore. There was something chilling about him, something darker than the typical schoolyard cruelty.

Henry’s gang used intimidation and brute force, but Patrick was different — that freaks' malice ran deeper, slipping into places even Henry and the others wouldn’t think to go. Whispers followed him down the hallways, stories that sounded more like urban legends than reality, but the haunted looks of those who had crossed paths with him suggested that maybe, just maybe, those rumours were true.

One rumor said he’d once locked a stray animal in his locker, just to see what would happen. Another said he’d found a way to sneak into the science lab after hours, his fascination with dissecting small creatures unnerving anyone who was unlucky enough to hear about it. He wasn’t like the others who craved an audience or relished in public humiliation.

Patrick’s actions were private, and detached — it was as if he didn’t care whether anyone saw what he was doing, only that he got to do it.

When he was around, there was a strange quiet that fell over everyone, like the air itself had thickened with tension. He had this way of looking at people, his eyes blank but somehow far too intent, as if he was studying you, peeling back layers in his mind to see what he could find underneath. People said he once cornered a freshman, just a kid minding his own business, and held him there for what felt like hours, saying nothing, just staring in that cold, unnerving way of his until the poor kid was on the verge of tears.

Most of the time, Patrick stayed on the fringes, lurking rather than fully participating in the bullying with Henry and the others. But his presence was a constant, disgusting reminder that some lines could be crossed without warning, that under the surface of all the petty high school drama was a streak of something you never wanted to witness.

Even Henry, in his own way, seemed wary of him.

Careful to keep Patrick on his good side but never quite comfortable around him. You’d see it sometimes — a glance Henry would throw Patrick’s way, a flicker of something like unease. It was as if even Henry understood that Patrick was different, his mental thinking drastically unlike his own, almost as though it came from a place beyond normal teenage rebellion.

He didn’t look entirely human. Patrick’s tall, lanky frame had a strange way of moving, almost too smooth, like he was gliding rather than walking. His limbs seemed slightly too long for his body, giving him an unnervingly unnatural look, as if he’d been stretched out by something unseen.

The creep had this strange stillness to him, a way of occupying space that made people shudder in what you could only ever see as revulsion. His skin was pale and almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights of the school, adding an eerie quality that set him apart from the rest. His face, gaunt and sharp-featured, looked as though it had been carved from something brittle, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes dark and hooded.

Those eyes were perhaps the most unsettling thing about him: an icy, almost vacant stare that somehow seemed both bored and intensely focused. It was as if he was always looking through you rather than at you, dissecting you with a clinical detachment. Unlike Henry’s gaze, which burned with anger and impatience, Patrick’s held no emotion at all. He looked at people the way one might look at a specimen under a microscope — cold, analytical, like he was studying them for some private experiment.

Even his voice was strange, low and almost monotone, carrying a chilling lack of emotion that set him apart from his more volatile peers. When he spoke, it was as if he was reciting words he didn’t entirely feel or understand, as though human interaction was a foreign concept he had to mimic rather than genuinely participate in. 

And there was a faint, unpleasant smell that seemed to cling to him, something metallic and sour, like he’d been around decay, though no one wanted to think too hard about why that might be. He seemed to exist outside the bounds of fear or consequence. He didn’t flinch when a teacher scolded him, didn’t react to insults, didn't react to fucking pain either, and didn’t seem to care about any of the rules that held everyone else in check.

It was as if he was somehow beyond all of it, operating on a different wavelength where empathy and fear didn’t exist. Patrick Hockstetter was, in every way, a predator in human form, and he made no attempt to hide it.

When you caught sight of that walking warning sign, you made it a point to steer clear, not making the chance to even make eye contact become a problem. There was an edge to him, something just barely contained, that you didn’t want to get close to. And it made you wonder, more than once, what could’ve possibly twisted him that way. But you never lingered on the thought too long — it was easier not to.

The point was, Henry's gang thrived on fear and control, and the Losers Club seemed to be their favourite target. It was as though the mere existence of kids who didn’t follow the usual rules threatened something fundamental about the hold that group of future felons had on the school. And so, day after day, Henry and his crew would corner the Losers in the hallways or out by the parking lot, spitting insults, pushing them around, or worse.

They didn’t care who was watching or what anyone thought; in fact, they almost seemed to enjoy the audience, the silent bystanders who did nothing, just watched and turned away. And you, like everyone else, knew to keep your head down when they were near, hoping they wouldn’t shift their attention your way.

As much as you would mentally trash talk that whole 'friend' group, you really were unnerved by them. The only difficult part of your day-to-day was avoiding going anywhere you knew they had been, which luckily wasn't all too horrifying now that you had been at this school for a few years. You've been minding your business since pre-school for fucks sake, in some sick way, it was basically expected for you to be left alone in high school now too.  

You were good at being invisible. It was a skill honed over years, slipping through the cracks and fading into the background to keep the peace. It wasn’t that you were weak or afraid; it was more like a survival instinct, a way to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. At Derry High, staying unnoticed was as good as wearing armour.

But even as you perfected the art of keeping a low profile, you couldn’t ignore that unease that crept in whenever the Bowers gang was nearby. You’d catch glimpses of them in the hallways, maybe hear a taunt or a scuffle in the distance, and you’d feel a ripple of dread, a reminder of the fine line between blending in and becoming a target.

Every time you passed by the Losers Club huddled together, you’d see the way they’d brace themselves, shoulders squared, faces set with determination. They knew what was coming, yet they still showed up every day, still stuck together. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of something — maybe guilt, maybe admiration, maybe both. The Losers were different, sure, but in a way that was almost... Agitating. They were brave enough to show who they were, to stand out.

And honestly, that must be the reason why you were here right now. Your eyes barely, just slightly narrowing as you had awkwardly looked at the group of boys. The reason for you randomly walking up to them in the hallway was one you hadn't been totally sure of yet, your brain wracking in an attempt to try and figure out just what the fuck you were planning to do, lips parting as the group turned to face you.

This was a bad idea actually, you regret this.

"Oh what the fuck." One of the boys cringed, his thick glasses just slightly slipping down his nose as he flinched backwards, his dark eyebrows furrowing in the shock he had understandably felt when seeing you standing behind them silently.

This was such a bad idea.

Were you a creep for this? Surely not.

"Uh, hey." You cleared your throat, hands twitching as you moved them to grab the straps of your black school bag, making a conscious effort to ignore how shaky your voice was.

The group eyed you in silence for a few seconds, the boy to the far left taking a peek down the hall, someone you recognised as Eddie from the fanny pack full of pills strapped to his waist. They seemed wary, confused more importantly, and if you were in any other circumstance you probably would have been offended by their quietness.

"Hello?" One of them finally voiced, taking just a moment to unclasp his palms as his curly hair seemed to bounce as he did so, the kippah on his head moving with it. "Did you... Need something?" The male continued, making a quick glance to the three boys that stood next to him.

Yeah, okay, you might need to end your life after this.

"Um," You trailed off, eyes slowly slipping to the side before focusing back on them. "I'm Y/n, I kind of just wanted to... Say hi..?" was the best you could come up with, being forced to watch their confused expressions change to doubtful rather than uncomfortable as the boy with glasses interrupted.

"So do you always sneak behind people or are we special, like is this a confession or?" He snickered, hiding his anxiousness with sarcasm as his right hand shifted to fix his glasses, lips peeling back to smile as the boy next to him, Eddie, lazily rolled his eyes.

"Dude what is your problem?" Eddie grimaced, elbow moving to shove the kid with glasses who simply gasped in offence, mouth opening to clearly say something back until your attention was moved to the one boy who hadn't spoken yet.

"I'm B-...B- Bill." He stuttered, the look on your face that you hadn't been fast enough to catch making him quickly quiet himself rather than continue.

Being seen near these guys would definitely ruin the years of hard work you put into staying under the radar, but those same years gave you nothing but absolute radio silence on any to every day off school you've ever had. People knew you, but no one was really a friend outside of school. 

There couldn't be any harm with hanging around them if there was no one else around, right?

"I kind of wanted to ask if I could, I don't know, hang out with you guys?" You had finally been able to say, fighting the urge to look around and expose the fact you were almost embarrassed to be seen talking to these guys by anyone in the hallways today. 

It was the last day of school, so luckily, everyone was too focused on escaping this hellhole to really pay attention to you and who you were talking to, and for that you were grateful. It wasn't weird for kids to run down the hallways, and thankfully that meant no one was sticking around long enough for you to get weirded out enough to just walk away.

The group of four looked at one another, minus the kid with glasses who just let out a loud exhale mixed with a laugh of disbelief. You swore you knew him from somewhere, well — obviously you knew him from somewhere. Did he have some nickname or something? You swore to god he did.

"You wanna hang out with us?" Glasses mused, brows raising as he closed his locker behind him, ignoring the glare from Eddie who remained next to him. "No offense but —"

Ah, getting rejected by outcasts, might be a new low for you.

However, to your surprise, the boy whose name you'd only just learned, Bill, cut in.

"I- I...I'm sure that's... okay." He did his best to reply, his stutter more so drawled out rather than over the top as the other boys had halfheartedly glanced at one another.

It was pretty clear you weren't exactly accepted into this group yet, but you didn't actually give a shit, not yet at least. You'd just rather slit your neck if you had to spend another summer break holed up in your fucking room, or mowing lawns for three dollars an hour — which by the way, you still think is bullshit. 

You just wanted to hang around people, to do something that wasn't rotting in your room for months on end. It was boring, but more than that it was embarrassing as shit. So even if this agreeance was hesitant, you'd take it as if you were too stupid to notice it. And to your luck, the boys either didn't care enough to explain how much they were against this intrusion as you smiled, or just didn't give a crap anymore at all.

Eddie sighed as he zipped his fanny-pack closed, something you had only now noticed was open this entire time as his lips parted. "Well, i'm Eddie, that's Stan," the brunette shrugged, pretty quick to introduce himself as his right hand moved stiffly to motion at glasses that stood by his side.

"And this is Richie —"

Your eyes widened.

"— As in Trashmouth? Trashmouth Tozier?" You jumped in, brows furrowing as your hands slipped away from your bag straps, the action making Trashmouth — Richie, scoff and hold both his hands up in mock defence.

“Hey, I didn’t realise my fan club was accepting new members,” Richie grinned, looking you up and down with that classic smile that made you wonder if he’d ever said a serious word in his life. “You want an autograph too, or just the privilege of my company?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Yeah, his fan club of zero.”

Richie wasn’t done, though. He grinned wider, his gaze flicking between you and the others with that mischievous spark you’d heard about. "So, what’s your deal then, huh? Didn’t think anyone’d be itching to hang out with us ‘Losers.’ Thought you’d be too busy making out with a fire hydrant." He snickered, and you had to bite back a smile yourself — guess this was where the 'Trashmouth' came from.

Eddie shoved him again, earning a very long lasted eye-roll from Stan who shot you an apologetic half smile as Eddie opened his mouth to clearly tell him off. You could tell Stan was the quiet one of the group.

"Shut the fuck up Trashmouth, don’t listen to him,” Eddie jumped in, shooting Richie a glare. “He’s just jealous because he’s never actually kissed anything, let alone a fire hydrant.”

Richie gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Oh, Eddie, you wound me! And here I was about to ask you for your Mother's hand in marriage.”

Stan groaned, shaking his head. “Please, spare us all.”

It was kind of a mess, but in the best way possible. Each one of them had their own vibe, and somehow, it all worked. Stan, with his deadpan looks and quiet sarcasm, seemed like the one who balanced the chaos. Richie was the loudmouth who couldn’t go three seconds without a joke, Bill who honestly just looked like he was drowning them all out, and Eddie… well, Eddie seemed like the one holding everyone together, despite his tendency to argue back just as much.

“So,” Richie continued, his grin unwavering, “What’s the tragic backstory? Did you lose a bet? Hit your head? Or did you just wake up and decide, ‘Gee, I think I’ll go find the least popular group of freaks in this town and try my luck?’”

You shrugged, feeling yourself relax a little more than you expected. “Guess I just wanted a change. A summer mowing lawns and staring at my ceiling sounded… Well, like less of a summer. Thought you guys looked like you knew how to have a bit of fun.”

Richie let out a mock gasp, slapping a hand to his mouth. “Fun? Us? We’re serious business, dude.” He leaned in closer, voice lowering to an exaggerated whisper. “We’re talking people-hunting, death-defying, world-saving levels of fun. You think you can handle that?”

Bill snorted, giving Richie a shove. “Quit s-scaring them off before they even start, R-Richie.”

You laughed, a real, unguarded laugh. “Yeah, I think I can handle it. Besides, I figure if I can make it through Derry, I can probably make it through a summer with you guys.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Stan said dryly, finally joining in. “If you’ve been at Derry for this long and you’re only just now looking for trouble, maybe you’re smarter than the rest of us.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “We aren't doing any of that stupid shit, ignore Richie he's dumb.”

“Excuse you,” Richie scoffed, pointing a finger at each of you. “One day, you’re all gonna look back and realise I made all of your lives way more interesting.”

“And shorter,” Eddie muttered.

"This is bullying, you're a bully, learn the difference between intent and impact." Richie was quick to counter.

Bill shot them both a look, but there was a hint of a smile in his expression too. You could tell they were used to this, the banter and the jabs. It was a rhythm they’d probably built over years of hanging out together, surviving Derry High and everything that came with it. For a second, you almost felt like an intruder stepping into their world. But then, something softened in Bill’s face, like he’d made up his mind.

“Yeah, y-you can come with us t-.. to our spot,” He said, and you could tell he meant it. There was a weight in his voice, like he was inviting you into something bigger than just killing time together. But before you could respond, he was quick to speak up again. "O- Only if.. You're free."

“Alright, alright, newbie,” Richie cut in, holding out his hand with exaggerated formality. “Congratulations, you’re officially in the Losers Club — no refunds, no take-backs, and we’re not liable for any weird stuff that might happen. Seriously, we can’t be held responsible for what you’re gonna see if you stick around.”

Eddie made a face, smacking Richie’s hand away. “You're so stupid,” he muttered. “He just likes to make everything sound like some epic horror movie.”

“Hey, I’m a visionary,” Richie said with a shrug, not missing a beat. “Why're you stepping on my creative thinking? How else am I supposed to take your Mom out on a date?"

You laughed, shaking your head, it was pretty clear all this group did was argue, and you for one were glad you'd now been close enough to hear it.

Eddie shot Richie a glare so sharp it could’ve cut glass. "You’re a visionary alright, a visionary idiot," he snapped, uncrossing his arms just to shove Richie in the shoulder. "You’ve got the kind of imagination that’d get you kicked out of a ‘sensitive topics’ workshop."

Richie put his hands on his hips, faking shock. "Hey, don’t blame me if I’ve got more game than you. I don’t need to hide behind my fanny pack and my Mom’s permission slip to get a date." He waggled his eyebrows, earning a snicker from Stan, who was doing his best to look uninterested but was clearly enjoying the chaos.

Stan sighed, glancing over at you. “They’re like this all the time, sorry about that. You’ll get used to it,” he said, his voice the kind of dry humour that had no time for nonsense but couldn’t quite hide the affection he had for the group.

Bill, as usual, tried to play mediator, stepping in with a soft laugh. “S- Sorry, Stan’s right. It’s just... how we are.”

"You’re all a bunch of dorks," you replied, grinning now as you joined along with them, feeling more and more a part of their banter. "But I think I’m gonna fit in just fine."

“Oh, we know,” Richie said matter-oh-factly. And you hadn't decided yet if that was an insult or not. “I can tell." 

Eddie snorted. "If you can survive a week with him,” — he jerked his thumb at Richie — “you’re in for life."

Richie clutched his chest in mock pain. "This is so messed up. I thought we were friends. That’s it. I’m putting our entire friendship on the line, right here, right now."

"Good luck with that," Eddie muttered. "The line’s already been crossed a hundred fucking times." He gave Richie a nudge, and the two started up their usual back-and-forth.

“See, you’re already learning how to deal with the idiots,” Stan hummed, looking at you as if you’d earned a badge of honour.

“You’re lucky I have my meds, you're a walking biohazard.” Eddie shot to the glasses-wearing Trashmouth, and Richie let out a loud, exaggerated gasp.

“Oh my god! Hey, don't expose your Mothers STDS like that!” Richie laughed, making it sound like a threat was just another punchline to his endless joke. 

And just like that, the conversation spun back into the usual mess of insults, jokes, and punches that no one really took seriously. It was chaotic, loud, and honestly, it was the first time in ages you felt like you might actually belong somewhere. It was like you were watching the gears of a weird little machine that never stopped spinning, but it worked — somehow. Even though they were all ridiculous in their own ways, together they felt like something bigger. Something real. 

You laughed, the knot in your stomach loosening for the first time since you’d walked into Derry High. These guys, their strange mix of insults and laughter, it was like nothing you’d ever experienced — and for the first time in a long while, you weren’t dreading what came next, and it didn't take long for them all to start walking down the hallway, everyone standing beside one another as you had joined them in leaving the school.

The hallway buzzed with the sound of lockers slamming shut and hurried footsteps, as everyone bolted for the exits. Your new crew walked together, a mismatched pack in a sea of rushing bodies. You felt a strange kind of pride at being right in the middle of it — and especially with them.

Richie kept up his relentless chatter, hardly caring if anyone was listening. "So what are we all doing this summer? Hiking? Cliff-diving? We could go get tattoos of my face; you’d all thank me later.” 

“Oh, yeah, Richie, I’d love a big ‘trashmouth’ stamped across my forehead,” Eddie replied with mock excitement, his tone so thick in sarcasm you'd almost gotten offended for Tozier, the boy clutching his inhaler in one hand like he might actually need it just from Richie’s energy alone.

Richie put an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, completely ignoring Eddie’s obvious discomfort. "Eds, buddy, when are you gonna admit you love me?” Richie said, smirking as Eddie squirmed out of his hold, freaking out about germs.

Stan just shook his head, muttering, "We’ll find a way to survive without a reminder of your face everywhere, Rich.”

As you all pushed through the main doors and into the warm afternoon air, something in the group shifted. The freedom of summer settled in, and you could practically feel the relief radiating from all of them. No more rules, no more school — just weeks of endless, open days. 

One by one, everyone started chucking their notebooks, pens, and crumpled papers into the big metal trash can by the sidewalk. Richie tossed in his whole backpack, laughing as he did it. “Good riddance! No math class, no science, no Mrs. Redmond breathing down my neck about ‘responsibility’ — I am a free man!”

Eddie glared at him, but you could tell he was holding back a smile as he threw in a tattered history textbook. “Pretty sure you’re gonna regret that next year, idiot.”

Richie shrugged, grinning. “Worth it, get off my wang."

"Best feeling, ever," Stan smiled, staring down at the trash can now practically full to the brim with his books, pencils, and whatever else he had stashed in his school bag as you simply breathed out an amused laugh, knowing full well your parents would beat your ass if you even considered throwing any of these supplies away.

"Yeah?" Richie was quick to respond, taking one quick look at his bag to ensure everything was dumped out before turning his gaze to focus on the boy. "Try tickling your pickle for the first time," He stated, quite proudly at that as you could all but churn your face into a look of jokeful disgust, one that Eddie seemed to mirror, but was quick to switch subjects.

"Hey, what do you guys wanna do tomorrow?" The brunette questioned, mid-movement to put his bag back on his back, struggling for a few seconds to get the fucking strap around his arm. Everyone but Richie and you too focused on getting the straps back on.

"Start my training?" He drawled, like this was the obvious answer, fixing his glasses again as if it had been a habit whilst you awkwardly looked around to see everyone basically running down the roads.

Damn, no one likes this school.

Eddie sharpened his expression, looking at you for a moment before looking back at Richie. "Wh- What training?" His voice stammered, confusion clear on his face as Richie simply deadpanned.

"Street Fighter?"

A beat passed.

"...Is that how you wanna spend your Summer?" The boy almost smiled, body stiff as it had been clear that whatever thoughts were going on inside his head, were more than judgmental. "Inside of an arcade?"

Richie took in a deep breathe, chest rising with it as his mouth opened. "Beats spending it inside of your Mother, ouhh." the male held up his hand, looking at Stan for approval as the boy just rolled his eyes and pulled Richies' hand down.

"What if we go to the quarry?" He suggested, an idea that made you just slightly raise your brows in agreeance as you had lazily folded your arms over your chest. The boy next to you, Eddie, twitching his mouth as he couldn't find a single negative thing to say about it. Yet his gaze immediately flicking to Bill.

The look confused you, but you didn't question it.

"Guys we have the b-... b- barrens." Bill managed to state, the boys going into hushed silence for a few moments before Stan had verbally agreed, the mood of the group shifting for some reason as you tried to comprehend just why that reaction had just happened. You didn't know much about these guys, only recognising them by face and now names too.

They all seemed to nod their heads, all until Eddie turned to the right, your eyes following along with his to see Miss Ripsom, your chest just barely tightening when seeing her distraught expression. 

"It's Betty Ripsoms Mom.." He mumbled, more so to himself as if he had accidentally spoken aloud, Richie giving her a quick one-over look before focusing back on the trash cans, and for once their discomfort had been one that you understood.

Betty Ripsom had been missing for weeks, casting a shadow over the whole school. Each morning, and afternoon, her mother stood outside, eyes scanning the faces of passing students, clinging to hope as though Betty might just walk out one day, as if somehow her presence could reverse what had happened. It was heartbreaking, a painful reminder to everyone that kids were vanishing without a trace — and that any one of them could be next.

"Is she really expecting to see her come out of the school?" Stan's eyes narrowed, lacking the verbal sound of empathy and more so concern and pity for the woman who had been so deluded that she'd do this every day. You wanted to add to the conversation, but out of respect towards the woman, you decided to keep your mouth shut.

You knew your Mother would have done the same as Miss Ripsom.

"I dunno," Eddie replied, less uncomfortable and mostly now just staring blankly. "As if Betty Ripsoms been hiding in home ec the last few weeks." he finalised, eyes never once leaving the woman as Stan, who's back now faced everyone, piggy-backed off of Eddie's sentence.

"You think they'll actually find her?" A small, simple question that managed to make the boys all shift from one leg to the other. It was clear there was something here you were missing, but you really didn't feel like bothering yourself enough to figure it out, not now at least.

"Sure," Richie finally spoke up, his gaze locked onto the woman. "In a ditch," You couldn't stop the huff that fell from you. "All decomposed, covered in worms and maggots — smelling like Eddie's Moms' underwear." He spoke calmly, hand lazily flicking to half-heartedly point at Eddie who snapped his head towards Richie in response. 

"Shut up," The boy shook his head, looking off to the side as you held back a smirk. "Ju- Th- fucking disgusting.." He snarked under his breath, still cursing to himself when Bill decided to cut in.

"She's not dead," He snapped, almost defensive but cautious as you had finally pieced together what you were missing, what you forgot. "She's mm-... mi- missing." Bill Denbrough, the same Bill Denbrough who had recently lost his younger brother, Georgie. Fuck how could you have forgotten that? 

Richie, however, was immediate in his backtrack, nodding his head and sliding his glasses up once more. "Sorry, Bill, she's missing." He agreed, his tone sounding sincere for the first time this entire conversation as Bill began walking, everyone, including yourself, following in suit.

"You know the Barrens aren't that bad?" Trashmouth continued, his playful way of speech quick to return as he was clearly trying to lighten the mood once more. "Who doesn't love splashing around in shitty water?" the boy shrugged, his words earning a chuckle from you as your head turned to reply to him, only for your entire being to freeze in shock when seeing Henry fucking Bowers pull him back by the bag.

You watched in silent disarray when seeing Richie and Stan stumble to the floor, worry spiking as you watched Stan's kippah flop off of his head, two lanky legs crouching next to him whilst your stomach dropped lower. Holy shit there's no fucking way, you'd never been this close to the Bowers Gang before, and you had very quickly remembered why you avoided this group to begin with.

"Nice frisbee flamer," Patrick mused, head tilted off to the side, hand dangling Stan's religious wear as he made the conscious choice to wait for the younger male to try and reach for his kippah before pulling it away, that creepy grin crossing over his features like a snake would slide over cement as he quickly stood up. Tossing it through a nearby moving bus window.

Your chest panged in guilt and slight pity for the boy, but you remained silent as still as you watched Patrick stand up straighter, back momentarily arching as his hands laid flaccid by his sides, hair falling across his face as he stared wide-eyed at the boy still on the ground. His teeth visible as that psychotic smile never seemed to reach his eyes, tongue flicking out of his mouth to run along his lips.

Sick fuck.

Though, as you moved to step out of the way whilst Belch shoved passed you to get near Eddie, any to all attention Patrick had pointed at Stan seemed to grossly turn to focus on you. His eyes seemed to widen unnaturally, glinting with something dark and predatory as his head shifted, slow and jerky, like a marionette coming to life. The smile that stretched across his face felt wrong — static and chilling, inhuman. His gaze swept over you in a lingering, dissecting way, as if you were prey caught in his trap, each pause on your face lasting a beat too long. 

Every movement of his felt controlled and eerie; his shoulders relaxed just enough to appear harmless, yet his body seemed unnaturally fluid, like he’d rehearsed each step to amplify the unease creeping over you. When his tongue flicked over his lips with a slithering, calculated motion, it left your skin crawling, his entire demeanour whispering of hidden malice. It was terrifyingly clear that he knew exactly how disgusting to look at he was —

And that he enjoyed it.

Though, as quick as he was to look at you, he was even quicker in moving to follow Henry, who you hadn't even noticed had smacked his shoulder right into Bill, moving past everyone with a look of superiority that had been so obvious it almost smelled. The feeling in your stomach was unnerving, your skin crawling in disgust as your spine shuddered in revulsion. 

This was the exact reason why you kept to yourself, and why you should've known better than to ever think this was a good idea!

As you continued to struggle with your minor, and strictly mental freak out, Bill had already yelled out to the mullet-haired male. The conversation not reaching your ears as your focus remained on the tallest freak of the bunch, his too-tight shirt clinging to his skinny frame, pants tight but sagged to be held up but his hip bones with the shittiest dotted sleeveless jacket you'd ever seen kept unbuttoned on top.

Seeing him up close was arguably and obviously so much worse than when you'd see him down the halls or out in the parking lot with his 'friends', if you could even call them that. And it was almost embarrassing how badly every bone in your body was telling you to run, to get away as soon as possible. 

Before you could process anything, Bill was shoved back by his face, Henry slipping his spit-covered palm down the boy's cheek before snickering and walking off. The other three glancing back just a few times as they stomped off with him, Patrick casting you one final look over as he jumped to hop inside the car. And you could have sworn that the air itself became grotesque to the nose.

"Wish he'd go missing." Richie voiced, earning a small hum of agreement from you as you shifted closer to the group of boys, watching along with them as Henry and his gang were fast to drive away. 

"He's probably the one doing it." Eddie added, turning to worriedly peek at Bill who's eyes were almost beginning to gloss over in what you assumed to be angry tears, yet none falling. 

"Some guys are just freaks, better to ignore them." You, for the first time since leaving the building, added to the conversation. Able to see as Stan briefly nodded his chin in agreement, his gaze still locked on the road as the Bowers gang’s car disappeared around the corner, leaving a tense, lingering silence in its wake.

Eddie, breathing a little faster, brushed his hands over his shirt as if wiping away invisible dirt, glancing nervously at the others. Richie’s eyes flickered with a rare seriousness, his usual smirk fading as he shot a look at Bill, whose hands had curled into tight fists at his sides. Bill blinked hard, holding back any sign of tears, the rage flickering in his eyes almost as unsettling as the encounter itself.

“We- We.. We'll be fine.” Bill finally muttered, voice low but steady, as though making a silent promise. You could see a steely determination in his expression, a refusal to let fear take hold.

For a second, you wondered how much he’d had to carry, dealing with guys like Henry while worrying about all the other missing kids — his brother, included. 

Stan swallowed, breaking the silence with a small voice. “Yeah. Let's just head to the Barrens.” The words hung in the air, heavy and haunting, making you all feel the weight of something.

The group finally began to move, staying close together, each of you hyper-aware of the sudden quietness around.

Well, this definitely sucked, but it wasn't all too bad.

For now, right?

Chapter Text

To your genuine fucking dismay, the plan to go down to the Barrens ─ somewhere that embarrassingly, you'd never actually been to before, was at the last possible second changed. All thanks to the curfew rules, that'd been sent out ever since the disappearances started becoming an issue.

You were reasonable enough to understand that it was all for a good reason, but it'd be an actual blatant lie to say you weren't just the smallest bit disappointed at having to go straight home after your literal last school day until Summer break was over.

With your afternoon changed and the evening stretching ahead, you adjusted your grip on your bag straps. Feeling them dig a little deeper into your shoulders, the rough fabric rubbing against your clothes as you took the familiar, very mundane route home.

The rhythm of your footsteps beat against the sidewalk, and easily, you'd become distracted from your prior agitation by thinking about what could be set for dinner today.

You knew all kids said this, but truly your Mothers cooking was by far the best fucking thing about night-time for you.

She took special care in the meals she had created and it was obvious. No one ever had anything to complain about when it was in the context of her cooking, which for your family specifically? Was basically an impossible feat. You got your pickiness from your Father, even if he'd rather die than admit.

Which funnily enough, your Father was also where your younger brother got his stubbornness from. Something you knew he as well would rather die than admit.

That simple thought was a comfort, something to pull your mind away from the strange mix of disappointment and boredom that clung to you whilst your hands had found themselves back by your sides again, the wind warm against your face despite how fast it had been flowing.

The sweat on your brow lightly dropping along your skin, your tongue rolling inside your mouth as the meaty muscle ran against your teeth.

This was honestly the only reason why you fucking hated Summer here in Derry.

It wasn't crazily hot, but the wind was never, on its own, cool. The air always held a humidity to it that was pretty killer, and your Dad thoroughly loved using your tendencies to whine about said heat to snowball it into you just needing to go outside more and get used to it. As if that made sense.

It was grossly normalised to see people here drenched in sweat, walking around like it hadn’t meant anything. No matter how long you’ve lived here, you could never get over the sight.

Absentmindedly, which you assumed was your brains version of taking your thoughts away from that internal vision, your eyes drifted over the neighbourhood, normally alive with the hum of lawnmowers or the laughter of kids on bikes. A very typical sight to see in the small town that was Derry.

Today, though, the streets were eerily still. The usual noises were there — the barking dog behind a fence, the faint murmur of a TV — but they felt distant, hollow, like they couldn’t quite fill the space of sound that you had over the years become unknowingly reliant on during these boring walks home.

You wondered if your Mom would be there by the time you got home, waiting with the usual questions about your day, or maybe your little brother would be bouncing around, eager to tell you whatever weird crap he was obsessed with today.

The streetlights blinked to life one by one as you trodded up the sidewalk, the sun still bright and casting pools of soft yellow along the gravel and cement, but the newly set-in-place safety precautions making the street lamps turn on hours before needed, having little to no shine to them whatsoever in the bright daylight hour.

Passing by the usual houses, you noticed the older couple down the block, trimming their hedges. They waved, and you smiled back, grateful for the warmth of that small, ordinary gesture. It grounded you, reminding you that Derry still had these pockets of normalcy, of calm.

But even with their wave, and the faintest sound of a radio drifting through a nearby window, you weren't in the mood to stay under the fucking heat for longer than needed, and greatly appreciated how close your house was to Derry High.

It was mostly because of your home's closeness that there was barely ever anything for you to do in your free time, but at the very least, it was never a hassle to be back with your family before it got too late.

Finally, after way too long for your taste, which in all fairness wasn't that long at all actually, the outline of your home came into view. The building standing solid against the fading sky.

Relief washed over you, and you quickened your steps, eager to leave behind the hot, abnormally quiet streets.

The whole day felt like something you needed to shake off, but as you reached for the door, you couldn’t help glancing one last time down the road, sort of cringing at the lack of kids that would still be out and messing around by this time, but lately it'd been expected to just remain inside.

Now over it, your eyes flicked down to the plastic plant near the side of the platform your door had been on.

Huffing, you inched closer to it, lifting the small vase and grabbing the spare house key. Flipping it through your fingers as your figure then lifted itself to move back in front of the door, sliding the metallic key inside the lock with ease before flicking it to the side, unlocking it and swinging the wooden door wide open.

Swiftly, you stepped into the house, feeling a spark of tiredness and excitement. The whole school day had left you drained and restless; your mind kept drifting to the idea of simply doing nothing.

Kicking off your shoes proved to be an ordeal, as always. 

You fumbled with the laces, yanking them loose while balancing on one foot, nearly toppling over in your rush.

Of course, the shoes didn’t slide off easily — no, they clung to your feet like they’d formed an emotional attachment on the walk home. You really did know in moments like these that life had its own way of making the most mundane, simple tasks, the worst parts of your day.

Your brows furrowed as you angrily stopped trying, instead hanging the home keys by the now closed door, rolling your shoulders back in strain before looking back down at your shoes.

After a few seconds, with an unceremonious tug, one shoe popped off, followed by the other, which flopped onto the floor with a more than un-gracious thud that echoed in the quiet house.

The sound in comparison to the rest of your home made you flinch, instinctively looking around like you expected someone to walk out. And of course, when no one did, only then did you fully sink in the fact that you’d been alone right now.

You lingered there for a moment, noticing the brief, well, more so loud quiet as you freed your sock-covered feet from the prison they’d been in all day, it was somewhat ironic that you, someone constantly smothered by this town and its residents, were now uncomfortable with being alone in your own home.

Though, you reminded yourself not to internally complain too much, freedom was finally here, literally from your head to your toes,

... But now what?

The kitchen, you noted, when looking to the left side of the hall-way felt a bit too bright. With the rest of the house being a bit too empty due to the lack of your other family members being present. There was some part of you that had been fairly thankful for the opportunity to have time to yourself, and you knew that internally whining about privateness was pretty insane.

But still.

It was ridiculous how quiet it was without the usual school noise rattling in your head.

Yet, being at home, in your own space with no looming responsibilities, was a rare luxury. One that you’d made it through the last school day of the year to achieve. You could actually relax, so why would you spend this hard-earned vacation stressing?

In that second, your frontal lobe seemed to develop as you moved, now shuffling into the living room, you glanced around, feeling a bit like you’d just returned from war —

You know, a very tame, mostly academic sort of war. But war nonetheless.

You slouched onto the couch, sinking into it with all the drama of someone a little too eager for rest, that by itself, was a bit of a mental exaggeration on your part. The cushions were soft, engulfing, taking in every part of you effortlessly with its lifeless embrace. Considering you've done nothing all day but sleep in classes, eat, talk to people, and that tiny little issue with the Bowers' Gang that you will be internally locking away and never delving into.

Because no shit you didn't want to think too deeply into that.

You didn't exactly do too much today.

Even if they'd seen you with that group, you went out of your way to remain as silent and out of attention-based view as possible.

Sure, in hindsight, it was pretty fucked up to just de-involve yourself from the harassment as quickly as you did, and maybe you should have felt bad for your choice in not becoming a true loser by making yourself known to the gang, but you didn't care.

No level of loneliness could ever make you dumb enough to bring focus to yourself, and as horrible as you knew you were for it, you had also known that the Losers Club had gotten used to this treatment. This was their day-to-day for god sake?

Who were you, a newbie, to be apart of that group experience?

You had no right!

... And you just didn't feel like getting bullied for the rest of your High School years, but the prior point still stands.

Ignoring the difficult moral compass in your mind, you imagined a whole evening of nothingness: lounging here in place, probably flipping throughout the channels until something remotely watchable popped up, maybe diving into a book, or just zoning out and letting summer really sink in.

It was laughably uneventful, and you both hated and were happy because of it.

The stillness, the laziness, the prospect of no teachers or school bells, especially the stupid assembly’s — absolute bliss.

The more you thought about it, the more you felt the contentment of finally having nothing you had to do. With a whole summer stretching out in front of you, you could hardly contain the urge to just… relax.

You’d spent months being told what to act on, where to be, how to act; now, you were actually on your own terms.

As much as you wished you were with the others, the idea of merging with this couch and just being a mooch was almost equally tempting. God, you were one hundred per-cent wasting all of the free time god has gifted you this Summer. Slowly, after a few more moments of peaceful lounging, you shifted. Now wondering what to do first, you lightly bit your lower lip.

Dinner was still hours away, which was horrible, and the house was all yours and yours alone until your family got home.

In any other universe, you'd probably feel ecstatic at the many options laid in front of you, but it didn't take a genius to see that now you were laid on this couch, nothing, and no one would get you off for at minimum the rest of the night. And even if you did get up, your plans to spend said time were close to none.

Chapter Text

You sighed as the two boys continued fighting, now down the road rather than directly in front of Kaspbraks house as Eddie’s stick connected with Richie’s shin this time, not hard enough to actually hurt but enough to make a loud 'whack!'. The echo of it making your jaw drop, as your head snapped to look at the boy next to you.

Bill didn't return your shocked glance, simply resting his face as his shoulders sagged. He wasn't that much taller than you, standing at a solid 5'7 while you stood at a 5'6. Your momentary realisation that you'd been almost his height, had almost distracted you enough to forget that there was a literal brawl going on.

That being until Richie yelped, hopping back a step once more and grinning despite the sting — his skin turning red.

“Jesus what the fuck! You’ve got some serious anger issues, you know that!" glasses snapped, looking at you and Bill as if requesting back-up, only to narrow his eyes behind his spectacles when he saw none was coming. Less of a surprised glare of anger, and more a look of discernment. 

"Maybe lay off the sticks before you give me splinters.” The boy taunted, shaking his head just a tad whilst still holding his leg up in the air, back hunched and chin jutting. Neither of them looked to be even remotely close to shutting up and focusing on what the group had left to do, and you had half a mind to voice that.

Eddie brandished the stick like a knight wielding a sword, fingers curled around the small but thick line of bark. His face flushed with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

“You’re the reason I have anger issues Richie! You don’t listen — ever! My Mom’s probably sitting in there right now, writing my obituary because she thinks I’ve caught some kind of disease from you!” Eddie gripped the stick so tightly you could see the boy's knuckles turning white, swinging it through the air in sharp, but mostly childish arcs.

Each movement was tense and aggravated, as though he was trying to strike at something unseen, the anger practically radiating off him. You could tell fairly early on that Eddie's personal dial on his patience held little to none when directed towards Richie. You understood, at least, Tozier was a living shit stain, but even for that, this was still too wild of a reaction.

Eventually, even if you didn't really want to, you stepped between them. Sighing before holding your hands up to de-escalate the issue, and whatever it was becoming before Eddie turned his weapon on you.

“Okay, okay, let’s all take a deep breath, yeah?” You tiredly kept your hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture, voice wavering just enough to hint at unease. “No one’s getting splinters or drowned in water. Let’s not add ‘braining someone with a stick’ to the list of bad ideas today.”

Your eyes darted to Bill, who looked just as bored with this as you were.

“We’ve got bigger problems — like the literal sewers we’re about to crawl into. Maybe save the stick-swinging for whatever’s lurking down there?” It was mostly a suggestion, but also a plead in hopes they used the brains you were more than certain were inside the skulls they were so stupidly using to figuratively butt-heads with.

Eddie froze, his expression shifting from indignation to sheer disgust as he remembered the plan. He tossed the stick to the ground like it had purposefully betrayed him and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “This is so stupid. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m going to get sick. I know I’m going to get sick.”

“Relax,” Richie teased, still rubbing his shin. “We’ll all get sick together. Solidarity and all that.”

Surely Richie takes classes for this; there's no way he's this annoying naturally.

Bill, who had been quietly watching the chaos unfold, finally stepped in. “We don’t have to go far,” he reassured Eddie, his voice calm but firm. “Just enough to l-... look around. If it’s too dangerous, we’ll come back.”

Eddie gave him a long, skeptical look before sighing dramatically. “Fine. But I swear, the second I see anything slimy or hear something weird, I’m out. You guys can deal with whatever sewer demon is down there on your own.” He wasn't joking, and did not attempt to make it seem like he was any less serious than he'd been.

Richie slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “That’s the spirit! And hey if you get eaten first we’ll tell everyone you were a hero.” he hummed, head drooping to the side as his glasses slid a few inches down his nose.

Eddie failed at shoving him off, scowling. “That's not funny.”

You blinked before laughing, the absurdity of the situation hitting you all over again. Here you were, standing on Eddie Kaspbrak’s street road, gearing up to explore Derry’s sewers like some kind of B-movie adventurers. Like a really shitty version of Die Hard or something like that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, eyes motioning further down the street “If we’re doing this, we’d better get going before it gets too late for it. I’m not exactly thrilled about wandering around the Barrens anytime past two in the afternoon." which in your head was valid, being out past six in the afternoon was already controversy for the town as of lately.

Richie raised a finger, his grin widening. “Oh, but that’s when the sewer monsters are most active. Prime hunting time.” He was grossly slow-worded with his sentence, ensuring you heard every moment of his ludicrous reasoning. It was mostly agitating, if not fucking stupid.

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. His upper torso sagged backwards as his eyes glanced upwards. “Why am I friends with you?” The pill-popper frowned, looking to the clouds like they'd magically be on his side and help him.

“Your Mom pays me,” Richie shot back without missing a beat. “Pip Pip, tallyho! —"

No way.

"The sewers await!” He exclaimed, your entire face looking at him with scrutiny before abruptly sighing once more, slowly nodding your head. You knew that Tozier was a bit much, but regardless of that —

...No fucking way?

With your silent judgment, however, Richie started marching down the road, pulling Kaspbrak alongside him, who looked like he was walking to his doom. Bill followed with a determined expression, and you fell into step with the three of them.

The world surrounding you was quiet, the smallest background existence of cicadas mixed with the recognition of people, and life. It blended into a calming mix of living and seeing.

By ignoring its many flaws, Derry still managed to be welcoming in its own right. The town shops never lacked colour, and their decor was more eye-catching instead of aesthetic. Everything in this place settled to accordingly accommodate whatever was next to it, nothing stood out in a way that didn't make sense — and nothing by default then looked too much the same.

You liked to complain sometimes, but credit should always be given where it's due. This town was beautiful, its greenery, cafes, all of it. And even if a few of its residents were somewhat... questionable. Derry has always been a place you'd been in; you grew up here.

And sadly, were cursed with the knowledge of all that had been truly good about this place.

“Don’t worry,” you hummed lightly, pulling yourself out of your own silence, gently bumping Eddie's shoulder. “Nothing's gonna happen, at most we'll see some freaky mutated squirrel." it wasn't the best choice words of comfort, but it was what you were capable of.

Eddie shot you a withering look, very clearly doubting what it was you had to say, but didn’t argue.

It was only when Denbrough had picked up the pace, everyone now stood in a straight line, quietly walking in unison, that Bill decided to speak. "W-.. We have t' wait for Stan." The brunette reminded, earning three separate reactions.

A nod from you, a small sound of remembrance from Eddie, and a theatrical groan from Richie.

"Stan? No. He's a pussy, he probably won't even show up." Tozier huffed, long and uninterested, no real animosity behind it, but a genuine underestimation of the curly-haired boy.

You didn't know too much about Stan, only really seeing him around a few times. But he looked to be a normal kid, less adventurous and more... reserved than the rest of the group. The kind of person who liked things set out orderly, and predictable — a stark contrast to Richie’s constant chaos.

From what you’d gathered, Stan was more likely to spend his day in a classroom rather than trekking through Derry’s less-than-pristine nooks and crannies. Still, something about Richie’s dismissal rubbed you the wrong way.

“Don’t be such an ass, Richie,” you raised a brow, your tone sharper than before. “Just because he’s not all about jumping into a sewer doesn’t mean he’s a — what did you call him? — ‘pussy.’ He’ll show.”

Richie dragged his arm off of Ed's shoulders, walking backward so he could face all of you, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Oh sure, Saint Stanley the Reliable. You know he’s probably sitting in his room right now, polishing his bird books and trying to pretend we don’t exist.”

Bill ignored him, his determined expression tightening. “He’ll come,” he replied firmly. "Stan al... always goes to the Barrens with us."

Eddie groaned, adjusting the straps of his bag with a sharp tug. Though, ever the ball of anxiety, he shifted uncomfortably beside you. "Can we not start this again? It’s too hot for Richie’s bullshit. I’m already sweating through my shirt, and now I’ve got to listen to this?” 

Well, you couldn't disagree with that.

The shorter male didn't seem to be finished whining however, rolling back his shoulders as the air that had wafted by felt warmer than the sunlight itself. “We’re really counting on Stan for this? Great. Just great. First, we’re going into the sewers, and now we’re waiting on someone who probably thinks hot wind is a war crime.”

You gave Eddie a small nudge, trying to keep the mood from sliding too far into despair. “Uh, yeah. Hot wind sucks?”

The sun was high in the sky, beating down relentlessly on Derry, air smoggy-thick with heat, and the wind, though steady, did little to cut through the warmth that seemed to cling to everything. The pavement shimmered in the midday sun, and the usual hum of the town felt lazy, as if it, too, was sluggish from the oppressive heat.

You, Richie, Eddie, and Bill walked along the main street of Derry, the town square stretched out before you like a dusty, sunbaked canvas. The shops were all open, their signs swaying gently in the warm breeze. The clinking of a loose sign in the wind mixed with the occasional car rumbling past, hundreds of townspeople going around, or the now Summer break free kids rushing by so loudly it almost overpowered Richie for fuck sake.

Tozier, naturally, was the first to break the quiet, his voice louder than mostly everything around you.

“Man, I swear, if I melt into a puddle before we even get to the Barrens, I’m gonna be so pissed,” he groaned, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Bill, slightly ahead, barely acknowledged Richie’s complaint. His brow was furrowed, his usual expression a little more strained in the heat. He wiped his own face with the sleeve of his shirt before answering. “It’s only a few more blocks to the end of town,” he said, his voice steady but clipped. “J... Just keep going.”

Eddie, who was a few steps behind, had his arms crossed over his chest, his face twisted into a permanent scowl.

He wasn’t happy about the heat, but you could tell it was more than that — his whole body language screamed discomfort, the way his shoulders hunched slightly, as though he was trying to shrink away from the world around him. His shoes clicked sharply against the pavement, every step punctuated with a slight wince.

“This sucks,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Why did we pick today? Of all days?”

Richie, always the one to stir the pot, leered over his shoulder at Eddie. “What, you seriously afraid of a little Summer heat? It won’t bite you.” He spun around to face everyone, his hands raised in over-done saviourism. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep us cool with my charm. Who needs air conditioning when you’ve got me?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, shaking his head in annoyance. “You’re not cool, Richie. You’re just loud.”

Richie chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “Loud and cool. It’s an art form dude? You’ll learn one day.” He put his hands by his sides, walking backwards for a few steps, a little too carefree for someone about to head into God-knows-what in the sewers.

“Anyway, no one’s stopping for ice cream or any other useless stuff today, right?” He questioned, stopping in his tracks as you, and the other two simply walked past him. Richie didn't seem to care, only peeking into a random store before catching up again.

Bill gave a pointed look but didn’t say anything. His eyes were paying more attention to the road and on-going cars, scanning the rows of familiar buildings as they passed. Even under the heat of the sun, his expression was unshakable, like nothing could phase him. “No ice cream,” he agreed, the words a quiet response, but enough to settle any possible argument.

You felt your throat dry under the heat, and though you didn’t mind the warmth too much, it was starting to feel stifling. But choosing to ignore that and deciding to speak up, trying to keep the group from spiralling into more complaints. “It’s hot, yeah,” you said, pulling your black, strap top away from your skin, “But it’s just one more thing to get through, right? We’re not at the Barrens yet, so let’s just get through Derry first.”

Richie looked over at you, his grin wide as ever. “Right. Get through Derry, then we’ll be one step closer to whatever creepy crawly shit we’re about to get into in the sewers. Perfect. A nice, fresh little hang sesh.” He was being sarcastic; that much was obvious enough, but god, you'd be lying if you didn't almost think he was really agreeing with you.

Rubbing your left eye with your index, you couldn’t help but shake your head, though the corners of your mouth did twitch with amusement. “As long as we don’t find anything too gross, then it's whatever.” you finalised, not too in the mood to extend this verbal chat any more than it already was.

The set-up change for the day already threw you off enough. Making it all the more confusing by getting too caught up in half-hearted arguments that weren't on your to-do list. It was, however, fun to be added in considering you were still new to this group.

Eddie glanced over at you, his face tensed up in his usual mixture of hesitation and reluctance. “Too gross? The sewers are gross enough, don’t you think?”

You shrugged, trying to keep the mood light. “Who knows? Maybe we'll find some homeless guy. Or —”

“Ugh, don’t even joke about that,” Eddie cut you off, his voice tense as he adjusted the straps on the bag you only just now realised Richie slung over him before walking ahead. “I can’t even think about it without gagging." He shivered slightly, the words trailing off as he shook his head.

Bill gave him a sympathetic peek but didn’t say anything, his pace slowing slightly as he approached the end of the street, where the town’s small shops and familiar faces gave way to the more overgrown, quieter areas leading toward the Barrens.

Richie took a long, exaggerated breath as you’d all passed the a small diner with its tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. “Man, a cold drink would really hit the spot right now. Don’t tell me we’re walking by this place without stopping for some iced tea or something, because that’s just rude.”

You rolled your eyes, already expecting him to go against the rules he'd been the one to set in place. “Not today, Richie,” Tozier churned his upper lip at your words, the warmth of the air still clinging to your skin. “We’ve got bigger things to do than get distracted by a cold drink.”

Nothing you said had been a lie, so it didn't come as any surprise to you that the Trashmouth merely mimicked you for a few seconds. His right hand raising to leer and form some botched hand puppet motion.

Eddie though, simply nodded, face still twisted in an unappreciative expression — but his shoulders dropped slightly, the tension easing ever so quietly. “I hope this whole ‘sewer thing’ is worth it. Because I’m not doing this for just a laugh.”

Richie gawked, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he fell back in line with the group. “It’s not just for a laugh. It’s for the money. The chance to tell people we were the brave kids who went where no man has gone before.” He moved his hands out abruptly, nearly hitting a passing person with his elbow.

You almost saw reason in his excuses.

"Hey you think Bowers'll piss off if I told him I was elbow deep in Derry sewer water?" Glasses absentmindedly added to his own monologue, his tongue lightly drawling his speech — slurring his words together for a split second. 

Eddie scowled, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to throw up. “If by ‘brave,’ you mean the chance to contract some disease that’s going to make my Mom lock me in the house for the rest of my life, then yeah, sure. Brave.” his mouth curled, upper lip baring to show his high row of teeth.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your palm as the sun without fault or break bore down. The sound of a bell jingling caught your attention, and you turned to see the door of the bakery swing open. The smell of fresh bread and pastries wafted out, making your stomach growl.

Richie obviously noticed, his eyes lighting up. “Okay, change of plans — cold drinks are out, but what about a snack? Maybe some cookies? A donut? We’ve got time for donuts right?” at this point; you hadn't been sure if he was seriously asking, or just wanted to cause another verbal assault to be kicked his way.

Bill stopped walking and turned to give Richie a pointed look, his brow furrowing slightly under the mop of sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “No, Richie. We don’t have time for donuts.” He sighed, unconsciously glancing at the bakery, "W... We've already got snacks." The boy's back straightened while his left eye flickered shut from the beam of sunlight that hit his face.

Richie audibly groaned again, allowing his head back to sag backwards like he’d been gravely wronged. “You guys are no fun. First, no iced tea, now no donuts? What’s next? Are you going to ban me from breathing, too?” 

“Please,” Eddie whined, begging, swatting irritably at a fly hovering near his head, his tone dripping with exasperation. “Honestly, Richie, do us all a favour and try holding your breath for a bit."

You laughed again, shaking your head as Richie folded his arms over his chest, his floral pink button-up over-shirt crinkling under them. “I'm so telling your Mom how fucked up you're treating me right now.” he snapped, obviously gearing up for another dumbass joke. "See, I left all the punishing to her since I'm not your Step-Dad yet —"

Of course.

Swiftly, Eddie began ignoring him, his shoes beating down harder on the cracked sidewalks. You passed a hardware store with a rotating fan in the window, its slow, lazy turns almost mocking in their futility. Richie paused mid-sentence, leaning in toward the glass like he was considering breaking in just to stand in front of it.

“What are you doing now?” you questioned, words more accusatory than you'd intended, already regretting the choice to even ask.

Richie turned, pointing at the fan with his thumb. “Do you see that? That’s our saviour. I say we pool our pocket money and make her ours. We’ll call her Fanny and carry her everywhere we go.”

Eddie physically scrunched up his entire face, attention switching from Tozier, to the fan, then Tozier, then the fan again. Before settling on grabbing Richie’s sleeve and pulling him away from the see-through window. “We’re not stealing a fan Richie. God, why am I even friends with you?”

“I can never just mingle.” Richie scoffed, grinning as he allowed himself to be dragged along. He made no fight in being manhandled, his eyes only briefly glazing off from the weirdly expensive portable fan to now stare at the road.

“You know,” you began, tone just momentarily shaky, trying to lighten the mood, “If this whole sewer mission ends with us covered in filth, I’m blaming Richie.” no real bite held in the sentence, yet you forced your eyes to narrow.

Richie feigned surprise, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses as he placed a hand on Eddie's chest in a grossly overdone sense of actorly offence, though the smug curl of his lips betrayed him. He staggered slightly, still being tugged along by the side of his shirt like a misbehaving child.

“Me? Why me?” glasses retorted, drawing out the words with theatrical disbelief. “This was Bill’s idea! I’m just the instigator, I'm humble.” He let out a nervous laugh, shooting a quick glance at Bill, who was now glaring daggers. “Blame him! I’m just here as the yes-man.”

“You’re the loud instigator,” Eddie corrected in turn, his voice tight with frustration as he jabbed a finger in Richie’s direction, his hold on his sleeve still firm. His eyes narrowed, their usual anxious darting replaced by a steady, irritated glare. Another bead of sweat trickled down his temple, catching in the curve of his jaw before disappearing into his collar.

“The kind who gets us noticed, gets us in trouble, and then somehow acts surprised when we’re running for our lives.” He huffed, swiping at his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “

You tilted your head in minor agreement, lips plumping out before your silent recognition of Kaspbraks correctness was then overturned with perplexity. "What even is a yes-man?" your eyes shifted to Richie, impatience crossfading with your uncertainty.

Richie perked up at your question, his face lighting up like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “A yes-man,” he began, tossing his hand out to no longer touch Eddie's chest, index and middle finger now pointed solely at you — like he was introducing a concept no one had ever heard of before, an action you've noticed to be a default for him.

“Is a hero." The boy hummed, "A selfless legend. The guy who backs all the brilliant ideas and keeps morale high. That’s me.” He jabbed a thumb at his puffed-up chest, grinning smugly.

Bill shifted his jaw, lips pressing together tightly as he dragged his hand down to burrow inside his pant pockets in mortifiable second-hand embarrassment. “Y- You only back your stupid ideas, Richie,” he countered, his voice low despite the stammer.

Eddie, who was still gripping Richie’s sleeve like he was holding onto a live wire, tugged it again with enough force to make the taller boy stumble once more. “Yeah, you’re not a yes-man. You’re an enabler,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes, his irritation growing with every second Richie continued to talk.

Richie awkwardly rebalanced himself, turning like some weird lizard before freeing himself from the pill-poppers hand. “Wow. Way to stab me right in the asshole. I’m not enabling. I’m inspiring?”

The shorter boy snorted, finally letting go of the need to grab onto Richie’s sleeve when he moved away, but not without one last warning jab of his finger. “You’re inspiring headaches, that's what you’re doing.”

Richie, of course, couldn’t stay quiet for long. “Okay but let’s be real,” His sneakers scuffed against the pavement, and you couldn’t help but wonder how he hadn’t properly toppled over yet. “Without me, this whole child-hunt thing would be the most boring summer activity ever. You’d all be sitting at home, staring at walls.”

"Child hunt?" You repeated in a higher pitch than his, head slowly turning in absolute confusion.

Eddie shook his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “We’d also be alive,” he followed up, his tone as dry as the heat that surrounded you. He pushed his damp curtain bangs out of his face with a tired huff. "Actually, shut up. Stop talking."

Richie smirked, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he lazily pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose, the lenses catching a glint of sunlight. “You’re welcome, then,” he said with a casual shrug, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “I’m making sure your life has meaning.” He leaned back slightly, as if basking in his own brilliance. “Without me you’d just be some boring virgin worrying about HIV and seatbelt laws.” 

Before Eddie could launch into what was sure to be a full-blown rant, you stepped in — again — raising a hand like a referee desperate to stop the match before it got ugly.

“Okay, enough already,” you reiterated, your tone firm but edged with a playful lenience. “Can we all agree that Richie’s both a pain and weirdly entertaining and just move on?” You glanced between them, waiting for the tension to ease, though Eddie still looked seconds away from combusting.

“Seriously, it’s way too hot for this,” you added, knowing better than to leave the closing statement to either of them. “If we don’t start moving, I’m melting right here, and I am not dying in this heat because you two want to reenact some dumb sitcom feud.”

Richie gave you an exaggerated wink and finger guns, his grin widening into something that could only be described as delightfully obnoxious. “Finally, some recognition. You’re alright, kid,” he declared, as though knighting you in the sacred order of Richie's appreciation.

Your eyebrow twitched at the label, but before you could say anything, Eddie let out a long-suffering sigh, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, 'You’re insufferable.'

Bill, who had been unusually quiet up until now, finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the simmering tension with unexpected authority. “L... Let’s just keep moving. We’re wasting time.” His tone was firmer than usual, leaving no room for argument.

You fell into step behind him, throwing a glance his way. “Do you think the sewers are going to be cooler?” you asked, half-joking but half-hopeful, the oppressive heat making the thought of anything remotely cooler sound almost appealing.

Richie immediately perked up, his grin practically splitting his face as he leapt at the chance for sarcasm. “Oh, yeah. Cool and refreshing, like a five-star spa day. We’ll just ignore the roaches, the smell, and the possibility of stepping in God-knows-what. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll even find a complimentary towel service down there.”

Agitating fucking ass-wipe.

“Comforting,” Eddie muttered darkly, his brow furrowed as he dabbed his chin with the hem of his sweat-drenched shirt. “Really makes me look forward to it.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, though his glare at Richie lacked its usual heat — he was simply too bored with this whole thing to muster much more.

Denbrough side-eyed the three of you, glancing back over his shoulder with a look that screamed 'I’m surrounded by idiots.' That usually would have hurt your ego a little bit. “Guys, please.” His pace quickened, clearly over the conversation and the walk, his focus returning to the task at hand, and thankfully everyone did.

When finally reaching the edge of the road, far enough from the town to avoid any old adults that felt inclined to involve themselves in business they weren't a part of.

Most of the grown-ups were now weirdly obsessive in ensuring the townskids never ventured too far off — be it daytime or not. Which, relatively, wasn't a bad thing. But on the subject of wanting to sneak around the sewers, it wasn't all too helpful.

You glanced down the steep hill, eyeing the bunched-up fallen leaves — counting just how many spots in view could be hiding some mass murderer or a freakishly big hornet or something. Only to flinch when Bill had wordlessly leapt over the fence, stabilising himself enough to easily walk down the slope. 

Your jaw clenched, mentally accepting that this was genuinely happening before carefully climbing over the short wooden barrier, the others quick to join you as the group now scaled down the acclivity. The wood was weathered and splintered, but you barely noticed as you swung one leg over, your focus now on the descent.

You kept your balance with a little more effort than Bill, but when your feet hit the dirt, you found your footing quickly enough. The others, Richie and Eddie included, were right behind you, catching up fast as the group began to scale the slope with varying levels of grace.

Richie, being the show-off he was, took the descent like he was on a downhill ski run, arms leaving his side wildly for balance as he shouted, “This is easier than I thought. Who knew I was an expert mountain climber?”

Eddie, however, wasn’t quite as graceful. He stumbled once, cursing under his breath, but managed to right himself with a few quick steps. “This isn't a fucking mountain! I swear if my knees to give out,” the boy clenched his jaw, though his sarcasm did little to mask the discomfort.

You followed Bill down the hill, the others catching up quickly as the ground grew rockier beneath your feet. The air felt thick with humidity, making every step feel heavier, like the atmosphere itself was trying to slow you down.

The path ahead of you was a winding mix of dirt and scattered rocks, disappearing into the overgrown underbrush. The thick trees at the edge of the hill cast long shadows, hiding whatever lay beyond.

As you moved further down, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot was the only thing breaking the silence. Bill, now at the bottom, turned to call out. “We’re looking for the old tunnel entrance,” he said simply, his eyes scanning the surroundings, clearly focused. “Th... There's only a few o-... open ones.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The idea of crawling through some long-forgotten underground tunnel didn’t exactly fill you with excitement. You glanced at Eddie, who, as usual, looked less than thrilled with the whole idea. “Oh fuck, yeah. Tunnels.” Eddie shuddered.

“Come on, stop complaining,” you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, though your voice was tight with the same unease creeping up your spine. “It’s just a sewer tunnel. How bad can it be?”

Richie raised an eyebrow, his grin never faltering, like he was genuinely enjoying watching you squirm. “You’ve clearly never been near the sewers, have you?”

You cringed at the thought, because, fucking obviously, no, you hadn’t.

The smell alone was enough to make your stomach lurch, let alone what else might be lurking in the dark. The idea of crawling through filth, not knowing what you might step in or touch, didn’t exactly scream fun to you. You could almost feel the wet, slimy walls closing in already.

“Nope,” you said, your voice coming out sharper than you meant, hoping to sound casual. “Definitely not a sewer tunnel enthusiast.”

Richie snorted, clearly pleased with your discomfort. “Well, get ready. It’s not exactly a five-star resort down there. But hey, on the bright side, at least we’re not gettin' eaten alive by whatever’s out here in the woods.” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Unless you’d rather take your chances with that?”

You spared him a look, but it didn’t do much to mask the growing tension in your gut. Richie was right about one thing: you were already too far in. At this point, backing out seemed like an impossibility. And as you glanced at the others — Bill, calm and focused as usual; Eddie, looking about as thrilled as a dog at the vet; and Richie, practically buzzing with anticipation — you knew there was no way you’d live down chickening out.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get this over with,” you muttered, half to yourself, as you took another step toward Bill.

Soon, the trees began to thin out, their canopy parting to reveal a clearer path ahead. The air felt fresher here, though still thick with clamminess, and in the distance, the sound of rushing water began to grow louder, steady and relentless. Denbrough, having picked up the pace, led the way with a determined stride.

The rest of you followed, each step heavy with the anticipation of what was to come, the ground beneath your feet turning soft and muddy as you neared the riverbank.

Before long, you caught sight of it — the stone and rock water’s edge, where the river cut through the landscape like a jagged scar. The water was shallow here, only about calf-deep, but it moved quickly, gushing over smooth rocks and swirling with the force of a current that would likely be pretty refreshing to anyone who slipped.

The sound of it was like background noise, drowning out the bug noises as it surged forward, but not loud whatsoever.

Bill slowed down for a moment, his eyes scanning the river. He crouched slightly, his hand hovering near the water’s surface as if testing the current. The river was wider than you’d expected, and the water, though shallow, moved with surprising speed. It looked deceptively calm on the surface, but you knew better. The rocks were slick, and the current could easily knock you off balance if you were stupid enough to jump around.

“Alright,” Bill said, looking over his shoulder at the group. “We cross h-... here. Just watch your step.” He took a cautious shuffle into the water, testing the ground beneath him. The stones were slippery, and the current tugged at his sneakers, but he kept his balance, moving slowly across the river with practised ease.

You took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the cold shock of the water. The others were already following Bill, stepping into the river one by one, their movements tentative at first. Richie hopped in with a grin, making small splashing sounds as he waded through the water, acting like this was all some sort of game. 

Eddie, less thrilled by the situation, shoved his back. “You’re gonna fall and get swept away, and I’ll be the one dragging your ass out.”

Richie didn’t answer, his lips only widening as he moved ahead, clearly not concerned in the least. You followed, stepping carefully from rock to rock, your shoes sinking into the soft riverbed with each step. The water chilled your skin, sending a calming jolt up your spine.

Finally, after what felt like a few seconds, you reached the opposite bank, breathing a little easier now that solid ground was beneath your feet again. Bill gave you a small nod, his expression unreadable as always. The others were right behind you, all of them making their way across the river, some of them laughing at the awkwardness of it all, others looking relieved.

“See?” Richie rebutted, still grinning like a fool. “That wasn’t so bad.”

As the last of you made it across, you turned your attention to the rocky path. The forest areas were quieter now, the sound of rushing water behind you, replaced by an eerie stillness the further down you had all walked, the stream wavering into a slower rhythm. The tunnel, or whatever was waiting on the side of the river, seemed closer now. 

Richie, not the kind to let a tense moment sit undisturbed, clambered onto a sun-bleached rock like he was taking command of an army. “Alright, troops!” he declared, adjusting his glasses with a loud cough.

The sunlight bounced off the lenses, momentarily dazzling you right in the face. You squinted and sighed, already regretting his choice of perch.

“We give Saint Stanley five minutes,” Richie continued, waving an invisible stopwatch for effect. “If he doesn’t show, we move out. The mission waits for no one!”

Eddie murmured audibly and slumped onto a nearby log, fanning his flushed face with one hand while swiping at his fanny pack for his inhaler. “Five minutes? Great, can’t wait to sit here and bake like a rotisserie chicken while we wait for him to grace us with his presence.”

“Hey, no complaining. This is the price of heroism,” Richie shot back, grinning. He crouched slightly on his rock like a showman ready to deliver his next line.

Bill stood a few feet away, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. His gaze kept drifting toward the path you had all come from, as though he could will Stan to appear through sheer determination. His jaw was set, the muscles in his neck tight as he waited in silence, his focus entirely elsewhere.

You stayed on your feet, arms folded across your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as the sticky heat started to settle into your skin. The hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves filled the pause, though Richie’s presence made true quiet impossible.

Just as Richie opened his mouth — no doubt to deliver another jab about Stan’s punctuality — a faint crunch of gravel broke through the stillness. Your head snapped toward the sound, and your heart lifted slightly.

“There he is,” you called, pointing toward the figure emerging from the trees.

Stan stepped into view, his face a mask of unreadable calm, though the slight sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed how far he’d walked. His usual button-up shirt was slightly wrinkled, and his jean shorts clung a little too snugly to his legs in the heat.

His expression, as always, showed that he’d rather be anywhere else.

Richie hopped down from his perch, “Stan the Man! Took you long enough. What happened? Were you saying goodbye to your pigeons or whatever?”

Stan rolled his eyes and brushed past Richie, his steps deliberate as he joined Bill. “You’re lucky I even came.” he muttered, voice even but carrying just enough edge to let everyone know he wasn’t thrilled.

Stan hesitated, then adjusted his footing, stepping into place beside Bill as though he’d made up his mind. His gaze flicked briefly to the rest of you, assessing the group like he was steeling himself for what lay ahead.

“Well boys — and our lone lady,” Richie added with a cheeky bit of attitude in your direction, “looks like we’re all here. Time to face the sewers of Derry!”

Eddie groaned, sinking himself down, body sliding from the log as his ass hit the floor. “Stop talking.”

No one really replied to him, easily leering forward to follow Denbrough once more. The trees, though a steady distance from the rocks and sand that had surrounded the low-risen river, shuttered in the breeze. The wind flowing through the green life in a delicate swirl, adding breath to the otherwise still plants.

Everyone walked together, a quiet understanding settling over the group as the path stretched on. The occasional snap of a twig underfoot or the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze punctuated the silence, but otherwise, no one really bothered to say much.

The effort of navigating the uneven terrain was enough to sap the energy for idle chatter, and besides, there was an unspoken tension hanging over the group — a mix of nerves and anticipation that no one seemed willing to address outright.

Non-surprisingly, Tozier was the exception. His occasional quips broke through the silence like tiny, unwelcome reminders that nothing could fully mute his running commentary. Most of it was harmless — snide observations about the heat, the bugs, and his supreme survival skills — but every now and then, one of his remarks would earn a half-hearted flick of attention from one of the boys.

You didn’t really mind the stroll though.

Your thoughts were interrupted when the path suddenly opened up, revealing a clearing where the trees gave way to something decidedly unnatural. Your eyes narrowed as the five of you came to a stop, staring at what was unmistakably a large, metallic tunnel. Its wide, gaping mouth jutted out from the earth like some long-forgotten relic of a bygone era, the corrugated metal rusted in places and streaked with grime.

The edges were overgrown with weeds and moss, the entrance dark and uninviting.

You didn’t need to think about it; you knew this was the one Bill had been leading you toward. It looked exactly like the kind of place you’d seen in movies — the kind of place where characters would wander in and never come out, which is this case?

It might not be too far off from a possible reality.

Bill stepped closer to the large sewer opening, his glazed eyes fixed on the tunnel as if drawn to it by some invisible force. He didn’t speak, but the set of his jaw and the relieved look in his eyes made it clear this was the destination.

Richie broke the silence first, letting out a low whistle as he peered at the structure. “Well, isn’t that inviting,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Really screams ‘Welcome, come on in,’ doesn’t it?”

Eddie let himself move a few inches closer, back hunching as his head led the way for his body — eyeing everything and anything with an inspective carefulness , running a hand down the side of his shorts. “Are you kidding me? This is it? We’re seriously going in there?”

Richie clapped him on the back, causing the boy to shift a bit too far over — almost falling flat on his face. “Don’t worry Eddie spaghetti. If there’s a disease free danger, I’ll let it eat you first. Campers honour.”

Eddie took a moment or two to fully take in what was just audibly thrown at him, his teeth baring before he had parted his lips. "Don't call me that!"

You ignored their bickering, your focus locked on the tunnel’s shadowed interior. A chill ran down your spine as you stepped closer, the faint smell of damp earth and rusted metal growing stronger. It was cooler here, the heat from earlier that you noted was slightly leaving, now completely fading into the background as the tunnel loomed larger before you.

Kaspbrak had eventually hit Richie away from him, the glasses-wearing loon just shrugging and standing closer to Bill — shaking his left shoe in the air to rid it of the muck and garbage that had pooled into the water that had been closest to the sewer entrance. Clicking his ankle side to side, effectively flicking the gross smudges of liquid grey and mold.

Stan had been the third to inch towards the tunnel, keeping a relatively safe distance yet still checking the area out. He hadn't said much since he'd joined up with the group, staying mostly to himself in a way that you could tell was his way of staying out of the stressful problems the boys just loved to start up.

"...That's poison ivy," The curly-haired male pursed his lips, left arm dragging itself upwards as he held out his finger. Pointing at something that was definitely not the dangerous plant he was assuming it had been. Cognitively, he was giving himself reasons to leave early, and it was so obvious that you almost thought you were wrong.

"And that's poison ivy, and that's poison ivy." He continued to falsely claim through his teeth, catching the pill-popper's attention who had worriedly flinched away from a very normal strand of green grass that slid along his ankle — immediately following Uris' finger with his surveying, inspective gaze.

"Where?" He sputtered out, much faster than he intended to, it being evident with how swift he was to continue. "Wh- Where's the poison ivy?" Eddie minutely looked to the floor, using his shoe to rub the small pieces of rocks along the gravel, as if some life-threatening weed or shrub would be hiding beneath it.

Tozier made a sound with his tongue, sucking his teeth before turning his head. "Nowhere." He snapped, sounding less joke-filled than his usual, something that made you turn your attention away from Bill — who'd been gazing directly into the tunnel like some meth-addicted freak. 

"Not every fuckin' plant is poison ivy Stanely?" the boy's voice cracked mid-tell-off, earning a small dirty look from Stan, and a look that lacked belief from Kaspbrak. You instinctively rechecked the weeds, stepping on them for extra measure even if you knew they weren't something to worry about.

As your heel dug into the ground, your hands gently led Stan out of your way. Walking between him and the fanny pack-wearing male that had stood right by, choosing to ignore your own nerves as you trotted closer to the gapingly large, rusted opening. The smell, one you expected to hit you like a truck had surprisingly been dimmed out by the earth around it. 

There wasn't any of the assumed sewer reek; if anything, there was just a strong wall of saltiness that had clung to the air, and luckily that was manageable.

"Okay. Well — I'm starting to get itchy? Now?" Eddie countered, legs moving as Richie had completely engulfed himself inside the large pipeline. Staying close by Bill who had been a few steps ahead of him. Pill-popper had glanced around again, awkwardly grabbing onto his fanny pack. "And — And... I'm pretty sure this is not good for my —"

Tozier let his mouth hang open as his eyes rolled, shaking his head left to right before standing straight upwards. His posture no longer bent, looking deeper into the pipe while he continued to stay by Bill. " — Do you use the same bathroom as your Mother?" Richie cut in, throwing Eddie off of whatever it was he'd been talking about.

You narrowed your eyes and pressed your lips together, questioning how that had anything to do with anything before ultimately deciding to keep yourself out of the way. Your arms folding over your chest, shifting closer to Stan, who seemed to reciprocate your unwillingness to actually go into the tunnel.

"... Sometimes? Yeah." The boy eventually admitted, no tell in his tone that gave off anything but slight bewilderment as the Trashmouth began winding up again.

"Then you probably have crabs." He said oh-so confidently, shoulders barely dropping, his delivery more like a dramatic proclamation than an actual response. It'd of been funny if it wasn't completely idiotic for the current moment.

Kaspbrak immediately latched onto your reaction with his own, his expression deadpanned with disappointment. "That's so not funny." his upper middle-nose crinkling with two lines as his eyebrows then furrowed, very clearly against Richie's constant return to his Mother in basically every subject.

Stan shifts nervously on his feet, his eyes darting between the sewer and the trees behind them, like he’s considering bolting. He mutters something under his breath, though he doesn’t move to leave. His hands clamping and unclamping by his sides, both eager to see whatever the fuck it was that Bill was ready to do, and terrified that he had to watch.

"Aren't you guys coming in?" Tozier voiced, your eyes flicking away from Stan — unaware you'd been analysing him until you had now seen Richie.

Holding a completely random, gnarled stick that he waved like it was some kind of makeshift sceptre, when the fuck did he get that?

“Yeah...” Your voice trailed off, a mix of disbelief and resignation as you watched him parade the branch around like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jesus this is how kids die in movies, the five of you standing at the mouth of a sewer, one of you armed with a stick.

Your throat tightened, a nervous croak slipping out as you took a deliberate step back, your arms instinctively uncrossing. “No, no, I’m good,” you muttered, shaking your head like you could physically push away the entire scenario. “You guys go ahead. I’m just gonna... stay here and not... need a tetanus shot.”

Eddie, now pleased to see someone with his same thought process, shook his head. Eyes darting from one weird-looking piece of brain tumour in the water to whatever the hell else was in there. "Uh-uh." He replied, his hand lazily slanging out. "It's grey water." the male finalised, now looking back at both Tozier, and Denbrough — who wasn't paying attention to anyone.

"What the hell is grey water?" Richie grimaced, his patience visibly thinning as Eddie launched into yet another tirade about the microscopic horrors of the world. His nose wrinkled as he mocked Eddie’s exaggerated gestures, holding his makeshift stick like a reluctant shield.

Eddie, predictably, was having none of it. He turned to Richie with an expression that screamed both disgust and disbelief. "It’s basically — piss and shit, so I'm just tellin' you." he borderline breathed out, his voice pitching slightly as he jabbed a finger toward the trickling stream flowing into the tunnel, only to then hold his palms up. "You guys are splashing around in millions of gallons of Derry pee."

Richie turned his back to the three of you that remained safely outside, using his weirdly large stick to swish some of the mucky water onto the bark. Lifting it up with the smallest hunch of his neck as he took a cautious, far back enough whiff of the liquid-drenched wood.

"What are you — are you serious? What are you —" Eddie blurted, taking another step back from the tunnel as he stared at the sight in front of him. A sight you've currently just decided to stay away from, easily looking away and snagging the backpack that'd been left on the ground, only now realising you were hungry.

"Doesn't smell like caca to me señor?" Tozier grumbled, his voice purposely swapping out from its usual to something cartoonish as he moved the wetted end of the stick further away from his face. His left foot — still drenched in the gross water — taking a step forward. Now closer to the tunnel entrance than he was with Bill.

"Okay. I — I can — I can smell that from here." The shorter boy forced a strained smile, hand moving to his face as he absentmindedly used it to express just how horrified he truly was. His utter disgust with what he'd just seen overlapped his prior need to explain why it was disgusting.

"It's probably just your breath wafting back into your face." Richie's eyes widened in joy, swatting his left hand ahead of his mouth and nose. You swore you had heard Stanley groan in reaction to the argument, unzipping the bag and turning to now scavenge through it for the banger-ass snacks you knew Richie shoved in here.

Now that you remembered there was food in your presence, you were so fucking hungry.

Would it be fucked up to leave them to their arguing and go sit under the shade somewhere?

It was, right?

Yeah, yeah.

"Hey I needa piss." you blurted out, cutting through the noise of Eddie and Richie’s back-and-forth. Not that they seemed to notice—Eddie was mid-rant about hygiene while Richie was gesturing wildly with his stick like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.

It wasn't true, of course, but if the only plan was to venture around in some big ass pipe system all day then you were sure taking an early snack break wasn't so terrible.

Stan, the observant one he was, gave you a tired glance, his expression clouded with plead for you to take him with you, but ultimately settling into indifference. He motioned vaguely with his hand for you to do what you needed to do, his voice flat as he briefly called out to Bill, letting him know you'd be back.

It wasn’t a lie, technically. You did have to go. But as your eyes drifted to the bag of snacks, the idea of sneaking off for just a moment to satisfy your gnawing hunger solidified in your mind. Without much hesitation, you snuck the bag along with you, careful not to draw too much attention.

You hadn’t eaten all morning, nor did you have anything last night.

Bill, further ahead and preoccupied with staring into the tunnel’s foreboding mouth, barely acknowledged Stan’s update.

That was good — less scrutiny for you.

With a small nod of thanks to Stanley, you casually slipped away, taking care not to make too much noise as you navigated back toward the treeline. You didn't plan to go off too far. It wasn’t like you were familiar with this area — hell, none of you really were — and the idea of getting lost in the woods was not on your to-do list.

Neither was getting mauled by some freakishly oversized animal, which you were pretty sure could totally happen out here. With your luck, it’d probably be a rabid raccoon or something equally ridiculous.

You kept your pace even, glancing back once or twice to make sure you weren’t wandering too far. The plan was simple — stick close to the water and avoid getting lost. It wasn’t like you were aiming to vanish into the woods or anything, just... to put a little distance between yourself and the noise.  

The farther you went, the quieter the voices became, fading into a faint murmur before disappearing altogether. You didn’t stop walking until the only sounds were the rush of the stream and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.  

It was peaceful in a way that felt unfamiliar, the kind of calm you hadn’t realized you needed until now. The air was cooler here, the trees casting long shadows that stretched across the ground. You slowed your steps, letting yourself take in the quiet, the solitude, the freedom from the tension that had been simmering all day.  

Finally, you came to a stop near a spot where the water widened, flowing gently over a bed of smooth rocks. The shade of the trees was instantly cooler, the sweltering sun from earlier giving way to a gentler, breezy kind of warmth. You found a spot that felt just secluded enough to avoid drawing attention but still close enough to hear the muffled voices of the others in the distance. 

You leaned back against the trunk of the tree, brushing away a few stray leaves before sinking to the ground. The earthy smell of dirt and vegetation surrounded you as you dug into the bag you’d swiped, pulling out the first thing your hand landed on.

A granola bar.

Not exactly gourmet, but right now, it might as well have been a five-star meal.

Tearing the wrapper open with practised efficiency, you bit into it, the slight crunch breaking the silence around you. The sweetness hit immediately, and you let out a soft sigh of relief. It wasn’t just about the food; it was the small moment of peace, away from the endless bickering and the looming dread of crawling through that fuck-ass tunnel.

Your eyes wandered as you chewed, taking in the surroundings. The rustling of leaves above and the faint chirping of birds made the woods feel almost peaceful — if you ignored the fact that a sewer and everything that came with it was just a few minutes.

True to your own internal promise, you didn't waste too much time when it came to actually eating. Reaching back into the bag, you grabbed the water bottle tucked inside. It was luke-warm, which was horrid, but you didn’t care. Twisting the cap off, you took a few long gulps, feeling the liquid cool your dry throat. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you feel human again.

Once you’d had your fill, you leaned back against the base of a nearby tree, letting the shade shield you from the sun’s persistent heat. You weren’t planning to linger long — just a moment to catch your breath and reset before heading back.

The gentle sounds of the stream and rustling leaves were oddly calming, lulling you into a rare sense of ease.

The dappled sunlight danced across the ground as a gentle breeze stirred the leaves above, their rustling mingling with the soft trickle of the stream nearby. For a fleeting second, you almost forgot why you were here, why your friends were just out of sight near that ominous tunnel. The peace was fragile, like a bubble waiting to pop.

And pop it did.

A sharp rustling sound sliced through the quiet, abrupt and jarring, yanking you from your momentary reprieve, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling. Your brows furrowed, and you straightened up, your senses immediately on high alert. It wasn’t just the sound of leaves shifting or a squirrel darting through the underbrush. This was frantic, chaotic, like someone — or something — was crashing through the woods in a blind panic.

Your eyes snapped toward the noise, narrowing as you caught sight of a figure sprinting — no, barreling — along the water’s edge.

It was a kid, maybe your age, short and stocky, his chubby frame shaking with every desperate step with wild, uneven strides like his life depended on it. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his face was pale beneath a layer of sweat and grime. Blood streaked one side of his forehead, trickling down to his cheek, and his arms flailed as he struggled to keep his balance.

“What the —?” You whispered, your voice barely audible as your brain scrambled to make sense of what you were seeing.

The kid’s knees were at constant threat to buckle as he ran, stumbling over the uneven ground with a wild lack of coordination. He tripped once, going down hard on one knee, and for a second, you thought he might stop. But no, he pushed himself up with a strength that didn’t seem to match his trembling frame and kept going.

Who the fuck is that?

Your heart leapt into your throat as you watched him stumble again, nearly going down before catching himself. He didn’t slow; if anything, he pushed himself harder, his gaze flicking behind him every few steps as if something was chasing him.

Your pulse quickened as your mind leapt to worst-case scenarios. Was someone chasing him? The woods suddenly felt less serene, the rustling leaves above sounding sharper, more ominous. You took a hesitant step forward, unsure of what to do.

He was heading straight for the spot where the boys had been near the tunnel.

For a moment, you froze, your brain scrambling to process the scene. The peaceful snack break was over — so over — and you were still fucking hungry.

Panic bubbled up in your chest, mixing with bewilderment. How had this kid even ended up here? You glanced back in the direction of your friends, the same direction the boy was full-housing to. The faint sound of their voices still carrying through the trees.

They didn’t know. They had no idea what was about to come bolting towards them.

Your body moved before your brain could fully catch up. You shoved the empty wrapper and bottle back into the bag, your hands shaking slightly as you fumbled to zip it up — why the dick are you struggling to zip this up?

Finally, you broke free of the paralysis, discarding that useless ass fucking bag and pushing yourself away from the tree and breaking into a jog. The peace of moments ago was completely gone, replaced by the rising tide of anxiety crashing over you. Your pulse practically hammered in your ears as you darted out from your spot, racing back toward the group.

As your shoe soles slapped against the ground below you, the ever-growing stitch in the side of your gut had remained a painfully pathetic reminder of how unfit you truly were as you got closer and closer to the group. Flinching in genuine worry as you watched the chubby boy finally flop to the watery floor, scraping his elbows against the sharpened rocks.

"Holy shit what the fuck happened to you?" Tozier screamed in the distance, something you yourself probably should have yelled out the second you saw the poor guy tumbling down the river like that as you had only now finally gotten back to them.

You skidded to a halt a few feet away, panting so hard it felt like your lungs were about to combust.

Holy ballsack you are not made for running.

The kid was on all fours in the water, hacking up a lung while blood dripped down his face and onto the rocks. His clothes were soaked and ripped to shreds, mud caking every visible part of him. He looked like he'd just crawled out of a war zone — and lost.

Richie hadn't stopped talking, Eddie and Stan already by the boys side while you continued dying on the floor. “Did you try to fight a bear or just trip over your own shoelaces?” His voice was loud enough to echo, and somehow even more grating than usual.

“What are you even on about!” Eddie hissed, elbowing him hard in the ribs, you rolled over heaving, horrified and distraught, is this how you die?. “Shut up dumbass he’s bleeding!”

“What? I’m just asking,” Richie shot back, waving a hand at the kid. “I mean, look at him — he’s walking road-kill!”

Bill ignored them both, crouching beside the kid and placing a steadying hand onto both of his shoulders. “H.. Hey, what happened? Ww.. Who did this to you?” His tone was calm, but the lines of tension on his face betrayed his worry.

Richie had stepped forward, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a twisted look of shock and something that almost resembled concern. “Seriously, dude — what the fuck?” His voice cracked, but his usual humor was nowhere to be found.

The boy coughed hard, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “They — they’re coming!” he stammered, his words tumbling over each other in his panic.

You ignored Richie entirely, still dying on the ground but forcing yourself to sit up, now actually able to see the kid. “They- Fuck my life, it's hot. They followed you?” you asked, your voice a little higher than you intended.

“Who’s coming?” Stan asked sharply, standing a little back from the group, his eyes darting down where the kid had ran from, as if expecting someone to burst out of it at any second.

The boy’s coughs were wet and sharp, echoing against the water like little explosions. Each sputter made him jerk forward as though his whole body was trying to expel the terror along with the air in his lungs. “Bow—” Another cough ripped through him, bending him double.

He spat out a mix of spit and blood, struggling to get the words out. “Bowers gang. They — they jumped me up the road.”

The weight of his words slammed into the group like a punch, and for a moment, no one said a damn thing. Just the shallow rush of the river and the boy’s gasping breaths filled the air.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he yelled, throwing his hands up like he was in the middle of a courtroom drama. “First, we’ve got tunnels to crawl into, and now Henry freaking Bowers and his gay ass boyfriends are running around out there like some Mad Max villains? What’s next? A goddamn velociraptor? Maybe Bigfoot wants to join the party.”

Stan’s face twisted into something between frustration and disbelief. “Richie, shut up! You’re not helping!” He snapped, his usual composure cracking for a moment.

“Excuse me,” Richie shot back, turning on Stan with his eyebrows practically hitting his hairline.

“Guys.” you interrupted, forcing yourself to tear your eyes off the poor kid and finally fucking stand. “Can we not do this right now? There’s literally a bleeding kid sitting in the water, and all you two can do is argue."

Richie pointed at you, his mouth already opening for what was bound to be something infuriating, but Eddie beat him to it.

“Wait a second,” Eddie paused, his voice rising as he turned toward you, his face scrunched up with a mixture of annoyance and expectation. “Where’s the bag? The one with all the water, snacks and bandages in it?”

Uh,

Your stomach plummeted like you’d just gone over the edge of a rollercoaster. “What?”

“The bag!” Kaspbrak reiterated, like you had no idea what a bag was or something. “The one you took with you when you ran off to ‘go pee’ or whatever! Where the hell is it?”

Uhhhh.

You froze, your mind scrambling to remember. And then it hit you — the bag, discarded in your panic when you saw the kid sprinting down the water like his life depended on it. A fresh wave of dread surged through you, your face heating up with guilt.

“I dropped it,” you admitted flatly, your voice barely above a monotone.

There was another beat of silence.

“Wow, we got our very own Indiana fucking Jones over here,” Tozier snorted, dragging out each word with enough sarcasm to fuel a small country.

And you know what.

Richie raised his hand to fix his glasses, a grin splitting his face. “Hey, no need to get violent, Lara Croft. I’m just saying, if there’s a prize for Best Adventurer, it’s definitely not going to you.”

“You dropped it?!” Eddie’s voice cracked through the actual brain-eating spew coming from Tozier, looking at you like you’d just confessed to murder. “Oh, perfect! Just perfect! Now we’re out here, away from home, with no water, no first aid, nothing! Great job!”

Yeah, this is fair. Okay.

Richie, still on a roll, nodded solemnly. “No snacks either. Tragic.”

Fucking —

“Guys, f-.. focus!” Bill’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. His face was hard, his jaw clenched as he crouched down next to the boy. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you s... ss.. stand?”

The boy nodded weakly, though his hands were trembling like leaves in the wind. “I.. I think so,” the boy winced, gagging as he tried to sit up straighter.

Bill nodded, stepping back as the boy very slowly gripped one of the rocks, forcing himself up while Denbrough glanced at you, his expression softening just a little. “Where exactly did you drop it?”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling every pair of eyes on you. “Uh... Back near the tree line.” 

Bill’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm. “Alright, you’re gonna go back and get the bag.”

You froze. “What?” you shot back, incredulous. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t seriously expect me to go back there, alone, after —” You stopped yourself, realising how ridiculous it sounded.

You were actually considering it.

Bill didn't flinch. “W-... We need that stuff. The water, the first aid... We can’t just l- leave it.” He nodded toward the chubby boy still on the ground, who was rubbing his arms, trying to collect himself. “We’ll take him to the pharmacy to get him p-.. patched up. You meet us there when y.. you’ve got the bag.”

The words hung in the air, and you fought the urge to scream. There was no way this was happening.

You didn’t want to go back. Not now, not after seeing that kid running like a freight train, not after finding out the fucking Bowers Gang was after him. Your jaw slackened as you stared at him, half-expecting him to crack a grin and tell you he was joking.

He didn’t.

Fuck that stupid kid, why do you have to go back for the bag?

But Bill with his calm resolve, wasn’t giving you an out.

“Wait, wait, hold up,” Richie interjected, stepping closer. “You’re sending her to get the bag? Alone? In the woods? With Bowers probably lurking around like the world’s angriest troll?”

You motioned to him with your hand, very much in alliance with what he'd been saying for the first time this entire talk-session.

“Richie." Stan snapped, his patience officially gone.

Bill ignored both of them, still focused on you. “Can you do it?” his question cut through the air, sharp and direct, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on you.

He wasn’t looking at Eddie or Richie now — just you, his gaze heavy with an unspoken plea, a silent hope.

You could feel the guilt crawling up your throat, squeezing tight as the pressure of his eyes bore into you. The kid had just run for his life, out of sheer panic, out of necessity. And now, here you were, about to make a choice that felt far too big for the moment.

“I’ll go.” The words slipped out of your mouth before you had a chance to fully think about them. Your voice felt flat, weighed down by the decision you were already regretting but knew you had to follow through with. 

Damnit. The kid had literally run for his life, and here you were, debating whether you should help. The answer was clear, of course you need to help.

Without saying another word, you turned on your heel, the sun beating down on your back as you walked away from them, already feeling the heaviness of your decision settle over you like a cloak.

The bag... where did you leave it?

You tried to push the thought of your growing unease aside, but it kept creeping back in. The area ahead seemed strangely quiet, the air too thick for comfort. Every step felt like you were walking deeper into a dream where you didn’t belong.

You’d gone farther than you intended to, the trees pressing closer now, their dense branches overhead filtering the sunlight into shifting, dappled patches on the forest floor. The air here felt heavier, warmer, and the faint buzz of insects made the silence between your steps even more unbearable.

The familiar path had long since disappeared behind you, replaced by the stretch of open space and the eerie hum of distant birds. You felt the nagging sensation in your chest — the uncomfortable realization that maybe you should have turned back already.

But the bag was there, you told yourself. It has to be.

The path was gone. The familiar landmarks — roots, broken branches, the occasional cigarette butt — had long since vanished, swallowed by the endless green.

Being out here by yourself was just as terrifying as you assumed it'd be, shuffling through the dense fallen leaves and reaching for any bag-shaped object that'd caught your peripheral whilst the forest had continued its small buzz of life.

Every snap of a twig and every flutter from a bird's wing making your body jolt, spine straightening and your eyes dart.

You pressed on, your hands trembling as you shoved branches out of your way. The sweat trickling down your temples and neck felt cold against your overheated skin, the fabric of your shirt clinging to your back like a second, suffocating layer.

Punishment — that’s what this felt like. Punishment for agreeing to this in the first place, for wandering too far, for not turning back when you’d had the chance.

But soon, you heard it.

The scrape of something against the gravel, slow and deliberate. The sound skittered through the heat like the dragging of claws over glass. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. The air felt thick again, the wind suddenly cutting off, as if it had abandoned you in this moment of solitude.

And then you saw him.

He stepped out from the shadow of the trees, moving like he knew exactly where you were, his presence a sudden weight on the air. His face was calm, but there was something in the way he held himself that made everything about him feel... wrong.

He was tall, taller than you anyway. His eyes were too wide, almost gleaming with a predatory hunger that made your stomach twist. His lips curled into a smile that never quite reached his cheeks, like a snake about to strike.

Patrick Hockstetter.

Patrick fucking Hockstetter.

He didn’t step back. He didn’t leave.

Yeah, alright, you're officially screwed.

He just stood there, staring at you with that eerie, unreadable expression. His eyes were fixed, almost unnervingly so, like they could pierce right through you if they wanted to. There was a strange, detached quality to the way he watched you, as if he wasn’t even fully present in the moment, like his mind was wandering somewhere far, far away.

But his body? His body was right here, so close, looming like a heavy, suffocating shadow.

His hand twitched, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lighter. The flicker of the flame lit up the side of his lower torso in sudden flashes of stark light, then normalcy again as he flipped it off. He didn’t seem to notice the way the fire danced; it was just an idle toy to him.

The way he ticked the flame up and down, the casual way he let it linger close to his skin and fabric, it made your stomach twist. His movements weren’t normal.

The absence of any real focus — just clicking and watching — they all felt wrong. Like there was something fundamentally off in the way his mind worked.

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, like the air was pressing in on you from all sides. You tried not to glance at the lighter, but it was hard not to.

Patrick’s thumb was moving absentmindedly, the flame dancing, and he was watching it like it was the only thing in the world. His expression was completely unreadable. It was almost like he wasn’t even acknowledging you as a person, just... something he didn't expect to come across.

Each tilt of the lighter brought a little more heat to his side, but he didn’t seem to mind. Hell, he almost seemed to like it, like he was using it to fuel whatever twisted thoughts he was having.

It was almost as if your brain didn't register him as human, your mind telling you to remain frozen, like the choice to run would set off some strange primal reaction from the freak who'd stood tall and proud ahead of you.

His body shifted slightly, his face never changing, but his eyes narrowed, a slight tilt of his head.

He kept his stance somewhat uneven, putting all weight to one of his legs as he eyed you. His trailed, focused gaze making your stomach tighten. The male, albeit mostly uncaring in his stature, wasted no time in finally turning off the lighter. His hands drooped down like they'd been a hindrance to him, logs of flesh, muscle and bone swaying just as softly by his frame like the leaves did in the wind.

The skin on his neck pulled tight, and for a split second, he looked like a snake — silent, patient, ready to strike. Then, he spoke. His voice was slow, deliberate, that thick accentuated drawl making every word sound like a weight, a weight too heavy for him to be bothered with.

“You seen a kid, ‘bout your age, runnin’ through here?” Patrick had asked, his voice almost casual, solemn. As if the question didn’t really matter, like he already knew the answer. “He’s got, well," He looked back down at your top, watching the sweat cause it to hold to your skin. "- A lotta weight on him. Pretty obvious if y’seen him. I’m just wonderin’ where he went.”

You could feel his presence pressing in on you. He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t need to.

It was like his energy was everywhere now, filling the space between you, making it feel small, cramped. His eyes were still locked onto you, his belt fell down his hip as he slithered himself a step closer, and you almost delusioned yourself to feel that very same belt touch you, cringing as you absentmindedly took a step back.

He leaned in just a little too quickly, and even if he'd been multiple strides away, your body acting off pure instinct flinched. His lips crooned, smile lines prominently standing out on his pale-white skin as his iris's seemed to widen — yet his actual eye shape remaining in place.

The male let his lips part, a sound of what couldn't even count as a half-chuckle leaving him as he took another step closer.

This was bad, this was very bad.

"Ain'tcha quick." The taller boy marvelled, like he was pleasantly amused with what he'd seen. It left a grotesque taste in your throat, a taste that made your veins thump beneath your skin. 

Without hesitation he took a small glimpse behind him, watching the the area like he'd waited for something. That uncanny smile on his face cracking wider when whatever it was he'd been waiting for hadn't arrived.

You knew that you were scared of Henry and his gang, and your dislike for Patrick in specific was reasonable. But the sensation that had been going through you right now had been more than fear, you weren't just scared of this person, you were revolted. He let off such a presence that'd almost been disgusting.

He was unnerving.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about man." You blurted, lying through your teeth. Trying to be as nonchalant as ever when you glanced left and right.

His other friends didn't seem to be around, so it'd surely been safe to assume he went out to search for the kid alone.

Why it was he decided to search for the kid alone, while also for some reason exuding the vibe that he knew the kid would run this way, you weren't ready to question.

You could almost smell the sweat on him, the oil on his skin. His attention didn’t waver, his eyes studying you like he was about to pounce, and yet he was still too relaxed, too comfortable in the moment. He wasn’t physically touching you, but the way he moved, the way he loomed, it felt like he was crawling inside your skin.

“Now, I gotta ask again,” Hockstetter finally moved his arms, his voice careful, grossly careful. “Where’d that kid go? Y’seen him, didn’t ya?” He let the words hang in the air like a threat, his eyes still on yours as if daring you to lie again, like he saw through your bullshit.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I literally haven’t seen anyone,” you doubled down, trying to push the words out, but they felt wrong, like they didn’t even belong in your mouth.

He was still watching you, and the weight of his gaze was unbearable. The flame flickered higher in his hand, something you hadn't even realised he'd began doing once more as his thumb kept pressing the lighter button, again and again, the sound of it clicking louder than it should have been.

You let out a breath, the air was thick with tension, and you could practically feel his eyes moving over you, stripping you bare.

“Y’sure ‘bout that?” His voice was calm, but it held something sharp underneath, a dark kind of expectation. He didn’t seem angry — no, he didn’t seem anything — just steady, methodical. "You fibbin' to me?"

The lighter flickered again, and you could almost feel the heat of the flame in the pit of your stomach.

You couldn’t stop your hands from shaking as you gripped the fabric of your shirt, trying to find something to hold onto, anything. You took another safe step back, but your feet seemed to sink into the ground, like the earth was trying to pull you under.

Something about him was sick, and be it your instincts or intuition, but you needed to leave.

It was a strange, unsettling thing, something too calm and quiet for this kind of situation. He wasn’t really threatening you, not yet, but you knew — he knew.

Without realizing it, you took another step back, closer to the trees, your eyes darting around for any way out, any chance to escape.

And that’s when you noticed it.

He had moved just a bit closer. Not enough to feel dangerous, but enough that the distance between you had closed in just enough to make your heart stutter in your chest. When did he get closer, how did he get closer?

You froze, your breath hitching in your throat.

Patrick took another step forward, his boots almost soundless against the ground. His eyes never wavered, and the feeling of his attention now became something physical, pressing down on you like the very clothes you'd worn.

Your mind screamed, but your body wasn’t cooperating, until it did.

You spun around so quickly it'd almost made you dizzy, the need to escape as immediate as possible simply clouding the logic behind how bad it was to make someone like Hockstetter be the one chasing.

Then suddenly, without warning, he lunged.

It happened so fast, you barely had time to react. One moment he was standing still, and the next, his hands were on you, slamming you backward into the ground. You gasped, panic rising like acid in your now tightened throat, but it was too late. His weight hit you like a ton of bricks, pinning you down with a force you couldn’t fight against.

His knees dug into your arms, keeping them locked to the floor, and you felt your breath squeeze out of your chest as he shifted above you. His body was pressed against yours, too close, too wrong, like something you couldn't shake no matter how hard you tried.

His skin was slick with sweat, the heat radiating off of him in waves, and the stench of it was overpowering, like old, rotten oil mixed with something foul you couldn’t name.

You thrashed beneath him, your legs kicking and your fists pounding at the floor, but he barely flinched. His face remained eerily calm, that twisted smile still lingering like it was carved into his features. The harder you tried to move, the more it felt like you were fighting against an inhuman figure.

He gave a low grunt, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like a breathless exhale, and slid his weight just enough to stop you from getting leverage.

He was unbothered by every strike, every punch you landed to the ground, every yell that left your mouth, and everytime you would somehow in your fit of need manage to slam your legs against his back, as if the pain didn’t even register for him. Legs simply locking down harder, his bones hitting down so firmly onto yours it felt like you might snap.

“You sure y’ haven’t seen ‘im?” he murmured, questioning you with a forced frown, like he didn't just fucking attack you, his breath hot against your face whilst he invadedly pushed his knees harder. His spine bent fluidly as he took a quick gander along your face and neck, the sickly-sweet stench of his skin mixing with the harsh scent of dirt and pine.

This is bad on so many levels.

Not responding to the sick fuck, because why the shit would you,

You fought back, twisting beneath his body, trying to thrash him off, anything at all to change the overpowering dynamic he's essentially forced into your throat. But he was unyielding. The muscles in his slim arms were surprisingly like iron, locking you into place with one palm against your shoulder as you gasped for air. Your knee landed against his hip this time, but it was like striking stone — he didn’t even seem to feel it.

Or maybe he did, and he simply didn't care.

The male lazily peeked down to his side, focus slipping further to now take a glimpse at the forced curve of your waist, your helpless attempts to get him off doing absolutely nothing but give him more to watch.

Patrick’s expression barely changed. The slight curl of his lips remained, and you could feel the madness in his eyes, the twisted satisfaction of having you completely at his mercy. Whatever was going on in that brain of his, you knew you needed to stop, and quick.

“You sure ‘bout that one, girly?” His voice was sweet, overly joyous, like a lullaby before the storm. Hockstetter's tongue slid along his lower lip, the plumpness of his mouth and the way it moved under his wet muscle making your stomach turn over again. 

Sleazily, the hand that'd been forcing your shoulder to remain still had lifted, his index tracing your jawline until his fingers had found the soft strands of hair on your head that had by now been messied due to the dirt. His nails scraped against your scalp, grabbing a fistful of your locks.

"Surely ya' ain't lying to me, heard ya' Mama's a real stickler for rules." The male mentioned off into the void, his head falling briefly to the side as he scratched his fingers harder against your scalp, pulling your neck along with his own head tilt. "She wouldn't raise no cheat."

Holy fuck what the fuck is he talking about what the fuck what the fuck.

The stinging that had erupted from your skin had made you cringe, body stuttering in movement as your arms had unconsciously tried to move again. All you could do was wiggle under him, scratching yourself against both the floor, and his hand that hadn't flinched as you tried to shake your head away from his palm. 

With one last, deliberate movement, he inched his body forward, pressing his full weight down onto you, his knees grinding into your arms. He shakily exhaled when moving closer to your face, blinking as his hand began twitching eagerly against your head.

Patrick was now crouched on you.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t inhale, your chest crushed under the weight of him. He seated directly on your tits, the soft muscles spasming at the pressure as you now couldn't even flail without it hurting.

He didn’t even look like he was trying.

He was just… there, present, in a way that made every part of you want to disappear.

"Quit movin'," Hockstetter huffed, his voice suddenly harsh, a low snarl that sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn't even trying to hurt you. Not yet. He just wanted you to feel him — feel his control.

He snapped your head further to the side, your bone straining as the opposite shoulder to the side your head was now held had awkwardly crinkled up. The male didn't falter, that same weird shake of breath falling from his thick lower lip as he shifted his crotch harder down on your chest again.

You screamed, kicking around harder despite the jolting, almost crackling hurt that had shocked through your chest. Your clear, facially visible frustration at your own inability to help yourself doing nothing but earn a quiet, half-assed hum from him.

With a sharp crook of his neck, Patrick adjusted his position, sliding slightly to put more weight on you. The pressure on your arms became unbearable, as if they were about to go blue, and you could feel the dirt and leaves sticking to your skin, coating you in something grim and filthy.

"Stop!" you screamed, your voice breaking as revulsion surged through every fiber of your being. You squiggled around harder, now begging to free yourself, your movements wild and uncoordinated as adrenaline pumped through your veins.

"Shit — get off of me!" The words came out in a frantic rush, your chest failing to rise as the weight of him bore down on you like a suffocating blanket.

Your legs once again shot up instinctively, trying to push against him, that clearly had no affect, your brain pleading for you to start clawing, nails digging into whatever they could reach — his arms, his shirt, the air.

It didn’t matter; you just needed him off.

Every nerve in your body screamed in revolt, a primal, animalistic urge to escape.

A pain-filled cry ripped from your throat as you tried to move your arms out from under his knees, your shoulder blades aching, burning as Hockstetter silently just continued to lean his body weight down stronger.

Your hands began tingling, blood flow very obviously not reaching where it should as you continued to yell.

You twisted your hips, desperately trying to wriggle free, but his body moved with an unsettling sense of knowing. He was everywhere at once, his free arm now laid lax by his side as he watched you, gazing down at your terrified self with the same amount of emotion you'd see on a fucking robot.

His smile, though present, felt more like an instinct than anything genuine — a twisted reflex, a mask of something human that didn’t fit right on his face. It was stretched, like it wasn’t his face at all, but something borrowed and ill-fitting. The longer he lingered, the more you realised how little you inconvenienced him, even in this situation.

His smile wasn’t meant for you. It was just a default, something that didn’t even make him seem like a person anymore.

You had no idea why this was happening, how it happened so quickly, what were you supposed to do? Was he going to do to you whatever happened to that boy? 

It was suffocating. His eyes weren’t even looking at you anymore, but through you like some part of the scenery. As if you didn’t matter. The sour scent of your own terror making you gag as you bucked again, harder this time, trying to throw him off.

Your throat felt soggy, threatening to throw up all over him and yourself as your body never once stopped it's shaking.

“You’re makin’ this difficult.” Patrick sighed to no one in particular, eyes lidding, posture bored.

What the fuck.

He didn’t need to be talking to you — he wasn’t even acknowledging your existence in the way someone would when they were speaking to a person, especially a person they'd just pinned down. His gaze had shifted, now looking off to the side aimlessly, considering something distant, something that had nothing to do with you.

His attention drifted away, completely unregistered to everything, but still, he never made a move to get off.

Patrick’s eyes lingered in your direction for a moment, but his expression remained unchanged, unfazed. He didn’t even blink. Then, slowly, he straightened himself, leaning back just enough that his ankles pressed into your side.

There was no rush. No urgency. Everything about his movements, everything about his presence screamed 'time is irrelevant'.

His body was too fucking heavy, too familiar in its violation, and you could feel his heat melting into your skin, dragging through the layers of your fear.

"Get—" You choked on the words, your throat dry, panic clawing at your insides. You tried to squirm, to push him off, but it felt like he was made of stone, unyielding, his grip on your hair tightening with every movement you made, even if he wasn't looking at you anymore.

It was like trying to fight against a nightmare that had crawled into the real world. A demon, something mocking that of a human in it's barely thought-of disguise.

"Get the fuck off me, you fucking psycho!" The words tore out of you, a scream wrapped in horror, but even as you said it, the words seemed to hang in the air, useless. 

He had no reaction to your words, his tongue swirling around the innards of his mouth, you able to see it's bump as he quietly began humming to himself. Patrick wasn't listening to a single syllable that was being gargled from you, his left eye closing as he gently forced his own head further off to the side — cracking it lightly.

Your vision blurred, your heart thudding in your ears as you fought against the paralysis creeping up your limbs. You couldn't ease yourself, couldn't think straight, and had been forced to see up close that he wasn't even enjoying this anymore. That he was playing with you like you were nothing more than an animal caught in a trap.

And deep down, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he decided he was done.

But then, just as you instinctively shifted your eyes upward, you caught a glimpse of the flame flickering dangerously close to your head — so close you could almost feel the heat of it licking your skin. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes and mouth wide in panic as you stared at the flame hovering just above you.

Before you had the chance to even blink, his hand fell from your hair. Freeing your scalp, to then in one swift, fluid motion, slammed that very same hand down on your forehead, pressing the back of your braincase hard against the cold, unforgiving ground. His grip was firm, unyielding, like a vice — his fingers splayed out wide, forcing your skull into the dirt.

You hadn't known it in the moment, but you'd gone and made the severe mistake of interesting him.

"Eyes on me." He mindlessly demanded, his voice conversational, like you were supposed to fucking respond or something. He didn’t seem to care if you were scared — if anything, he seemed to savour it, like a child toying with an insect. 

The push of his hand was painful, your head starting to pulsate as a drowsed feeling of a man-intended headache rushed through you.

The back of your noggin throbbed as he ruthlessly held it still, the coldness of the ground beneath you, the discomfort of your position, all of it melted away under his absolute control. He was focused now, eyes wide, but there was a calculation in it that sent a fresh wave of dread flooding through you.

His opened fist kept you pinned in place, bony fingers shaking against your skin like some cocaine-addicted tweaker while the lighter in his other hand drew closer to your cheek, the heat so intense that you could almost feel the air around it begin to scorch.

The flame now hovered over your face, so close you could smell the faint, metallic scent of gas mixed with the burn of the air, a smell that made your stomach churn. You could feel the warmth of it on your skin, the only thing stopping him was his decision — he could burn you, but he chose not to.

"Atta' girl," the male lightly laughed, no real praise in his tone. His thumb slipped over the lighter again, and this time, the flame seemed to flicker even higher, almost as if it was asking you to move, to struggle.

The flame from Patrick’s lighter flickered, teasing in its closeness, before it finally made contact with your skin.

The moment the flame touched you, it was like being stabbed with a red-hot knife. The heat seared through your cheek, blinding and brutal, a burst of pain that felt as if it had taken over every nerve in your body. You couldn’t even move away, couldn’t blink, all that existed was the burn — this raging, raw fire that devoured your skin, making every inch of you feel like it was being consumed. 

It was more than just painful, it was roasting, eating away at you in jagged pulses.

You screamed — an unholy, desperate sound that broke past your lips, raw and desperate. It was a scream that echoed in your ears, your body tensing as if trying to escape the agony, but there was nowhere to go. The smell of your own flesh burning hit you almost immediately — sharp, nauseating, and wrong.

"Fuck off!" Your mind couldn’t keep up with the pain, the shock of it too much to process. All you could feel was the heat, the sickening, unbearable heat, and the fire crawling along your face like it was claiming you, piece by piece

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You writhed beneath him, your hands jerking up to try and push him away, but his weight kept you down, pinning you in place, as though you were no more than a trapped animal. The fire still burned into you, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Around the noises of your own trembling motions, Patrick had exhaled once more above you. He awkwardly bucked his hips closer to your face, lifting off of your tits to hold your arms down harder. His wet mouth-muscle trailed over his lips again, a sound of bewilderment falling from his teenage gob, his jaw open but tensed.

Hockstetter shuddered when seeing your skin go red, his hand on your face lightly slipping down from pressing on your forehead to instead press against your other cheek, his thumb caressing your chin.

The tears started flowing without you even realizing it, the pain so overwhelming that it didn’t matter how much you tried to stop it. Your body shook violently, your hands clawing uselessly at the ground, but they were weak, trembling with fear and pain.

“Get off! Get off me!” The words tumbled out in a frantic, garbled mess, your voice cracking, but Patrick just watched.

The flame remained there, searing into your cheek as you screamed again, the agony twisting your insides. You could feel the skin on your face bubbling and blistering, the heat so intense that you thought for a moment it might kill you. The world blurred as tears streamed down your face, your chest heaving with the violent sobs that racked your body.

Without warning, the flame was moved away from your cheek. The momentary relief of no longer burning making you whine in utmost bliss until the wind around you had hit the very soon-to-be blistered skin. Tears now streaming down your face as your arms felt completely numb. 

Hockstetter was quieter than usual, something you didn't pay attention to at all as you began using all your body weight to try and sway side to side, everything hurt, and everything felt sloppy. You didn't want to be outside anymore, you didn't want to be here.

You couldn't handle this, you didn't want to handle this.

The males hold on your skull had left, his palm shamelessly dragging down your skin to grip your face. His fingers digging into the hollows of your cheeks — simultaneously stabbing into your blistering skin, sending another jolt of agony up your spine. The feeling forcing your body to arch as you cried out again, one of your knees raising to try and whack him in the back.

"Ya' with me?" He playfully shook your head side to side, as if you were a doll in his hands. The movement was nauseating, and disorienting, your sore neck aching with every jerk. Your body spasmed in response, fresh tears spilling down your face, mixing with sweat and whatever slick clear liquid was now exiting your skin.

He giggled softly to himself, a sound so wrong it made your stomach churn. He wasn’t laughing at you — he was laughing at something in his own head, at whatever twisted thoughts were bouncing around in there.

"What's it like?" he asked suddenly, his voice low, almost curious. “Think it hurts as much as ya' think it does?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t even form words through the sobs wracking your chest and the searing pain in your face. Not that he expected you to. The question wasn’t for you — it was for himself, something he was pondering out loud while using you as his test subject.

“Bet it does,” he whispered, leaning in closer now, the smell of cigarettes and something sour wafting off him. His nails scratched against the edge of your blistered cheek, the touch light but cruel, like he was testing how much you could take before you snapped. “Bet it feels real bad.”

Patrick leaned back further, his head lowering as he stared down at you with an inspective eye. His grip on your face didn’t loosen, instead now pulling your skull up off the ground, an uncomfortable position that you knew would hurt more to escape rather than it would to just stay still.

“You keep squirmin’ like that and you’re gonna wear yourself out,” The boy ridiculed, almost giggling once again as he boredly shook your head up and down in understanding. His voice carried no urgency, no malice — it was flat, this was just another boring day for him. 

Your breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, your arms tingling and your mind blatantly useless. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to get up, to fight, to run, but nothing worked. He had you locked down completely, and the realization was almost as dehumanizing as he'd been treating you.

His free hand moved now, the lighter clicking again as he flicked it open and shut in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

Click. Click.

The sound was maddening, each flick making you flinch as your mind raced, imagining what he might do next.

“Ya' goin' all mute on me now girl?” he crooned to himself, trying to agitate some response from you to give him another reason to do worse. “What happened to all that wigglin’ around like a worm on a hook.” His lip curled slightly, revealing a sliver of teeth in what could’ve been a smile but wasn’t.

You hated him.

Summoning every last shred of strength, you twisted your head sharply, freeing your face from his grip, and let out a blood-curdling scream. It was loud, raw, and desperate, the kind of scream that carried for miles.

Patrick’s eyes darted back to you, his expression darkening. “Now, why’d you go and do that?” he muttered, his tone disappointed instead of angry.

The momentary looseness in Patrick’s grip was all the encouragement you needed. You shoved upward with your legs, your body twisting violently as you tried to dislodge him, the dirt beneath you kicking up in clouds. For a split second, you thought you might actually slip free, but Patrick’s reflexes were unnervingly sharp. His hand shot out, gripping your neck like a vise and slamming you back down.

“That wasn’t real smart,” The male scoffed, scolding you. “You’re just makin’ it worse for yourself.”

Your lungs burned as you sucked in sharp, shallow breaths, the weight of him pinning you down once again. His grip wasn’t as hard as it had been moments before, almost like he wasn’t entirely focused on you anymore. Instead, his head tilted, and his brow furrowed slightly, as though he’d just remembered something he’d forgotten.

The sound of a distant voice calling out pierced the tense silence. “Hockstetter!”

Patrick’s head snapped toward the direction of the shout in a way so animalistic it felt wrong to watch, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he didn’t move, his body going unnervingly still as he listened.

“Hockstetter, where the hell are you?!” The voice was unmistakable now: Henry Bowers. The sharpness in his tone carried over the distance, frustration crackling in every letter.

Patrick let out a long, slow sigh, his fingers flexing once against the smoothly wet skin on your neck before his grip slackened completely. His knees shifted off your arms, but not entirely — just enough to let you breathe easier but not enough to let you move.

“Damn,” The boy frowned, his voice quieter now. “Forgot all ‘bout him.” His tone carried an odd, lazy whining, like a boy being told it was time to leave the playground.

You felt a flicker of hope in your chest, but you didn’t dare move. His hand drifted toward his lighter again, flicking it open and shut absentmindedly, something you'd noticed him to do more than a-lot. The click, click of the flame sparked through the air, and for a horrifying second, you thought he might change his mind and press it against your skin again.

Patrick tossed his head back slightly, letting out a soft sigh through his nose, his neck and adams apple exposed. “Guess I gotta go.” His voice was oddly wistful, reluctantly tearing himself away from a project he’d been enjoying.

He shifted slightly, leaning closer to you. His hand moved quickly, moving from your neck to now be covering your mouth with a surprising gentleness that felt more unsettling than any of his earlier violence. His palm was damp, and you almost coughed up everything in your stomach when feeling that rub against your lips.

“Lucky girl,” Hockstetter smiled, his tone almost soothing. “Don’t start screamin’ now. No need for that.”

His thumb brushed against your cheek, just shy of the blistered burn, and his lips quirked into that hollow smile again. “See, I’m lettin’ ya off. Ain’t I nice?”

The thought 'You're a sick fucking lunatic who should be behind bars' never had the chance to leave your mouth.

Patrick’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were committing the scene to memory. Then, with a final sigh, he pushed himself up, his knees dragging off your arms. He stood slowly, dusting his hands off on his jeans as though he’d just finished some menial chore.

He sucked his teeth, making another sound of agitation before without a second thought walk away from you. The silence hung in the air like a warning as he turned, his movements slow and unhurried.

He didn’t glance back as he walked away, his shoulders loose, his stride quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

You lay there for a moment, frozen in place, your body trembling uncontrollably as his figure disappeared into the trees. The sound of Henry yelling grew louder, and then quieter again as Patrick’s footsteps receded into the distance.

The forest’s silence closed in around you, broken only by the distant echo of Henry's voice fading further into the trees. Patrick was gone, but the imprint of his presence remained — a sticky, suffocating imprint that clung to your chest and throat, choking out the air you desperately needed to breathe.

The confusion hit first.

It slammed into you with the force of a speeding car, knocking any coherent thought out of your head.

What had just happened? Why had it happened?

Your body felt disconnected from your mind, like your flesh weren’t your own anymore, trembling and unresponsive as you lay there in the dirt.

Your cheek burned viciously, the pain sharp and relentless, each throb a cruel reminder of how close you’d come to something unthinkable. Your skin felt tight and raw, the heat still radiating from the blistered wound. The sickening smell of burnt flesh lingered in your nostrils, turning your stomach inside out.

And then the pit in your stomach gave way entirely.

The nausea hit like a tidal wave, forcing you to roll onto your side as your body convulsed. Thick, acidic bile surged up your throat, burning worse than the wound on your cheek as you retched violently into the dirt. Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, mixing with the spit and vomit pooling beneath you.

You couldn’t stop.

The sobs wracked your chest, each one heavier than the last, the sound ripping from your throat drowned and haggard.

Your hands clawed at the ground, dirt and leaves sticking to your palms as you tried to push yourself upright. Everything hurt — your arms, your legs, your face. The taste of vomit lingered bitterly in your mouth as you coughed, your body shuddering from the effort.

You needed to get up. You needed to run.

But where? Back to the pharmacy? To your friends? The thought flickered briefly in your mind before being snuffed out by a tidal wave of dread.

No. You couldn’t go back to them like this.

You couldn’t explain what had happened. How could you? How could you put into words the terror, the humiliation, the sheer wrongness of what had just transpired?

You staggered to your feet, your legs weak and unsteady beneath you. Your body screamed in protest with every movement, but you forced yourself forward. You couldn’t stay here. Not in this forest, not with Patrick Hockstetter still somewhere out there.

Home. That was the only place you could think to go.

You started to run — or at least, you tried. Your steps were uneven, your balance precarious as you stumbled over roots and rocks. The trees around you blurred together, their twisted branches reaching out like claws, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

The further you got from the Barrens, the tighter the pit in your stomach grew. The world around you felt surreal, the edges of your vision hazy and distorted, like you were trapped in a space you couldn’t wake from.

Your gasps came in sharp, each one dragging painfully against your sore throat. The tears hadn’t stopped, blurring your vision as you pushed yourself forward. The streets of Derry loomed ahead, their familiarity both a comfort and a sickening reminder of just how far you’d strayed from safety.

Home was just a few blocks away. It wasn’t much, but it was something — a goal, a place to retreat to.

You wiped at your face with trembling hands, smearing dirt and tears across your skin as you forced yourself back to your feet.

Each step felt heavier than the last, but you didn’t pause.

You had to get home.

Chapter Text

Patrick Hockstetter had always known he was special.

The thought lived in him like a fact, unshakable and permanent, the way you might know your own name or the colour of the sky. It wasn’t something he questioned — why would he? From the moment he was old enough to understand the world around him, Patrick had seen it for what it truly was: a hollow, meaningless place filled with hollow, meaningless people.

None of them mattered, not really. Not like he did.

He wasn’t just another face in the crowd, Patrick was above it all. He saw things differently, felt things differently — or, more accurately, he didn’t feel them at all. He’d noticed early on that what other people called “emotions” didn’t quite register for him.

Empathy, love, guilt, these were words without substance, concepts he understood only in the abstract.

Not that it bothered him. Quite the opposite, actually. It made life simpler, clearer. While everyone else was tangled up in their silly feelings, Patrick moved through the world with a kind of freedom they could never hope to understand. He was unburdened, untouchable, and he worked well with it.

Unlike the other kids in Derry, who were content to blend into the background, swallowed up by the monotony of small-town life. Patrick didn’t care about their games, or their friendships. He was different — unique.

He felt it in how he watched the world, detached and unaffected, as if he were an observer of something he wasn’t quite a part of.

Riley leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place, arms crossed, a scowl spreading wider with each second you didn’t answer him. “Come on, what happened? Did you fall? Wait — was it a bike crash? Did you faceplant into something? That’d explain the scratches.”

You glared at him, snatching the towel off the sink, the movement sharp enough to whip the fabric through the air. “Riley.” Your voice was low, teetering on the edge of patience already worn thin.

He tilted his head, one eyebrow quirking as he tapped his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Ooooh, was it dodgeball? I bet it was dodgeball. Bet someone smacked you right in the face." the boy cackled to himself before pushing off of the door.

He looked to the side for a second, peeking down the hallway before inching closer. "Was it Tommy next door? He’s got terrible aim. Always flinging balls at people’s heads like a maniac. Dad told me it's 'cuz he's ginger.”

Your grip tightened on the towel, fingers digging into the plush fabric like it might keep you from snapping. “Riley. Go away. I got sunburnt,” you snarked, not bothering to even look at him as you rubbed the towel over your damp hair with more force than necessary, your scalp prickling from the aggressive motion.

Something you quickly regretted when feeling the sting from Patrick's earlier hold on you. You flinched, cringing bodily before shaking your head, free hand moving to soothe your head

But Riley didn’t budge. Of course he didn’t. He was like a fatass fly buzzing in your ear — persistent.

At least he helped keep your mind off of things for a little.

“Nuh uh, you’re lying,” he said casually, taking a step closer. His eyes narrowed as he peered at your cheek, head tilting the other way like he was analyzing evidence in some CSI crime scene. “That’s not a ‘nothing happened’ face. That’s a ‘something totally bad happened, and I don’t wanna talk about it’ face.”

You clenched your jaw so hard it felt like your teeth could probably crack under the pressure right now. “Riley, I swear —”

“Oh my God, wait,” he interrupted, his eyes lighting up like he’d just solved the mystery of the universe. “Did you pop a zit? Is that what that is? ‘Cause that’s gross. My friend told me girls get zits 'cuz of cooties."

“Shut up idiot, no” you scoffed, your voice cracking slightly, betraying the frustration bubbling up inside you. You spun around, towel still clutched in your hands, and started rubbing it over the side of your face that didn't have the mark, each movement more frantic than the last.

Maybe if you scrubbed hard enough, you could erase his voice from your head.

Riley, predictably, didn’t back down. God he's annoying.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping back a fraction but still grinning like he’d won. “Touchy, touchy. Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Jeez. But seriously, what’s up with your face? You look like someone smacked you with a frying pan.”

Your fingers twitched, itching to throw the towel at his smug face. “It’s none of your business, okay? Just drop it,” you said, each word clipped and sharp, like they might cut him if he kept pushing.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, ignoring your glare as he plopped down on the edge of the tub. His legs swung back and forth like a little kid’s, his sneakers tapping softly against the porcelain. “You know, the more you tell me to drop it the more I wanna know. So, what’s the deal? Did you get in a fight? Did you lose? No. Is this was periods are? Mom said that —"

“I didn’t get in a fight!” you snapped, tossing the towel onto the counter with a frustrated huff. The sound of it landing echoed in the small bathroom. “Why do you even care?”

“Because it’s weird!” he squawked with an annoying shrug, leaning forward with that infuriating curiosity shining in his eyes. “You never come out of the bathroom looking like this. Like what, did someone throw a flaming marshmallow at you? Did you walk into a campfire? Burn your face on a pole?”

Your groan came from deep in your chest, your hands flying to your face, making an effort to avoid your reddened cheek. “Oh my God, Riley, shut up.”

“Nope,” he said, the 'p' popping like a firecracker, his grin widening. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Seriously, what’d you do? Spill boiling water on yourself? Did you —”

“Riley, enough!” you shouted, your voice bouncing off the tiled walls with a sharpness that even made you wince. “You’re so annoying!”

“And you’re bad at lying!” he shot back, though his grin faltered slightly as his gaze flicked back to your cheek. For a brief second, his expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming. “But, like... if something did happen, you can tell me. I won’t tell Mom.”

You paused, slowly forcing yourself to eye him from your peripheral. He did seem worried, underneath that stupid sibling irritation he could always ignite from you, his genuine worry as to why you were acting so differently was enough to make you huff.

His shift in tone caught you off guard momentarily, your breathing slowing as you let out another, much longer exhale. You looked away, pretending to focus on the mess of towels on the counter. “Nothing happened,” you hummed, much softer this time, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Have you eaten yet?"

Riley didn’t push further, but the concern in his eyes lingered as he hopped off the tub and headed for the door. “...No.” he mumbled to himself, his arms crossing like he was trying to come off nonchalant. But then he froze mid-step, turning back toward you with a look of sudden realization. “Wait — I do still need to pee.”

Your eye twitched, and you let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Riley. I swear —”

“What? You’ve been hogging the bathroom forever!” he whined back, his tone defensive as he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, now hopping every syllable as both of his hands moved to hold his crotch, the brat not once standing still. “It’s not my fault you’re taking your time! I'm so gonna piss on the ground — please!"

“I just got out of the shower!” you snapped, gesturing toward your now way less damp hair and the towel still draped over your shoulders.

“Exactly!? So, you’re done, right?” He leaned and kept jumping, trying to push passed you to get to the toilet, his smug grin returning as he tapped his foot. “I'll pee on you! Move!"

You threw a towel at his face, ducking when he tried to grab one of your arms as you kicked his ankle. “Why didn’t you go before I got in here?!”

“I didn’t have to go then!” he argued, his voice taking on that whiny edge that only little brothers could pull off as he tumbled backwards, squeling before gripping onto a random hanger. “Now, I’m dying, okay! Like literally dying!”

“Shut up!” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “You’re not dying! You’re just stupid!”

“I am dying!” Riley shot back, clutching his stomach like he’d been mortally wounded. His voice pitched up, dripping with over-the-top drama as he doubled down. “I’m literally gonna explode!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment as you tried to hold on to what little patience you had left. “Fine. Whatever. Just give me two seconds to finish drying my hair, okay?”

Riley let out a loud, over-the-top groan, throwing his head back with enough force to make it look like he might actually collapse on the spot. “Two seconds?! That’s like forever in pee time!”

You clenched your teeth, gripping the damp towel in your hands. “Well, maybe if you stopped talking, it’d already be done!” you shot back, the words sharp enough to cut.

Riley puffed out his cheeks and stomped one foot. “This is messed up!” he declared, his tone as righteous as it was ridiculous.

“And this is me not caring,” you muttered, stepping closer to shove him lightly toward the door. He stumbled a step, just enough to be dramatic about it but not enough to actually move.

“Oh my god you’re so mean,” he whined, dragging out the words like it physically pained him to say them. “I’m telling Mom you’re a bathroom hog.”

“Go ahead,” you said dryly, turning back to the mirror. “I’ll tell her you were being a pest first.”

Riley huffed but finally stepped out of the bathroom, muttering under his breath as he left. “Meanest. Sister. Ever. I’m gonna pee in a bucket and leave it in your room.”

“Try it and see what happens!” you called after him, shaking your head as the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall. You sighed, gripping the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection. The humour of the argument faded quickly, the weight of everything that had happened settling back into your chest like a stone.

For a moment, you almost wished he’d stayed, as annoying as he was. His relentless teasing distracted you, if only for a little while.

You glared at your reflection in the mirror, the dull, no longer angry red of blistered cheek staring back at you. It was brighter now, skin less agitated but still clearly not normal at all. The burn was now easy to ignore, essentially gone. Yet the skin remained stretched tight and raw, inflamed from the scorching touch of a lighter.

Every time your eyes flicked to the patch of damaged skin, it was manageable, and that was the worst part. How precise it all seemed, what were the odds of perfectly timing when and when not to remove fire from someone's skin? How could anyone be so inhumane but logical in their insanity? 

You scoffed to yourself, almost forgetting just who you were thinking about.

Patrick was insane, but he wasn't some genius. It was luck, the kind of luck a male like him in a town like this had always been given.

Tomorrow. You’d sneak off to the pharmacy, slip in without anyone noticing. You’d grab some ointment or cream, anything that would help, and pray it wouldn’t make your skin worse. Maybe you could even find something that wouldn’t leave too much of a trace. You’d cover it up. A bit of your Mom's makeup, some powder.

It was gross how far you'd need to go just to keep the peace that you yourself had no option to feel, but if it meant knowing you were in control of this situation then it'd been worth it. If you got to call the shots for this, then it was okay. You could work with that. It wasn’t impossible to hide, but the thought of constantly covering it up made something inside you twist uncomfortably once more.

How many more lies would you have to tell?

You shook your head, now wasn't the time to feel bad, you couldn’t let anyone find out, especially not Mom. You would have to keep up the act, just like you always did. The thought of telling her the truth, of telling anyone the truth, made your throat close up. She’d panic, she’d get angry, and she’d demand you talk to someone about it, someone who’d do something. 

So, you’d play it off like nothing. It was just a minor accident, a stupid mistake. A sunburn. Maybe you could even tell her you were feeling sick, or that you were stressed out and needed space. It wasn’t the first time you’d made up some half-baked excuse to avoid her when things were too much to handle.

You could avoid your Father, too. He was the last person who needed to know. Sure, he’d be annoying, but at least he didn’t push it as hard as Mom would. You could probably spend the rest of the day in your room, pretending to be busy, drowning in whatever excuse you could come up with.

A part of you almost wished Riley hadn’t left so quickly. As dumb as he was, his constant talking had kept your mind off things, distracted you. But now, the silence was deafening. Alone with your thoughts, you could feel the weight of the world pressing down on you again. You grabbed the comb from the counter and ran it through your damp hair, letting the motion ease you for a moment.

It was something, at least.

You could make it through this, you told yourself. Tomorrow, you’d go to the pharmacy, get the ointment, and keep this thing from getting worse. You’d avoid your Mom, avoid anyone who might notice. But as you moved toward the door, trying to push the thoughts away, you felt that tightening in your chest again. What if tomorrow wasn’t enough? What if there were no quick fixes? What if you couldn’t run away from this?

You paused at the door, your hand on the knob, and took a deep breath. No. Not tonight. You’d survive it. One more night, and then you’d figure it out. Tomorrow, it wouldn’t feel so raw. Tomorrow, it wouldn’t feel so heavy.

But for now, all you could do was keep pretending. And you were getting pretty damn good at that.

God you really should've just been a fucking loner this summer.

Chapter Text

Avoiding your parents hadn't been nearly as difficult as you assumed it should've been. As usual, your Mother had come home fairly late — and your Father returned even later. Either because of their own tiredness, or any other reason, you managed to get away with not eating dinner last night. Feigning sickness which as always they had left you to yourself.

The early morning light barely peeked through the cracks in your curtains as you stirred properly awake, your heart already racing like it had been running before you even opened your eyes. The shrill beep of your alarm clock had done its job, rousing you from the thin, restless sleep you’d managed to catch.

You set it strategically — just after your parents left for work — knowing it was the safest window to move without questions. The house was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the fridge.

You sat up, blinking away the haze of unconsciousness, every sound amplified in the silence. The rustle of your blanket as you tossed it aside felt like a shout in the whisper morning brang. Your legs swung over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing against the cold floor, the jolt making you shiver slightly.

Time was ticking. You couldn’t afford to hesitate. All hell would break loose if your brother happened to get up early for once in his life.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you moved quickly, your hands shaking slightly as you shoved your feet into a pair of sneakers. The long-sleeved red top and faded navy blue jean shorts you’d thrown over the back of your chair last night were still there, waiting like an unspoken reminder of the plan you’d pieced together before bed.

You pulled them on in a flurry of motion, the fabric rough against your skin but familiar, and luckily pretty comfortable. The long sleeves were an intentional choice, a shield to hide any stray marks or bruises you didn’t want anyone noticing.

A quick glance in the mirror confirmed you looked passable — tired, sure, but nothing that screamed 'I’m a victim of violence.'

Still, your eyes betrayed a deeper unease, darting unwillingly to the angry mark on your cheek. It was a nasty thing, red and swollen, with faint edges that seemed less raw than yesterday but still far from healed. The skin looked taut and irritated, like it was clinging desperately to the idea of healing but unsure how to begin.

You leaned closer, the harsh morning light catching on the uneven texture. There was a slight improvement, maybe — a little less redness at the edges — but the centre still looked tender, almost blistered in spots. Each shallow breath you took seemed to pull your face tighter, as though the burn was its own entity, clinging stubbornly to your skin and making its presence known with every small movement.

Your fingers itched to touch it, to test the tender surface for yourself, but you knew better.

Agitating it further was the last thing you needed. Instead, you pressed your lips into a thin line and tucked a crisp ten-dollar bill in your jean short pocket, trying to distract yourself from the angry reminder of yesterday. The burn was healing, sure, but healing slowly, and it was painfully obvious that without proper care, it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

Fighting back the very angry groan that had been sitting stubbornly behind your teeth, you lightly ran your fingers through your hair, combing it out as best as you could with your hands. There wasn’t time to fuss over it the way you had yesterday, no time for perfect parts or smoothing every flyaway strand into submission.

But thankfully, the shower had done most of the heavy lifting, leaving it clean and mostly tangle-free.

Your fingers moved quickly, working through a few stubborn knots near the ends, pulling them loose with a soft wince here and there. The texture wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t a disaster either — just a little messy, a little untamed, like you’d put in minimal effort and still come out looking halfway decent.

You gave it a final shake, letting it fall naturally to sculpt your face.

Good enough.

There wasn’t time to fuss over the little things anyway. You glanced in the mirror one last time, tilting your head slightly to assess your reflection. Not terrible. Kind of, you didn't look gross or messy. The slight frizz from letting it air-dry gave your hair a casual, effortless look, though you knew the dishevelled edge was more a result of rushing than any intentional styling.

It would have to do.

Your eyes flicked downward, catching sight of the burn on your cheek again. For a moment, your stomach tightened, the faint sting of it suddenly louder than before. You pushed the thought away quickly, turning back toward your bedroom door where the knob, and the backpack hanging from it had been waiting. No time to spiral over something you were already on your way to fix.

'Just get to the pharmacy,'

You told yourself firmly, hoping your unwillingness to succumb to your own overthinking would somehow bring it to fruition, like your own pettiness and refusal to be seen as pathetic could be the reality in this scenario.

'It’s not that bad. You can fix this. You have to fix this.'

The door to your room opened with a soft click, and you slipped into the hallway, your steps light and deliberate. The floor ticked slightly under your weight, and you froze mid-step, heart leaping into your throat. But no voices called out, no footsteps followed.

The house felt heavier in its emptiness, the kind of empty that made every sound feel too loud. You padded into the kitchen, where the faint smell of coffee lingered — a leftover ghost of your parents’ rushed morning routine. You grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, the cold condensation wetting your palm, and tucked it into your bag. A granola bar caught your eye, and after a moment of hesitation, you grabbed it too, shoving it into the side pocket.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the microwave: 7:18 a.m. You were ahead of schedule. For a fleeting moment, you thought about sitting down, maybe eating something proper before you left. But the idea of lingering in the quiet, of giving yourself time to second-guess your plan, made your skin crawl.

You couldn’t, you needed this funky ass burn off of you, as quickly as possible.

With one last glance around the room, you headed for the front door. Your fingers fumbled slightly with the lock, the soft click as it turned feeling louder than it should’ve. You opened the door just enough to slip through, pulling it closed behind you with deliberate care. A final twist of the key in the lock sealed your escape, and you let out a slow breath as you stepped onto the porch.

The morning air was crisp, biting slightly against your skin as you adjusted the strap of your bag.

The neighbourhood was still half-asleep, the streets mostly empty save for the occasional bird flitting from tree to tree. The soft hum of an engine in the distance was the only other sound, and even that faded quickly. You tugged your sleeves down over your hands, shielding them from the chill as you started down the sidewalk. Derry always started off cold in the mornings, and you'd rather get home before the heat hit — especially now that you're wearing a long-sleeved fucking shirt.

Getting to that Pharmacy was your destination, a beacon of practicality in the sea of unease that churned in your stomach. You kept your head down, eyes on the cracked pavement as your sneakers scuffed against it with each hurried step. The plan was simple: get the cream, and get out.

Avoid eye contact. Avoid questions. And, most importantly, avoid being seen by anyone who might report back to your parents.

With every step, the knot in your chest tightened and loosened in equal measure, like a coiled spring winding and unwinding with each movement. Your focus flickered between the burn on your cheek, the dull sting of it ever-present, and the image in your mind of the small bottle of relief waiting for you on the pharmacy’s shelf.

It felt so close and yet impossibly far, the promise of cool, soothing relief just out of reach.

The now-awoken buzz of early morning settled over the neighbourhood as you walked down your street, the muted rustle of leaves in the breeze blending with the faint chirps of birds waking in the trees. The asphalt beneath your sneakers was still slightly damp from last night’s dew, the faint sheen catching what little sunlight filtered through the patchwork of clouds above.

You glanced at the sky — a pale grey-blue, the kind that suggested the sun might make an appearance later if it worked up the courage.

Derry was waking up around you in small, subtle ways. The older lady who lived at the bottom of your hill had her curtains already open, the woman’s silhouette visible as she moved about her kitchen. The faint clink of her teacup against the counter carried through the window you had walked past.

A car rumbled to life a few houses down, Mr. Bennet’s beat-up sedan coughing and groaning as it pulled out of his driveway. The faint smell of exhaust mingled with the crisp morning air, a reminder of the town’s peculiar charm — a blend of simplicity and decay.

As you rounded the corner onto Main Street, the world opened up, trading the comforting familiarity of your street for the sprawling view of Derry’s downtown. The streets here were a mix of old and new, the cobblestones near the courthouse uneven and worn, while the sidewalks bore fresh cracks from a winter’s worth of frost and thaw. The air carried a small metallic tang from the factory on the outskirts of town, blending with the smell of warm bread wafting from the bakery two blocks over.

You ensured to remain keeping your head down as you walked, avoiding eye contact with the few early risers who shared the street. A jogger passed you, his breath fogging in the cool air, earbuds tucked securely into his ears. He didn’t glance your way, but you still found yourself tensing, your hand tightening slightly on the strap of your bag.

The pharmacy wasn’t far now, just past the diner with its faded neon sign that buzzed faintly even in daylight. You could hear the faint clatter of plates and muffled chatter through the glass, the morning rush already beginning. You quickened your pace slightly, the thought of lingering too long making your skin crawl.

A delivery truck rumbled past, its tires splashing through a shallow puddle near the curb.

The sound made you flinch slightly, your gaze snapping toward the source before you realised there was no real threat. Still, the remainder of your heightened nerves lingered, the knot in your chest tightening just a fraction more.

The street clock machine loomed ahead, its weathered face frozen perpetually at 10:13 — broken for as long as you could remember. Its shadow stretched long across the street, the edges blurring as the clouds shifted above it. They installed this mid-person-sized clock here a bit before you were born, no one really cared for it, so it wasn't shocking it was in such a bad state.

You glanced at it briefly, a familiar landmark that now felt oddly ominous. Maybe it was just the morning light, or perhaps it was the weight of your thoughts colouring everything a shade darker than it needed to be.

The pharmacy was close now, just a few blocks away.

You adjusted your bag, your fingers brushing against the zipper absentmindedly as you walked. Each step felt heavier, not from physical exertion but from the mental load you were carrying. The plan of walking inside, of facing even a brief interaction with the clerk, made your stomach twist uncomfortably. But the fact of not going, of enduring the burn on your cheek for another day, was worse.

As you neared the pharmacy, the building stood out like a reliable friend — small, unassuming, with its whitewashed exterior slightly faded from years of sun and weather.

The large glass window out front displayed neatly arranged posters advertising flu shots, discounted vitamins, and a cheerful reminder to “Ask About Our Rewards Program!” Above the door, the red and white sign spelled out “DERRY DRUGS” in blocky, no-nonsense letters, a faint buzz coming from the fluorescent lights inside.

You hesitated for half a second at the door, glancing around to make sure no one familiar was lingering nearby. The street was quiet save for the occasional car passing in the distance, and you let out a breath before pushing the door open. The small bell overhead jingled softly, announcing your arrival.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and lavender-scented cleaning products. It was cool, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the silence.

The layout was exactly as you remembered: narrow aisles with shelves stacked high with every over-the-counter medicine, bandage, and vitamin imaginable.

Toward the back, a counter lined with a glass display case held prescription pick-ups and a small cash register. Behind it, an older man in a pale green polo shirt glanced up briefly from his paperwork. His nametag read Norbert Keene, and his tired, weathered face looked like it hadn’t been surprised by anything in decades.

You avoided his gaze, your attention snapping instead to the aisle labels hanging overhead.

Skimming quickly, you spotted the one you needed: “First Aid & Skincare.” It was tucked toward the back, near the far wall. Your sneakers squeaked faintly against the unfinished carpeted floor as you headed toward it, trying to keep your movements casual even though your heart was thudding against your ribs.

When you turned into the First Aid aisle, your eyes scanned the shelves quickly, skipping over gauze pads and antiseptic sprays before finally spotting the section dedicated to burn relief.

The small bottles and tubes lined the shelf in neat rows, their brightly coloured labels promising soothing gels, cooling creams, and instant comfort. Your gaze settled on a light blue tube — its packaging boasting “For Minor Burns: Instant Cooling Relief!” with a little icon of a smiling plant.

Eugh.

You reached for it, your fingers brushing against the smooth plastic, and for a moment, a flicker of relief settled in your chest.

'This will help,' you told yourself. 'This will make it better.'

“Eddie,” you interrupted, your voice edged with frustration, “it wasn’t Henry Bowers or any of his idiot friends, alright? Just calm down.”

The lie sat heavy on your tongue, sour and uncomfortable. Lying to a friend sucked, especially one as paranoid as Eddie, but what choice did you have?

Eddie, however, wasn’t buying it — or calming down for that matter, despite your fairly easy-to-understand demand. If anything, he seemed to unravel more with every passing second.

His hands flew to his hair, tugging at the strands as he swayed back and forth in short, frantic bursts. “This is bad — this is really bad,” he muttered, his words tumbling out faster and louder. “Do you even know what those psychos are capable of? Have you told your parents?"

“Eddie!” your tone rose a mere octave, words slamming through his spiral like a whip. “It wasn’t them.” A lie. “No one attacked me.” Another lie. Your throat tightened, the weight of his panicked gaze pressing on you like a physical thing.

“It was just…” You paused, scrambling for something, anything, to get him off your case. Your heart raced as the silence stretched uncomfortably between you. Then, finally, you blurted out, “I got really sunburnt, okay? My mom already chewed me out for it. End of story.”

Eddie stopped mid-pace, his face scrunched up in confusion. “Sunburnt?” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. His eyes flicked to the burn on your cheek, narrowing as if he were trying to match your words to the mark.

“Yeah, sunburnt,” you pressed, clutching onto the lie like a lifeline. “I wasn’t thinking, stayed outside too long, and now I look like this. Mom already made me feel like an idiot for it, so can we like, not make it a whole thing?”

Eddie’s disbelieving expression lingered, his wide eyes darting from your face to the small brown paper bag clutched against your chest. His brows furrowed, doubt etched deeply into every line of his face. “That’s a sunburn?” he muttered again, almost to himself. His tone was flat but edged with something sharper — confusion, maybe even frustration at the truth of he'd never really know. “That.. doesn’t really look like sunburn.”

Because it wasn’t, but you weren't going to admit that.

Your grip on the bag tightened, the crumple breaking the heavy silence between you. You fought to keep your expression steady, schooling your features into a mask of indifference, but the heat of his gaze made it feel impossible. Every second he spent staring at you, trying to piece together the truth, felt like a spotlight shining directly on every lie you’d just told.

“It is,” you rebutted firmly, crossing your arms. “I’ll even show you the cream I just bought.” you followed up by shaking the little brown bag in your hand for emphasis. “See? End of discussion.” You hoped this bluff worked, you really didn't plan to actually show him.

For a moment, Eddie just stood there, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, his eyes glued to you like he was waiting for you to slip up. You could tell he still didn’t believe you — not entirely — but it seemed like he wasn’t prepared to keep interrogating you when it didn’t directly involve him. His shoulders slumped, and he exhaled sharply, his frustration spilling out like a deflating balloon.

“Fine,” he grumbled, his tone sour and dripping with reluctant resignation. “Whatever. If you weren’t beat up, then where’s my bag?”

Balls. You’d almost had him off the topic about the stupid bag in the whirlwind of panic over your own situation. Forcing your expression into one of sheepish regret, you gave him a small shrug, trying not to look as guilty as you felt.

“I, uh… I couldn’t find it,” you said quickly, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I looked, I swear, but it must’ve been moved or something. Maybe an animal dragged it off?”

Eddie’s face twisted into a mixture of doubt and anger, exhaling loudly like he was about to fall to the floor in horror. “An animal? An animal? You think a raccoon just dragged my inhaler into its little den for a midnight asthma attack? Seriously?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Eddie didn’t let you get a word in, his voice rising as he ranted. “Do you know how expensive that stuff is? And I had, like, snacks in there! Good ones too, not the crappy granola bars my Mom buys. Plus, my Mom is gonna freak out when she realizes I lost it.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your mind scrambling for a way to steer the conversation in another direction — any direction that wasn’t about his bag or the very real possibility that an animal did actually in fact steal it by now. “What about Ben?” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you’d fully thought them through.

Eddie blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What about Ben?” he asked cautiously, his arms still crossed as he eyed you, very much not letting go of the fact you didn't retrieve his bag.

“Did things... go okay with him?” you continued on, your tone softening, hesitant. The words hung in the air, like you were testing the waters, unsure of how much Eddie would open up. “After, uh, you know, when we all found him in the Barrens and you guys took him to the pharmacy?”

Eddie’s face seemed to momentarily soften, the hard lines of frustration around his mouth easing just a little, replaced with something quieter — something that seemed almost, reluctantly, like concern. His eyes flitted away from you for a brief second, as if trying to push the memory back into some hidden part of his mind, but the thoughts of that day seemed to pull at him anyway.

“I mean, yeah, I guess,” Eddie muttered, his voice thick with a mix of reluctance and the lingering tension he couldn’t quite shake. “He’s fine now. At least, as fine as you can be after Henry fucking Bowers carves his name into your stomach.”

The words hit you like a slap in the face, and for a moment, your jaw truly would’ve fallen to the floor if it wasn't physically attached to you. The genuine disgust that rattled you at what Eddie was casually describing made your head spin, the images in your mind too vivid to shake off. Bowers.

Henry Bowers.

The guy who could probably kill you with a glare, and yet here he was, carving up someone who was barely even a few months younger than you. A kid.

You tried to hold it together, but your breath caught in your throat, heart thumping faster, eyes darting away from Eddie’s for a second, not sure if you could stomach hearing more, and for a brief moment, the burn on your cheek seemed like nothing in comparison. You were a little glad you didn’t have a full stomach at that moment, because just thinking about the brutality of that made your insides churn in disgust.

"Wait, wait, wait — he carved his name into Ben?" you asked before you could stop yourself, your words much more scrambled than you intended. A thousand questions began flooding your brain. Why? How? What the hell was Ben going through in that moment?

Eddie looked at you like you were the crazy one now. “Yeah, well, only the first letter." He corrected himself, "Carved it into his stomach like it was a fucking trophy," he shuddered, his words harsh, but there was a glimmer of something dark in his eyes.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples as though the mere thought of it gave him a headache. "You don’t even want to know what kind of mess it was. I — I don’t even know how he was still standing when we found him. The dude was bleeding everywhere. Looked dead.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from icking yourself out at the image. Ben wasn’t exactly small, but even with his size, the sight of him covered in blood like that, looking like he had just fought off a rabid animal, sent a chill down your spine. It wasn’t just the physical pain, though — the mental thought of being brutalised by someone like Henry Bowers, someone who seemed untouchable and insane, was its own kind of fear.

Guess Patrick and Henry were just two peas in a fucking pod.

Creeps.

"Jesus, fuck man..." you cursed under your breath, half in disbelief, half in disgust. "How did you... How did you get him to the pharmacy? You’re telling me that you handled all of that? Did anyone else see?"

Eddie gave a short, bitter laugh, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “No way. Beverly was the one who helped us get the stuff we needed. She like, kept him from totally freaking out.” He shook his head, his voice lowering with an odd mix of admiration and exasperation. “She didn't even blink at that kind of shit. It was kind of cool.”

You let the silence settle between you, still processing the gruesome image of Ben’s injury and Eddie’s revelation about Beverly. The way he said it, it wasn’t like he was implying something special about her. It was more like she was just good at dealing with trauma. You could tell he wasn’t used to her level-headedness — it was almost too strange to him.

“I would've thrown up everywhere,” you admitted slowly, your mind still caught on the grossness of the whole situation. "I don't think I could've handled it."

Eddie just shrugged, his fingers drumming a nervous pattern against his arm. "We didn’t really have a choice though." His eyes flicked downwards, looking away for a brief second, and you nodded, not really sure how to respond. And even though Eddie was still clearly rattled by the whole thing, he seemed to find some sort of catharsis in talking about it.

The boys' words had a strange calming effect. It was like, for a moment, he wasn’t the same guy who had been frantic about your burn. He was back to his old, focused self. And you couldn’t help but feel relieved that he was starting to pull himself back together.

You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow when the prior information finally sunk in. “Wait, Beverly? Like Beverly Marsh?”

Eddie’s eyes widened slightly, and he let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah,” he said, nodding quickly, very obviously picking up why you asked that. “She was there when we got to the pharmacy and she stuck around to make sure he was okay. Kept him from flipping out, actually.” He shrugged again, as if it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for her, but the subtle warmth in his tone said otherwise.

Beverly, apparently, was a force to be reckoned with.

But as you are human, your mind couldn't stop itself from drifting to the rumours about Beverly Marsh, the ones that had followed her around for as long as you could remember. It was strange how some people were just known for certain things, even when they didn’t deserve it.

In your head, you replayed the words you'd grown used to hearing every school day — how people called her the 'town slut' both behind her back and to her face, how they gossiped about her every move.

They all seemed to have this twisted idea of her, just because she was confident, strong-willed, and didn’t fit into the neat little boxes that people liked to put girls in. You couldn’t help but wonder what it must have been like to live under that kind of scrutiny, knowing people were whispering about you but never knowing exactly what they were saying.

Then there was the talk about her family, how her father was a drunk who had a tendency to take his anger out on her. That only fueled the gossip, twisting the image of her even further in people’s minds. They didn’t see Beverly for the smart girl she was. Instead, they saw someone to be pitied, someone whose family life must have been a mess, so she must’ve been too, right? You knew nothing about her Mother, but you'd also never question anyone about it.

“Anyway,” he continued, rolling his eyes, “Richie’s being a pain in the ass, as usual.” He huffed, clearly re-living something. “He was threatening to stone your window yesterday if you didn’t come with us to the quarry later today. Can you believe that?” Eddie’s voice had an incredulous edge to it.

You paused in surprise, more at the fact Richie Trashmouth Tozier wanted you to hang around them than the actual threat of vandalising your home. "Richie?" you asked, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your face. “He really said that?”

“Yeah.” He reiterated, inhaling the very same way he always did before ranting off. “He was like, ‘I’ll throw rocks at her window till she comes’” Pill-popper cringed, letting it fester for a solid second. “As if that’s gonna work. Like you’d even let him get away with it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head at that fucktards usual antics. "That sounds like something he’d do," was the best you could come up with, but still, good to know he didn't dislike you. "What’s the deal with the quarry, though?"

Eddie shifted on his feet, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. "Well, we were planning to go swimming there later today," he said, his gaze darting away from you briefly. "You know, to... blow off some steam I guess. Everyone's going, I think Bill invited Beverly too. And Richie won’t shut up about how you have to come. I don't think Stan cares."

If you admitted you never went to the quarry before, you could bet Eddie would make it a big deal.

“Richie’s got this idea that if you show up, you'll somehow become best friends,” Eddie continued, his voice quieter now, almost like he was trying to stop himself from throwing up. “I don’t know. But it’d be good if you came, you know? It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

Okay, ouch, putting a pin in that.

You could tell he wasn’t just talking about the quarry; this was about everyone, about making sure you were okay after everything that had happened. The boys wanted things to return to normal, wanted to get some relief from everything that was pressing them down. The whole situation, from Ben to the looming threats from Henry and his gang, felt like it was dangling over all of them, and as a new addition to it, things weren't confusing when it came to them wanting to properly include you.

Maybe, the quarry was their way of trying to take back some sense of control. 

The quarry was one of those spots in Derry — hidden away, tucked just outside the town limits — that felt like it belonged only to them. No adults, no rules, no prying eyes. You’d seen the way other kids have talked about it before, as if the quarry gave them the power to defy the world and its expectations, even if only for a fleeting moment.

“You're really selling this to me, sounds like you got a lot of pressure from Tozier,” you snorted, trying to lighten the air you were breathing in. It was hard to believe the way Richie seemed to just force everyone into these things, as if his personality alone could push people into actions they didn’t always want to do.

Eddie let out a huff, but it was laced with a resigned growl. You hadn't had the time to question their friendship before — but really, those two acted like they downright hated one another. Yet as Eddie was delivering his next response, you couldn't stop yourself from noticing the way his hands stopped fidgeting. "Yeah, well, it’s Richard,” he spat, shaking his head.

Luckily, you didn’t mind the idea of joining them at the quarry, not really. Maybe it would offer you a moment of peace from everything else you were dealing with. Besides, it wasn't like you had any plans to get home before this cream did a bit of its magic on your cheek, so a small swim day didn't sound too bad.

"I’ll see," you repeated, trying to sound breezy, as though the whole conversation hadn’t been one giant tug-of-war. "I do remember my Mom telling me to get some games for my brother this week." You tacked on a sigh at the end, hoping to sell the excuse just enough to put some distance between you and Eddie’s incessant questions. Maybe it’d buy you a little time. Or, if you were lucky, it might let you dodge you having to actually swim if you did go.

You weren’t lying, either. Your mom had asked you to pick up something cheap, a small game or toy for your brother to keep him entertained. It wasn’t urgent, but it was the perfect lifeline to throw into the conversation.

Eddie’s reaction was immediate. His shoulders, which had been drawn up as tightly as the strings of his inhaler case, dropped noticeably. He let out a breath, his whole body language softening in relief. “Sure, whatever,” the boy levelled, his voice more relaxed now, though his words still carried the edge of his usual sarcasm. “Just don’t let Richie hear you say that. If he even thinks you’re coming because of him, he’ll declare it a personal victory, and I swear to god, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at the image that brought to mind. Richie, arms thrown wide in exaggerated triumph, probably shouting something obnoxious about you being his 'favourite quarry recruit' or whatever nonsense he’d come up with on the fly.

“Yeah, that sounds like Richie,” you succumbed, voice lighter, though there was still a heat wafting down on the back of your mind. “What’s his deal with the quarry anyway? Why’s he so obsessed with me going?”

Eddie let out a long, beyond over-the-top sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other again. “Because it’s Richie,” he snapped, as if that explained everything — and in a way, it did. “He’s been hyping up the idea of all of us jumping off the big rock together or something. Like it’s some kind of rite of passage. You know how he is. If he thinks there’s even a chance he can do something fucking stupid he’ll make it into a big deal.”

“Rite of passage?” you echoed, your complete non-interest in that dumbass idea a bit too clear. The thought of flinging yourself off a giant rock into the murky quarry water didn’t exactly scream 'fun', but you could already hear Trashmouth's voice in your head, egging everyone on with exaggerated dares and bad jokes.

Eddie scoffed, the sound sharp and exasperated. “Yeah, his words, not mine. Honestly, he’s just bored and looking for a way to make everyone miserable in the name of ‘group bonding.’” His fingers absentmindedly slid against the straps of his fanny pack as he spoke, tracing small, repetitive patterns.

The motion was almost soothing to watch, though it did nothing to mask the nervous energy radiating off him in waves. Kaspbrak was always a live wire — restless, fidgety, like he was holding back the weight of a thousand potential disasters that only he could prevent.

You bit your inner cheek, chewing over your options. It wasn’t like this was the end of the world or something. There were a million excuses you could come up with to get out of swimming today, and you weren’t above using any of them. “I’ll come by if I finish here quickly,” you nodded, though the words felt hollow even as you said them.

Convincing yourself was one thing; convincing Richie, who’d probably show up at your exact location with a megaphone if you bailed, was another entirely.

Eddie raised a not-so-convinced eyebrow, but for once, he didn’t argue. Maybe he could hear the faint lack of conviction in your voice, or maybe he was just too preoccupied with his own morning errands to push the issue further. Still, you felt his gaze linger, as though he were waiting for you to crack.

You shifted your weight, suddenly uncomfortable under his weird understanding of you. “Why are you even here?” you asked, hoping to redirect his attention. “It’s early as shit.”

It really was, you'd never bothered to be up this early before.

Eddie straightened at the question, almost like the thought of his current errand physically stiffened his spine. A slight shudder ran through him, and you swore his skin paled for just a second. “My mom said I needed refills,” he somewhat whispered, his voice quiet and tinged with that familiar resignation he always seemed to have when talking about her.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken things wedged between the lines.

You didn’t need him to elaborate. You’d heard enough over the years about the iron grip Sonia Kaspbrak had on her son, always hovering, always ready with a lecture or a list of potential catastrophes he needed to avoid. The woman practically breathed worst-case scenarios, and Eddie bore the brunt of it every day.

“What, she couldn’t wait an hour?” you asked, raising an eyebrow and folding your arms across your chest. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of your lips, but it was laced with sympathy.

Eddie shook his head, his fanny pack straps creaking slightly under his grip. “She woke me up at six because she ‘had a feeling’ my inhaler was low,” he explained, his voice dripping with the kind of irritation only a teenage boy dealing with his overbearing mother could muster. “And God forbid I let it run out. That’d basically be an invitation for every airborne disease known to man to kill me in my sleep.”

You snorted, the mental image of Sonia standing over Eddie’s bed, armed with a clipboard and a grim expression, flashing through your mind. “She’s thorough, I’ll give her that,” you gave in, biting back a laugh.

“Thorough?” Eddie scoffed, his voice rising slightly. “She’s a drill sergeant who thinks germs are out to assassinate me. You know she’s started putting gloves on the phone at home? The phone!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, a sharp, sudden sound that cut through the tension in the air. Eddie’s face twitched, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement, but his clearly too-bothered mind was too strong to let him laugh along with you.

“Anyway,” he continued, clearly eager to change the subject, “I’m here now, so if you’re done questioning my tragic morning, you should probably get moving before Richie shows up with, like, a slingshot or something.”

What.

You bristled. “A slingshot?”

Eddie nodded, deadpan. “Yeah. Last time I didn’t show up when he said, he lobbed a handful of rocks at me until I followed him. So unless you want to walk out to the sound of rocks and that idiot screaming your name, I’d suggest not keeping him waiting too long.”

The image made your stomach twist — not in fear, but in the begrudging acknowledgment that yes, that was absolutely something Richie would do. “Noted,” you grit, shaking your head.

Eddie gave a small, smug nod, clearly satisfied. “Good. Now go get your games or whatever. I’ll tell Richie you’re ‘thinking about it,’ but no promises he won’t show up anyway.” He spun on his heel for the pharmacy entrance, already muttering something about his mom and 'industrial-grade hand sanitiser,' leaving you standing there with the faintest smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

As Eddie walked off toward the pharmacy entrance, his fanny pack bouncing lightly with every step, you found yourself rooted to the spot, the morning sun casting long shadows across the pavement. His parting words replayed in your head, mingling with the thought of Richie showing up uninvited and ready to wreak havoc if you didn’t make an appearance at the quarry.

It wasn’t exactly the most pressing problem in your life, but it was enough to make you cringe and tug at the straps of your bag as you considered your next move.

The truth was, you didn’t really want to go swimming with the rest of the Losers today. Standing there, vulnerable and exposed, while the others splashed and laughed, felt like walking into a trap you couldn’t escape from. Not to mention, the faint sting on your cheek reminded you of what had happened the day before — of how close you’d come to something much worse.

Eddie might have been good at distracting you, but his presence couldn’t erase the images still burned into your brain: Patrick Hockstetter’s disgusting face, Henry Bowers’ unhinged screaming echoing through the trees, the way your hands had trembled as you’d clawed your way out of the unconsented grasps and touches you'd unwillingly endured.

You tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter — that as long as you avoided the woods and stayed in crowded places, you’d be fine. But deep down, you knew better. The Bowers gang didn’t play by the rules, and running into them again wasn’t a matter of if but when. 

The questions buzzed in your head like a swarm of angry bees, each one more suffocating than the last. You couldn’t stop the images that accompanied them: Patrick’s enraptured expression as he loomed over you, the weight of his knees pinning you down like you were nothing, the eerie, detached look in his eyes that told you he saw you as less than human.

Did Patrick tell them what he did to you?

You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your palms, the dull ache grounding you, if only slightly. Patrick probably had told them. He probably strutted back to that little gang with that same grotesque smirk on his face, recounting every awful detail as though it were some sort of victory.

You could almost hear Henry Bowers’ manic laughter, loud and grating, egging Patrick on as Belch and Victor stood off to the side, chuckling like the brainless goons they were.

The thought made your stomach double over, flipping itself internally. Did he talk about you now, like you were a trophy he’d stolen? Did he plan to find you again, just to see how much further he could push you? Your own self-induced worry sent a shiver down your arms.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath. The world around you was so painfully normal — people going about their day, cars rolling by, the mumble of conversation in the distance. It felt like you were standing on the edge of two different realities: one where everything was fine, and another where the shadows in the trees held monsters in the shape of teenage boys.

This was pathetic.

Your feet carried you forward on autopilot, but your mind was still trapped in the forest, replaying everything in vivid detail. You hated how powerless you’d felt, how your voice had caught in your throat when you’d tried to yell, how your limbs had felt like useless lumps of rubber when you’d tried to fight back.

You hated how Patrick’s words had slithered into your ears, oozing with malice, and how you’d been unable to block them out.

But most of all, you hated the fear — the way it clung to you like a second skin, making your heart race at the slightest sound, the way it made you hesitate now, glancing over your shoulder every few steps like you were being hunted. Because, in a way, you were.

You didn’t want to think about it anymore, but the questions wouldn’t stop. Did Patrick laugh about it later? Did he share every reaction he had, twisting the story to make himself sound more powerful, more in control? Did Henry clap him on the back, telling him what a good job he’d done?

Or worse — did he see this as unfinished business, something he could revisit whenever he felt like it? You bit the inside of your cheek so hard that you tasted blood, the sharp tang pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts.

You shook your head, trying to dislodge the images like they were cobwebs you could brush away. They weren’t real anymore, you told yourself. Not right now. Right now, you were here, on a busy street in broad daylight, with people around you and no sign of Patrick or anyone else who could hurt you.

The streets of Derry seemed quieter than usual, the early morning lull giving everything a stillness that felt both comforting and unnerving. You glanced at the shops lining the main road, some still dark with their "Closed" signs facing outward, while others showed signs of life — shopkeepers flipping signs, sweeping sidewalks, and preparing for another ordinary day.

Ordinary.

That word felt so icky now.

Dear god, you'd fuck Hockstetter in the ass with a damn shotgun if you could.

As you reached the edge of downtown, you sighed, rubbing your temple as you mentally rehearsed how you’d approach today. You’d stop by the video store first — get your brother’s game and cross that errand off your list.

Plus, the interaction at the store would give you a few minutes to pull yourself together, to figure out how you were going to face the others without letting your nerves show.

Quickening your pace, you focused on the sidewalk ahead. The uneven pavement was speckled with faint chalk drawings, remnants of children’s games from the day before. A hopscotch grid, the outline of a lopsided cat. You stepped over them carefully, as if disturbing them would break the fragile illusion of calm that this town's day starters always seemed to hold.

The video store came into view just as you looked back up. You hesitated for a moment outside the door, glancing through the glass to see if anyone was already inside. The counter was empty, but you could hear faint music playing from somewhere in the back. Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door, the little bell above it jingling.

Does every store here have those bells?

The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of plastic and washed carpet, the shelves lined with brightly coloured VHS covers promising adventures, romance, and cheap thrills. You took a moment to let the atmosphere settle over you, your fingers brushing against the spines of the tapes as you made your way to the small gaming section in the corner.

It was a nice sort of nostalgia, even if you weren’t really here for yourself.

You could already feel the questions forming in your head, rehearsing what you’d say to whoever was working the counter. 'Hi, I’m looking for something cheap and fun for my brother.' No, that sounded dumb. 'Do you have anything for a younger kid who likes—' Ugh, that was even worse. You raised your head, trying to clear the fog of self-consciousness.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed a case from the shelf, hoping it would pass as a decent choice for your brother.

You glanced at the cover: some pixelated characters leaping across a blocky landscape, a sword raised high as they battled a cartoonish dragon. It looked fun enough, but was it the right pick? You doubted your brother would give you a free pass if you came home with something he’d already played — or worse, something he classified as boring.

Your eyes drifted to the rest of the gaming section, the shelves cluttered with mismatched rows of game cases. Some were old and dusty, their corners frayed from being rented out too many times. Others gleamed as if they’d just arrived, their covers boasting bold fonts and colourful graphics. The variety was overwhelming: action, puzzles, sports, platformers. You found yourself scanning each one carefully, your fingers trailing along the spines as if the perfect choice might jump out at you.

You stared at the game in your hand like it had personally wronged you.

Pixel Knights: Dragon Quest. The cover showed some blocky dude waving a sword at a cartoon dragon, all very heroic and epic. For a moment, you wondered if this was the kind of thing your brother would like — then immediately decided he’d probably whine about it not being cool enough.

Because anything you picked would never live up to the standards of that prepubescent mess.

Your eyes landed on Super Space Warriors 3, featuring a bunch of futuristic soldiers blasting laser beams at a massive alien. It screamed "little boy game" energy, which seemed like the sort of thing he’d enjoy. But then you remembered him ranting about Super Space Warriors 2 last year. Something about the controls being worse than your cooking — rude — so you dropped it back with a huff.

A couple of puzzle games sat at the bottom of the shelf. The covers were obnoxiously cheerful, all sunshine and primary colours, promising “family-friendly fun!”, but you knew your brother would turn his nose up at the idea of something so tame. He wanted adventure, action, and maybe a little chaos.

Squatting down, you inspected the lower shelves, running your fingers over the cases as you skimmed the titles where the forgotten games lived. Jungle Jumps, Battle Blasters 2, Shadow Quest. All perfectly decent, but you knew your brother’s taste skewed toward “loud and flashy,” like the virtual equivalent of a sugar rush.

What he lacked in emotional intelligence, he more than made up for in his need to play games where things exploded every five seconds.

Then you spotted it: Turbo Kart Racers.

A dumb little racing game with cartoon cars zooming through absurd tracks. Your brother had spoken about it a few times, saying something about wanting to crush everyone’s time trials. Typical. You picked it up and stared at the cover, trying to picture his face when you handed it over. Would that asshat appreciate it? Or would he complain about the graphics being “childish” like he was some sort of gaming connoisseur?

Knowing him, probably both.

You straightened up and grabbed Legend of the Sky Riders, another contender. It was an adventure game too, the kind that could keep even his ADHD-riddled attention span locked in for hours. Plus, it looked expensive, which would definitely score you some brownie points. You held both games up, squinting at them like they were contestants in some bizarre pageant.

Wow, how on earth were you a loner for such a long time. You're essentially the funniest person you know.

... Anyway.

“Alright, contestants, let’s see who wins,” you hummed under your breath, holding the two game cases up as if they were finalists in some kind of ridiculous beauty pageant. You glanced between them, tilting your head slightly as if better lighting might reveal which one was the superior choice.

'Turbo Kart Racers' stared back at you with its bright, chaotic cover — wildly animated cars zooming through loops of fire and racing on what appeared to be a giant roller coaster in the sky. It practically screamed unhinged, which was right up your brother’s alley. You could already picture him hunched over the controller, screaming at the screen when you overtook him at the last second.

Then there was 'Legend of the Sky Riders.' The cover was sleek, almost cinematic, with an armoured hero standing at the edge of a cliff, sword raised to the heavens as a massive dragon soared overhead. It oozed some dungeon and dragons vibe, promising hours of gameplay filled with whatever magical quests, heroic battles, and probably some tragic NPC death it had that would emotionally destroy him.

Expensive? Without a doubt.

Good enough for him? Maybe.

And most importantly, it looked like the kind of game that could suck him in long enough for you to actually enjoy some peace and quiet for once. Lord knows both you and your parents needed a fair bit of that from Riley.

Your mental pro-and-con list was growing by the second. One was flashy, immediate gratification with a side of bragging he'd no doubt turn to. The other was polished, long-lasting escapism with the promise of temporary peace. Choices, choices. You tapped one case against the other lightly, as if they might reveal which one was the better pick.

“Man...” the words huffed out of your lips, raising an eyebrow at the absurdity of the situation. “Honestly, why do I even care? It’s not like he deserves an Oscar-worthy game selection after last week’s tantrum over losing a Monopoly game.”

The air of the store and faint cheesy pop song playing in the background provided the perfect soundtrack for your internal dilemma. “I can’t believe I’m overthinking this,” you groaned at the botched gamework art, honestly, you should've just let this burn scar over rather than make excuses to help yourself.

Or better yet, you should've just gone straight to your Mother and Father, sobbed about everything Hockstetter did then skip a few towns. Realistically it'd never happen regardless, but still, your excitement to graduate the high school your parents hooked you off to has never been higher than now.

Finally, with a solidified nod of approval, you made your decision to just get both. If he hated it, tough luck. This was more effort than he deserved anyway.

With no other reason to be here, you tiredly trotted off to the counter. Straight after this, you'd need to actually put on that cream. The burn on your cheek hadn't stung too much anymore, but the skin was already drying up — something that could easily lead to it ripping just because of a simple smile. And you'd much rather not have your flesh rip open just because you need to keep it fucking moisturised as it heals.

The guy at said counter was a whole vibe, and not a good one.

He looked to be the living embodiment of boredom, a moody teenage caricature ripped straight out of a bad sitcom. He was slouched in his chair, spine curved like a shrimp, with his chin propped up on one hand and the other lazily flipping the pages of a dog-eared comic book sprawled out in front of him. His shaggy, unkempt hair half-covered his face, but not enough to hide the glazed-over, couldn’t-care-less look in his eyes.

The fluorescent lights above cast a faint glare on the glossy comic, but he didn’t seem to care — just another distraction from the fact that he was at work. As you approached, he didn’t even glance up. No, he was way too engrossed in whatever comic book he had splayed out on the counter.

You stared at him for a moment, reading the name 'Matt' on his pin, silently willing him to notice you, but he didn’t even twitch. His entire demeanour screamed 'please don’t talk to me,' and you could practically feel the apathy radiating off him in waves. It was almost impressive, in a deeply infuriating way.

Dragging your feet toward the counter, you plopped the game down with a deliberate thunk, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet store. Still, nothing. He just kept reading, his eyes glued to the pages like they contained the secrets of the universe.

Fucking comic nerds.

You crossed your arms and tilted your head, studying him like a particularly unhelpful exhibit at a museum. What even is his problem? Did he think this job is beneath him or something? The guy literally gets paid to stand here and look mildly alive.

“Uh, hi?” you greeted, your tone already a little sharper than you intended. “I’d like to buy this.”

Still nothing. No reaction. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. He turned another page in his comic, his eyes boredly scanning the panels like he wasn’t actively employed to reply to you. Dear god, this is why your town gets zero visitors.

Your jaw clenched as you fought the very real urge to hop the counter, snatch the comic, and slap him across the face with it. “Hey.” you called out again, louder this time. “Discount Archie Andrews, you’re supposed to help people when they come up to the counter.”

That got his attention, but barely, of course the comic character reference gets his attention.

He let out the longest, most theatrical sigh you’d ever heard, lifting his head just enough to glance at you through his bangs. His expression was the perfect mix of boredom and angst, as if you’d just asked him to sprint a marathon instead of doing the literal bare minimum.

Asshole? Hello? What the fuck?

“What?” he peered at you, or better yet described as snapped flatly, his voice already making it abundantly clear that he’d rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.

You stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and the very real desire to leap over the counter and throttle him. This kid is a walking PSA for safe sex.

“I’d like to buy these,” you replied slowly, having to once again repeat yourself to someone, pointing at the game in case his brain needed a visual aid to catch up. Which it probably did. “How much is it for two games."

He rolled his eyes — actually rolled his eyes — and grabbed the game with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for cleaning up roadkill. He scanned it, the beep of the register sounding like a funeral bell for his last shred of effort. “You got a membership?” he grimaced, not looking up as his fingers tapped at the register keys with the enthusiasm of a baby on sedatives.

“No,” you replied, deadpan. You've literally never walked in here before until now. 

He snorted, making the faintest 'ugh' sound, lips tugging downwards at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. “Seven bucks,” he ordered, already going right back to his comic before the words were even out of his mouth.

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. A beat passed, then two, and when it got to three you felt your shoulders hang downwards. This guy couldn’t have been more uninterested if he’d actually been asleep.

Who hired this human black hole?

Holy shit, you weren't even depressed at getting manhandled anymore. Fuck this guy, this guy sucks.

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to make a scene, you placed a crumpled bill on the counter with the coins you'd gotten from the pharmacy. The noise was loud enough to make him glance up, just barely, his disinterested gaze meeting yours for all of two seconds, attention moving to the burn on your face before dropping back to his comic.

He grabbed the cash, stuffed it into the register, and slid the game across the counter without a word.

"Thanks man, you're just so great at customer service, your job." Fuck you 'Matt', you're horrible at this job, your words of encouragement were a sham. You suck. 

The guy didn’t even flinch, his eyes still glued to the glossy pages of his comic. “Yeah, I know right,” he grinned absently, already looking down the paper like the entire exchange had been some sort of mild inconvenience in his day.

Your jaw tightened, and you could feel your fingers twitch around the strap of your bag. Some people just beg to get hit, don’t they? The absolute audacity of his indifference was almost impressive if it wasn't so wildly annoying.

As you stalked toward the bathroom, you mentally added 'Matt' to your list of mortal enemies. He was officially worse than Richie. Almost. But at least he wasn’t stopping you from fixing your face before it started flaking off in chunks. Small victories. Glorious.

The door labelled 'Employees Only' wasn't far off from the counter, its paint chipped and the sign slightly crooked like no one had cared to fix it in years. Yuck. You glanced back over your shoulder, half expecting Matt to be watching you with that same dead-eyed expression, but he was completely absorbed in his comic, slouched in his chair like a teenager on the brink of a coma.

Not worth the energy, you thought, even as you made a mental note to tell everyone you knew to avoid this place like the plague.

The door creaked loudly as you pushed it open, revealing a cramped hallway dimly lit by a flickering bulb. The walls were stained a faint orange, and the smallest hint of bleach and something vaguely metallic clung to the air. You wrinkled your nose, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind you.

The bathroom was supposedly the second door on the left, but with the peeling, mismatched doors ahead, you half-expected to stumble into some sort of storage closet filled with expired snack cakes.

Sure enough, the first door you opened was not the bathroom but a utility closet crammed with old mop buckets, rolls of paper towels, and a suspiciously large jar of pickles sitting on the top shelf. Why is that even — nope, you don't care.

This next one over was the jackpot — or at least as close to one as you were going to get.

The bathroom was small, with a single sink and a mirror that looked like it had been cleaned with a dirty rag. The overhead light buzzed, casting everything in an unflattering yellow tint. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced. The burn on your cheek was further along than you'd realized, the once-red edges now looking an almost jagged white where the skin had started to dry out.

Amazing, great to know everyone you walked by had seen this on your face. Super awesome to now have this knowledge.

Setting your bag down on the sink, you kept your lips pursed, head lightly falling off to the side as you used your tongue to push out your cheek. Fishing the cream out of your bag, you twisted the cap off and squeezed a small dollop onto your fingers. The cool sensation was a relief as you dabbed it carefully over the burn, flinching slightly when you hit a tender spot.

You studied your reflection as you worked, your mind wandering. The ugly lighting made everything worse, emphasizing every little imperfection on your face. You sighed, running a hand through your hair and wondering if the Losers besides Eddie would even notice.

Probably not. Richie would be too busy running his mouth, and Bill would be too busy helping everyone avoid lashing out at Richie for running his mouth.

You splashed a bit of cold water on the cheek that had no cream for good measure, then wiped it off with a paper towel that disintegrated almost immediately. Perfect.

Adjusting your bag over your shoulder again, you made your way back toward the hallway, glancing around cautiously like you were waiting for a masked killer to jump out at you as you opened the door back to the shop. Instead, you were greeted by the sight of Matt leaning against the counter, still engrossed in his comic. He didn’t even look up as you stepped out of the restricted area.

“Didn’t break anything,” you called dryly, your tone carrying a bite of irritation.

“Cool,” The teen yawned, grabbing a whole new comic mid-arm-stretch.

You rolled your eyes so aggressively you actually felt a migraine coming over you. Mortal enemy confirmed, you thought as you shoved open the door and stepped back into the sunlight. The day felt a little better now that you were free of that place, but now you were either meant to go home and drop these off to go to the quarry, or just stay home entirely.

The door swung shut behind you with a sharp clang, and for a moment, you just stood there, letting the brightness wash over you. The warm glow of the day was for now enough to soothe the irritation still bubbling in your chest. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to breathe.

The games and cream in your bag still remained in their own personal ones, something you decided to just keep as you shoved them away from public eye, the small bit of extra heaviness dragging on your shoulder like a reminder of how pointless this errand had been.

Your brother better love it — or at least stop whining for two seconds. You started walking, your sneakers smacking against the pavement in a slow, aimless rhythm.

Your stomach growled, breaking the silence, and you winced. Right. Food.

You hadn’t eaten much that morning, too distracted by the burn on your cheek and the whole ordeal with Eddie, and the worlds never-ending ability to drag you into chaos. The bakery’s scent still hung faintly rom here, sweet and yeasty, and your brain immediately conjured up images of soft pastries and glazed donuts.

You could almost taste the sugar melting on your tongue, but the idea of standing in another line, waiting to deal with someone who might be another Matt in disguise, made your feet hesitate. It'd be better to just get a cheap snack to chow down on for now, there was no chance you' take this bag with you to the Quarry, so eating something quick whilst on your way to drop this all off sounded pretty good.

Instead, your wandering led you toward the arcade. The recently switched-on neon lights and the distant sound of 8-bit soundtracks spilled out onto the sidewalk despite the day's sun, drawing your attention. You paused, your gaze catching on the glowing sign flickering in the window. Inside, you could see flashes of screens illuminating the faces of kids hunched over the machines, their hands flying over buttons.

God this place was always packed, even during the day.

For good reason though, if there was one thing about Derry you didn't completely turn up your nose at; it'd be the arcade. That place was always loaded up and ready, constantly staying in the times with all the news games prepared for the kids to spend hours playing. It was the bare minimum for an arcade, but still probably cashed ine nough from the kids alone to stay open long after they get bored of it.

The temptation was real — just step in, drop a few quarters that you knew were still at the bottom of your bag from a few weeks ago, and lose yourself in the mindless joy of shooting pixelated randoms.

You lingered there for a moment, imagining the feeling of crushing your high score and maybe even showing up that one kid who thought he was unbeatable at Space Invaders. Whatever that fucking losers name was, god you'd hurt him if you found him. 

But as you, once more, weighed the pros and cons of giving in to distraction — really this was getting repetitive — something else caught your eye.

Parked just down the street, angled haphazardly against the curb, was a car you recognized all too well.

Belch Huggins’ car.

The sight of it made your stomach plummet like stone, and all thoughts of pastries and arcade games evaporated in an instant. Its somewhat rusted exterior near the wheels, dented fender, and cracked rearview mirror were all seared into your memory, tied to a thousand unwelcome moments. It wasn’t just a car — it was a warning sign, a physical embodiment of everything you wanted to avoid from here on.

Belch was Patrick’s friend — and both of them were Henry's right-hand lackies — and if his car was here, that meant trouble wasn’t far behind.

Your mouth went dry as you scanned the area, your heart pounding harder with every passing second. The car was empty, but that didn’t bring much comfort. Belch, Patrick, Victor and Henry Bowers weren’t exactly known for staying in one place. If they were here, they were probably nearby, lurking in some alley or shop, waiting for someone unlucky enough to cross their path.

Get a grip,

You internally slapped yourself, forcing your legs to move. You turned your back on the car and started walking briskly down the sidewalk, your eyes darting to every doorway and alley you moved passed. The arcade’s glowing sign disappeared behind you, and the noise of the street felt louder now, like every sound was magnified.

You didn’t have a plan — just a singular goal: get as far away from here as possible before you saw any of their faces. Maybe home wasn’t such a bad idea after all. And while you're on this train of thought, maybe the quarry was a bad idea entirely. Why on earth were those freaks out here anyway?

Everyone in Derry knew the Bowers Gang had their unofficial headquarters at the junkyard.

It was their domain, their personal kingdom of rust and deadbeat futures, where they could do whatever they wanted without anyone daring to interfere. The junkyard was far enough from town to keep their antics out of sight, but the occasional rumour or whispered story about what went on there always made its way back to the streets. People avoided it, which suited the gang just fine.

So, seeing Belch’s car parked here, so far from their usual stomping grounds, wasn’t just surprising — it was unsettling. It meant they were either in the arcade, shoving some poor kid off their favourite machine, or loitering at one of the food joints, making life hell for some unlucky waitress.

You forced yourself to focus, letting logic take the wheel instead of your racing thoughts. The truth was, this wasn’t the end of the world. You weren’t going to accidentally run into them unless you were incredibly unlucky or careless. And even if you did, the odds of Patrick pulling the same stunt as last time — grabbing you, cornering you — were slim to none. Derry’s streets were bustling with life, filled with kids your age and younger, all making the most of their summer break.

As much as he needed to get padlocked, he wasn't the kind of person to act out with such a large crowd there to watch.

You weren’t scared. Not really. It was just… unnerving. Seeing that car had been like a punch to the gut, a reminder of something you’d rather forget. But you told yourself it was fine, because it was. You were fine. There were too many people around for anything bad to happen, and as long as you kept moving and stayed aware of your surroundings, you’d be golden.

A group of teenagers was gathered outside the ice cream shop, sharing a massive sundae that looked like it could feed a small army. And simultaneously a little boy toddled past you, holding a balloon in one hand and an oversized pretzel in the other, his face sticky with mustard. The liveliness helped to ease you, to make you forget about the car, about Patrick, about all of it.

But your eyes kept darting back, scanning the street for any sign of them. You half-expected to see Patrick leaning against a lamp post, that smug grin plastered across his face, or better yet, hidden underneath someone's fucking car. Every corner felt like a potential ambush, even though you knew how irrational that was.

He wouldn’t start anything here, not in the middle of a crowded street. That soon to be — and possibly current — felon thrived on fear, on isolation.

You turned the corner, your shoulders relaxing slightly as the car disappeared from your peripheral. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Still, your eyes lingered on every reflection in the shop windows you passed, just in case.

Better safe than sorry.

Up ahead, you spotted the familiar corner store. It wasn’t much to look at — a small, squat building with sun-faded signs advertising soda and candy taped haphazardly to the windows. The open entrance was completely door-less, and a faded "Welcome" mat, with the "W" barely cung to life, sitting crookedly in the entrance.

A tiny buzzing sound came from the overhead sign, the “O” in “OPEN” flickering like it couldn’t quite commit to the job. 

As you stepped inside, the environment changed instantly. A blast of lukewarm air from multiple fans greeted you. They were hung up on the walls and ceiling, all oscillating lazily, doing their best to combat the heat but failing miserably. The air smelled like a strange mix of floor cleaner, bubblegum, and stale popcorn.

The linoleum floor was scuffed and uneven in places, and the shelves were crammed with everything from off-brand chips to cans of soup with labels that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the '80s.

A small, sticker-covered counter was tucked in the corner, manned by an older guy in a baseball cap who'd been ticking over some paper in his hand. He barely glanced up from his crossword puzzle as the stand-up machine by the door came to life when sensing your movement. A tiny, but thick TV perched precariously on a shelf behind him played a local news broadcast on mute, the anchors’ exaggerated hand gestures doing all the talking. 

You wandered toward the snack aisle, the whoosh of the fans and the faint whir of a cooler in the back filling the silence. Your eyes scanned the walls, landing on a row of ice cream bars sitting in a half-defrosted freezer. Perfect. Something cold sounded like heaven right now.

You grabbed one, the plastic wrapper already starting to sweat in the heat. 

As you made your way to the man, you noticed a kid, probably no older than ten, standing a few feet away. He was clutching a toy plane in one hand and a crumpled dollar bill in the other, his eyes wide as he debated between a candy bar and a pack of gum.

You envied his ability to be completely absorbed in such a simple decision, his biggest concern clearly not involving run-ins with deranged bullies who deserved death row. 

The older male behind the counter glanced up from his crossword puzzle. His baseball cap was worn and tilted slightly to one side, and his face was creased with years of smiles and sun exposure. He gave you a quick once-over, his gaze lingering briefly on the ice cream bar in your hand before he broke into a friendly grin.

“Hot one out there today, huh?” he joked, his voice raspy but warm. He leaned forward on the counter, setting down his pencil. “You look like you’ve been walkin' a while. That ice cream’s a good call.”

“Yeah, it’s brutal,” you sighed, brushing a strand of sweaty hair off your forehead. “Feels like I’m walking through a sauna. This is basically survival at this point.” You held up the ice cream for emphasis.

He chuckled, his belly shaking with the kind of laugh that made you feel like you were in on some inside joke. “Ain’t that the truth. When it gets this hot, you gotta treat yourself just to keep from turnin’ into a puddle. Where you headed sweetheart? You look like you’ve been trekkin’ halfway ‘cross town.”

You hesitated for a moment, not entirely sure how much to share. “Just... doing chores for my Mom,” you replied vaguely, gesturing toward the ice cream again. “And I figured a snack might help.”

The man nodded like he understood completely.

"Kids like you needa' be careful. Sun this strong’ll knock you flat if you’re not paying attention.” the sides of his mouth grew as he reached under the counter, pulling out a frosty bottle of water from some hidden cooler. “You can’t be lettin’ yourself keel over now, hear? Take one darlin'." 

You flinched in surprise, staring at the frosty bottle of water as though it might vanish if you hesitated too long. “Really? Are you sure?”

“'Course,” he replied, his voice warm with the kind of easy confidence that felt genuine. He slid the bottle across the counter with a casual flick of his wrist, like this was an everyday act of kindness for him. “Can’t have you roastin’ out there. Ain’t good for business if people start droppin’ outside my store. Scares off the regulars.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders easing a little. “Thank you. That’s — yeah...” You trailed off, twisting the bottle in your hand, the condensation slick against your fingers as you placed the cool bottle against the back of your neck.

The man tipped his cap, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that softened the stern lines of his face. “Don’t you stay out too long now, I reckon this heat’s tryin’ to set some kind of record this summer. Best stay hydrated unless you wanna wind up like those shriveled-up worms you see on the sidewalk after it rains.”

The visual caught you off guard, and you snorted, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a long, cold sip. The water was practically ice, and it sent a chill straight down your throat. “My mom’s always harping on me, like, ‘Don’t forget your sunscreen, stay in the shade,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, yeah, I got it,’ but then i'm basically dying in the middle of Main Street.”

He chuckled, this turning into a deep, gravelly cough that made it clear he’d heard it all before. “Well, sounds like your Mothers' got a good head on 'er shoulders. You’d do well to listen. Grown women tend to know what they’re talkin’ about, even if you young folk think otherwise.” He leaned forward slightly, pointing a weathered, calloused finger at you. “And don’t let me catch you out here without a hat next time. You’re lookin’ to melt your brain? I’ll have you workin’ off your heatstroke debt, sweepin’ this floor all summer.”

You snapped into a quick look of defense, back relaxing as you gave-in, the corners of your lips tugging into a grin despite the oppressive heat. “Yes, sir. Full hat and SPF 50 next time, I promise.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, settling back into his chair with a satisfied nod, like he’d just set the world right. The way he picked up his crossword again felt almost ceremonious, like his job was done and he could get back to his puzzles now that you weren’t about to keel over from dehydration.

The slightly humid feeling of the shop gripped to your skin as you turned to leave, the bottle of water now cradled in your hand like a lifeline. Outside, the sun was still beating down, relentless and bright, but the icy water saved you from flopping over in agony.

Okay, drop this off — go to the quarry, easy enough.

Fuck your life it's hot, you're ripping this stupid long-sleeved top off of you the minute you enter your home doors.

Chapter Text

Before heading out, despite the hesitation that had still thrummed throughout your being, you’d decided to make a quick stop at home to drop off the bag with your brother’s new games before heading to the Quarry.

You didn’t want to lug his things all the way there if you planned to swim, especially knowing Richie might try to 'borrow' them in the most obnoxious way possible. To no surprise for you, the house had been quiet, the stillness almost unsettling after the chatter of downtown Derry.

Your brother was probably still asleep, that or glued to the TV in the living room, oblivious to the scorching sun and the world outside.

The burn cream, though, that stayed in your pocket.

You had essentially just figured it’d be a good idea to keep it on you, just in case the sting on your cheek flared up again. You doubted that it would, because honestly even if the burn did initially hurt, it wasn't that bad a wound. It was gross to have on you of course, but at the very most you were now in better control of yourself to understand it'd be fine.

You let out a loud exhale, taking a small moment or two to just remain still, to once again comprehend everything that had happened to you in such a short period of time. Being this relaxed after such visceral terror was weird to experience, the fear still clung to you like mold on a rotting wall — but it wasn't suffocating now.

You hadn't liked the aftermath sense of thankfulness for peace that it gave you, being well enough to understand that you shouldn't be grateful to the universe for not having someone beat you down into the pavement or something, yet the emotion refused to leave you.

But, you pushed the thoughts away.

Now, as you pedalled closer to the Quarry, the sound of distant voices grew evermore distant. The warmth of the sun pressed heavily against your back, but the breeze kept things tolerable. The road leading to the quarry was lined with trees on either side, their shadows dancing across the ground as the wind rustled through their leaves.

Your bike had seen better days, but it was still yours, and that meant something.

The frame, once a bright red, had faded under years of sun exposure, now leaning more toward a dull, rusty maroon. Scratches and little dents covered the metal, battle scars from years of riding too fast over potholes, wiping out on gravel, and the occasional — and accidental — collision with a mailbox or two.

Your handlebars were wrapped in worn black tape, peeling slightly at the edges where your fingers gripped the most. The left handle had a slight bend from when you’d dumped the bike too hard onto the pavement last summer, and the right brake was stiff, requiring an extra-hard squeeze to actually work.  

It's tires were mismatched — one newer than the other, after an unfortunate run-in with a piece of broken glass had left you stranded halfway home from school. The replacement had cost you all the money you’d been saving for a new cassette tape, but at least it got you moving again, and he chain rattled slightly whenever you hit a bump, a telltale sign that it probably needed some oil, but you’d been putting it off.

It still rode fine, and in the grand scheme of things, there were bigger problems to deal with than a squeaky chain.  

A faded sticker of some long-forgotten cartoon character clung to the frame near the seat, its edges peeling up like it was barely holding on, much like the bike itself. The seat, cracked from years of wear, was covered in black duct tape in a desperate attempt to keep it from splitting further.

It wasn’t the prettiest ride in the world, but it got you where you needed to go, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.  

A few stray birds pecked at the ground near the roadside, scattering as you passed, their wings flapping noisily against the silence of the midmorning lull.

The occasional rusted-out truck rolled lazily by, its driver barely sparing a glance in your direction. Derry was always quiet around this time — too late for the morning rush, too early for the lunchtime crowd.

It gave the whole town a kind of calm waiting, like it was holding its breath.  

Here and there, you spotted patches of wildflowers pushing through the cracked earth, little bursts of colour in an otherwise muted landscape. Dandelions clustered along the edges of the road, their bright yellow heads swaying in the breeze, while the occasional sprig of purple clover peeked out between tufts of dry grass.

The pavement beneath your tires was rough, scarred with deep cracks and faded yellow lines that had long since lost their purpose. 

The wind wasn’t exactly cool, but it wasn’t the blistering furnace it had been an hour or two ago either. It was a small mercy, one you were happy to take as you pedalled down the cracked asphalt of Derry’s streets. The town looked smaller now, a little slower, with most people ducking into the shade or hiding indoors.

The many that were out — an elderly man sitting outside the hardware store, a mother dragging her kid by the wrist into the pharmacy — barely spared you a glance.

You’d swapped out your earlier shirt for an old, baggy white one, its loose fabric billowing slightly in the breeze as you rode. It was a relief not to feel your clothes clinging to you like a second skin anymore. Your shorts, however, were another story. The denim was stiff and still a little too warm from the sun, and you could already feel the faint, unpleasant prickling of sweat collecting behind your knees.

You shifted in the seat, adjusting your posture in a way that hopefully wouldn’t result in your thighs chafing against the cracked vinyl.

The quarry was still a little ways off, but the closer you got, the more the landscape started to change. The neatly spaced buildings of downtown gave way to overgrown lots and scattered houses, some of them looking like they hadn’t seen a coat of fresh paint since before you were born.

The trees thickened, arching over the road in places to form a canopy of shifting green and gold. The hum of cicadas filled the air, loud and constant, drowning out everything else except for the distant sound of rushing water.  

It was familiar, all of it — the ride, the scenery, the way the summer heat baked into your skin. It was the kind of stuff that made up the background of every summer in Derry, something so ingrained in you that you barely thought about it anymore.  

Your bike rattled over the uneven pavement, your bike's pretty worn-out tires humming faintly as you pushed harder on the pedals. With each passing minute, the sun climbed higher into the sky, but the movement made the pushing bearable. The air, though warm, was steady, and it kissed your face and arms as if trying to soothe the sweat that had already started forming again.  

You let out a long, breathy sigh of relief, half for the sake of dramatics and half because it felt good to acknowledge that the time spent on this wasn’t nearly as miserable as you’d expected it to be. The bag you'd brought with you earlier, now much lighter as it only held a few packets of snacks, slung over your shoulder and bumped against your back with each turn, but you didn’t mind.

The thought of seeing everyone at the quarry — Stan, Eddie, Bill, and whoever else showed up — was enough to keep your mood lifted. 

As you turned onto the long, slightly dusty road that led toward the quarry, the smell felt heavier with the scent of grass and warm earth. The usual smells of Derry — a mix of boiling concrete, food, and whatever else seemed to linger in the streets — faded behind you. Out here, it was quieter, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze or the chirp of birds hidden somewhere in the trees.  

You reached up to push a few strands of hair out of your face, the sweat making them stick annoyingly to your forehead.

Glancing at the sky, you noted how the sunlight shimmered against the faint outlines of distant clouds. It wasn’t quite the oppressive noon heat yet, but you could feel it creeping closer. The clock in your head told you it was probably around 10:50 AM now — plenty of time to get to the quarry and settle in before anyone started making bets on who could do the dumbest dive.  

Snickering to yourself at the thought, you stood up on the pedals, letting the momentum of the downhill stretch carry you forward.

The bike wobbled slightly as you picked up speed, but you didn’t give a shit. The warm wind whipped past your ears, drowning out the hum of cicadas and the occasional far-off squawk of a wild bird. For a moment, it was easy to pretend you were flying.  

The quarry wasn’t far now — you could see the faint rise of the rocky cliffs peeking through the trees. As much as the idea of cooling off in the water sounded amazing, you were looking forward to the company just as much. Sure, Richie would probably be an idiot about something, and Eddie would definitely complain about germs, but it beat wandering around Derry aimlessly.  

As you neared the clearing, your legs slowed their frantic pedalling, the bike gradually coasting to a stop. The air here felt different — cleaner, maybe, or just less weighed down by the bustle of the town. You pulled to the side of the road, kicked down the bike stand, and took a second to adjust the strap of your bag.

The swimming area was just around the bend now, and you could already hear faint voices echoing through the trees.

The sound of laughter and splashing water reached your ears, and you could just make out a few figures perched on the rocks near the edge of the water. As much closer you got, the louder the sounds of the group became. First came the sharp echoes of splashing water, followed by the chorus of voices: some shouting in excitement, others complaining, and one or two just laughing hysterically for no apparent reason.

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a familiar warmth flood your chest.  You were glad that you had decided to come here after all.

The sun was now impossibly burnt in the sky, its rays filtering through the canopy of trees, dappled light dancing across the rough rocks of the quarry. The water, clear and inviting, shimmered in the light. The smell of sunscreen mixed with the faint musk of the earth and the mineral tang of the water.

After you had sloppily rounded the last stretch of trees, and the quarry opened up in front of you. There they were — the Losers, clustered around the water, completely at ease in a way that made you realise how much you'd missed being around them.

Eddie was perched on a rock with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the water, as though he was trying to calculate the safest entry. Richie was midway through some ridiculous stunt, possibly involving a belly flop that was probably going to end badly, given the way he was hyping himself up.

Beverly and Ben sat on the edge of the rocks, laughing at something Bill had just said.

As you looked over at Beverly, you couldn’t help but take a moment to really assess her, this was your first time properly looking at the ginger, your eyes lingering a little longer than they probably should have.

Beverly had this effortless way of carrying herself — that combination of confidence and ease that made it look like she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, yet she made everyone around her feel like they mattered. 

She was sitting on the edge of a large rock, her knees pulled to her chest, and her short hair tumbling down in waves around her jawline. She had that look — the one that made everything she wore seem like it came straight from a magazine.

Today, she was rocking a simple sports bra and a pair of underwear that you assumed was all she brought for swimming, but it was like she’d walked straight off a photo shoot. Even her laugh, loud and bright, seemed like it had a magnetism that drew you in.

And there was Ben beside her, looking at her with that soft, almost too-adoring expression, clearly hanging on every word she said. You didn’t blame him. Beverly had that magnetic vibe to her, just by sight alone, the kind that made people want to be near her, to soak in her energy, whether it was her infectious laugh or her sharp sense of humour. 

You couldn’t help but feel a tiny spark of admiration at how effortlessly she involved herself.

It wasn’t the kind of admiration that made you want to hate her — far from it. Beverly had this presence, this way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, no matter how small. She wasn’t obnoxious about it, though. In fact, it was almost the opposite. She was warm, genuine, and yet, when she needed to, from what Eddie told you, she could be fierce.

She stood up for herself and those she cared about, and that was something you respected. Even if you too had once fallen too focused on the rumours she'd involuntarily been surrounded in. You knew better than to trust stories about someone that didn't directly come from them, the guilt you'd harboured from your own internal biases had been slightly agitating.

As she caught your eye from across the clearing, a soft, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It wasn’t one of those fake, forced smiles; it was real, like she knew exactly what you were thinking, and she wasn’t bothered by it.

You awkwardly waved at her, giving a small nod, as if to say, 'You got me.' She chuckled under her breath, before returning her focus to Ben, who was mid-story, clearly more interested in talking than listening to anyone else.

The moment your foot hit the gravel, you could feel their eyes on you. The quiet instant before you fully registered them staring was filled with the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. Then, all at once, their voices broke through the air.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Richie’s shout made you wince, but you couldn’t hold back the smile. There he was, standing in the middle of the quarry, dripping wet, hands on his hips like a superhero waiting for their applause, dressed only in some white underwear that made him look absolutely fucking ridiculous.

You raised an eyebrow, taking in the sight of Richie standing proudly in the middle of the quarry, wearing nothing but his white underwear. "Dude, why are you naked right now?" The question left your mouth before you could stop it, and a snort followed that sounded more piggish than you'd wanted it to.

You couldn’t help it — the absurdity of the scene was too much to ignore. Toziers dumbass pose, arms outstretched, looking like some wannabe model for a soap ad, was just... so strange.

But then, as you took a closer look around, a very important realisation hit you like a ton of bricks.

You blinked, eyes darting over to the other members of the group. Ben was sitting awkwardly on the edge of a rock, his face slightly red, obviously trying to hide his discomfort. Beverly was casually adjusting her bra, not a care in the world. Eddie, who'd been cackling, but very much also only in his underwear. Stan, who'd been in the water shirtless, so it'd been safe to assume he wasn't any better. And then there was Bill, also, only in his underwear.

No one had actual swimming gear.

No one.

Not even a proper pair of shorts.

The whole crew had just decided to roll up in whatever they'd thrown on this morning, and that included you.

You blinked again, trying to process it.

You were about to swim in your underwear? You glanced down at your own outfit — a simple t-shirt and shorts — and immediately felt out of place. Why had you even bothered to bring a bag full of junk food if you weren’t even going to be in a proper outfit for swimming?

Before you could completely process the situation, Glasses suddenly perked up from where he had been standing, staring at you with an exaggerated offence. He shook his head, rolling his eyes, his messy hair falling into his face.

Richard Tozier was an idiot, at least he loved to present himself as one, it made sense to you that he'd be half-naked.

But everyone else? That caught you off guard.

“I'm not naked, I’m wearing underwear, eh-kay? Like, this is normal compared to some of the other weird shit we’ve done.” His voice had that mock-dramatic tone, the one that made everything sound like it came from a terrible 90s sitcom. He then dramatically flopped forward to grab a stray rock, holding it up as if to emphasise his point.

“Why’re you late Lara Croft?” his voice was accusatory, tone dripping with sarcasm and an edge of some kind of boyish pettiness you'd only heard from your brother, his grin widening like he’d just said the cleverest thing in the world.

He tilted his head, water dripping from his wild mop of hair, looking like some half-drowned raccoon that had no business being this smug.

Little piece of —

You stared at him, your gaze narrowing into a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through stone.

“I was busy, alright?” You snapped, exhaling in frustration. “Some of us don’t roll up here with only the clothes we’ve got on.” You gestured broadly to the rest of the group, still looking undeniably ridiculous.

Hypocritical on your part, because that’s really exactly what you did too.

Richie though, didn’t miss a second. Bending backwards so he could clap his hands together in the liquid, sending water spraying everywhere like an overly enthusiastic seal. “Yeah, only tryhards go out of their way to get some fucking swimmers. You’re just a pussy,” he declared, puffing out his chest like a rooster about to start a fight.

You physically couldn't let that slide.

Your eyes narrowed into slits, your expression radiating pure, unimpressed disdain. The kind of look that could wither a cactus in the desert. “Says the guy who looks like he escaped from a bad Fruit of the Loom ad,” you shot back.

The words hung in the air for a moment, sharp and cutting, before you cringed slightly, letting your bag drop unceremoniously onto the jagged rocks at your feet.

The sound of the bag hitting the ground echoed, punctuating your verbal jab. It was clear your words had struck a nerve, because Stan, who had been a few feet away, let out an abrupt snort. He was suddenly much closer now, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tried — and failed — to suppress a laugh.

His face was twisted into a laugh you'd never seen on him before, though he was clearly doing his best to maintain his usual composed demeanour.

Richie, who had been mid-rant about something undoubtedly ridiculous, whipped his head around to glare at Uris. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, sure, side with her, Staniel,” Tozier sneered, his delivery of speech coated with betrayal.

He narrowed his eyes pointedly, his entire face contorting into an expression of offense. He jabbed a finger in your direction, the gesture so over-the-top it was almost comical if not blatantly stupid. “I’m out here trying to bring some culture and realness to this boring little waterhole, and this is the thanks I get from you faggots? Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Stan, the picture of calm, tiredly moved his upper torso out of the water. He crossed his arms and leaned back against a nearby rock, his posture relaxed but his words razor-sharp.

“You look like a drowned rat, Richie,” he deadpanned, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “That’s not exactly what I’d call ‘culture.’ And my name isn’t Staniel.” The way he said it, so casually and with such finality, made it impossible not to laugh.

You couldn’t help it — a burst escaped you, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest. It was the kind of laugh that made your sides hurt, the kind that left you gasping for air. Even if you had wanted to stop it, you couldn’t. 

“A drowned rat is new,” you managed to say between snickers, your voice shaking with amusement. “I like that, thank you, Stanley.” You emphasized his name, dragging it out just to needle Richie a little more.

The look on Tozier's face was priceless — a mix of indignation and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe the two of you were ganging up on him. Which in all fairness was pretty expected on Richie’s part. Stan usually never added in his two cents to this extent.

However, he didn’t step down and instead turned back to you with a dramatic flourish. “Wow, you guys are hilarious. Real comedians,” he rolled his eyes, tone laced with disgust. He took a step closer, his gaze locked on you, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he prepared his next move.

“But,” he continued, his tone shifting to something more pointed, “you still haven’t answered the question. Why so late? Busy raiding tombs or just trying to pick out the perfect shirt for this fine occasion?” He gestured grandly to himself, as if his current state of dishevelment was some kind of fashion statement.

You could feel the tension, the playful banter, the underlying challenge in his words. It was exhausting and exhilarating all at once, and you couldn’t help but smile, even as you rolled your eyes. “Oh, yeah,” you replied, your tone light. “Always on the hunt for ancient artifacts.” 

Stan let out another snort at that, and Richie’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Wow,” he said, placing a hand over his heart as if he’d been wounded. “Just wow. I’m surrounded by traitors.” 

You scoffed, shaking your head as you already began removing your top. “I was running errands, okay? You know, responsible stuff. Like picking up video games for my pain-in-the-ass brother and keeping my skin from peeling off my face because I got sunburned. Sorry for not prioritising jumping into a filthy quarry with you losers.”

The tension from earlier, the nagging thoughts of Patrick and his little polyamorous boy toy friend group had been actively slipping away with every second spent wasting time on this useless argument.

Richie gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his chest like you’d just kicked a puppy. “Filthy? Filthy?! Shut up Judas.” He turned to the rest of the group, his voice rising in pitch. “Do you hear this slander? This is defamation. The quarry is a sacred summer institution, and you — you dare to insult it?” 

“You literally pissed in it last week, dumbass,” Eddie chimed in flatly, kicking at the water as he waded further into the waterhole. You simply smiled his direction — arms crossing pretty smugly if you did say so yourself, because yes, that's exactly right.

But then you paused, eyes widening in absolute revulsion when you had actually taken in what the pill-popper said.

Richie pointed at him without looking. “That is beside the point, Spaghetti-Os.”

“It is exactly the fuckin’ point,” you shot back, peeling your shirt off and chucking it onto the nearest rock. The fabric landed in a crumpled heap, already picking up dust and stray bits of dried leaves, but you didn’t care. Heat pressed down on your skin, heavy and relentless, and the water — despite being Richie-infested — looked better by the second. “You act like this place is some luxury spa, and meanwhile, it’s probably forty per-cent Richie bodily fluids.”  

A horrible mental image, you knew.

"Don’t forget the fish cum." Beverly added brightly, her lips quirking into a grin as she casually swished her feet through the water. 

Ben groaned like he’d just been assaulted by what he'd heard, dragging his hands down his face. "Oh my God, why would you say that?"  

Eddie, meanwhile, made a gagging noise so loud you half expected him to keel over and die on the spot.

He shook his head violently, his hair bouncing as he stomped his feet out of the water like it had wronged him. "You guys are fucking disgusting," he muttered, shuddering. "Like, actually sick in the fucking head." Without wasting another second, he stormed over to your bag and started rummaging through it like a raccoon in a garbage bin.

"You know, you could ask before you steal my shit, Kaspbrak," you called, raising an eyebrow as he fished out a small rolled up candy, barely glancing at you before tearing it open.  

"Yeah, well, you could also pay me back for the shit you lost." he shot back, biting into the bar with enough force to probably break a tooth.  

And you know what, fair point.

Beverly, completely unbothered, simply shrugged. “I mean, I’m just saying, it’s nature. Fish gotta do what fish gotta do.” 

Stan, still perched on his rock like some kind of judgmental water bird, barely looked up from the stick he was absently twirling in his fingers. “She’s not wrong.” 

Richie, smirking like the little shit he was, immediately turned to Stan with wide eyes. “See? Staniel gets it.”  

Uris exhaled through his nose, slow and even. “Still not my name.” 

“Yeah, yeah. We all know you’re a secret Richie fanboy,” Richie blabbered, waving a hand dismissively in Stan’s direction, his tone dripping with exaggerated self-importance. His wet curls flopped into his eyes as he turned back to you, and he shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of water flying in every direction.

You took a step back, shielding your face with your arm, but Richie didn’t seem to notice — or care.

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice rising as he leaned in closer, “back to your excuses. Running errands, huh? That’s what took you so long? You could’ve just said you were busy getting your ass kicked by an eight-year-old at the grocery store and saved us all some time.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a genuine miracle they didn’t get stuck in the back of your head. Without wanting to waste any time, you stepped out of your shorts and tossed them onto the pile of clothes next to your shirt, the fabric landing with a soft 'thud.'

“Oh yeah, Richie, you caught me,” you sneered, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Got my ass handed to me by a third-grader in the dairy aisle. Real tragic. I’m still recovering from the emotional trauma, thanks for asking.”

Richie’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “I fuckin’ knew it,” he crowed, pointing a finger at you as if he’d just uncovered some grand conspiracy. His grin was so wide it looked like it might split his face in two, and you couldn’t help but wonder how someone could possibly have that much energy after spending the last hour flailing around in the water like a maniac.

“Shut the fuck up Tozier,” you shot back, but there was no real heat behind your words. It was impossible to stay mad at Richie for long — annoying as he was, there was something endearing about him. You had zero clue what that was yet.

Still, that didn’t mean you were going to let him off the hook that easily.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Richie cooed, flipping his wet hair dramatically like some deranged shampoo commercial model. He struck a pose, one hand on his hip and the other running through his curls, and you had to fight the urge to laugh. “We’re just bonding over the circle of life? Hakuna Matata and all that shit.”

You almost felt the need to vomit right then and there.

Your expression went completely deadpan, your upper lip curling in disgust as if you’d just smelled something foul. “Jump off the cliff, Richie,” you said flatly, gesturing toward the jagged rocks behind him. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, but you didn’t regret them — not even a little.

Richie’s eyes lit up with mischief, and he took a step off to the side to peek up at the nearest jumping point, peering over it like he was actually considering it. “I totally would,” he hummed, his voice low and teasing. He turned back to you, his grin widening as he raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“You won’t,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest. Your tone was firm, but there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. You knew Richie well enough to know that he loved a good dare — but you also knew he wasn’t that stupid. 

... Well, actually.

Richie squinted at you, his expression shifting from playful to something more intense. “I will,” he retorted, his voice rising slightly as he took another step toward the jumping area.

The wind picked up, ruffling his already messy hair, and for a moment, it almost looked like he was serious.

“You won’t.” you repeated, standing steady. There was a challenge in your tone now, a silent 'do it, bitch' hanging in the air between you. You weren’t sure if you were daring him to jump or daring him to back down, but either way, you weren’t about to let him win this one.

A beat of silence. Then —  

Richie’s eyes narrowed, his body tensed like a cat about to pounce. For a second, you thought he was just gonna stand there and talk more shit —he was Richie, after all, ninety per cent mouth, ten per cent impulse control — but then his face split into that manic, gremlin-ass grin of his.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and booked it.

You barely had time to process what was happening before he was sprinting full speed toward the edge of the rock that had been a but away from the group, his gangly limbs flailing wildly, kicking up dust and loose gravel as he went. The way his feet barely kept up with the rest of his body made it look like he was about two seconds from face-planting, but somehow, miraculously, he didn’t.

“FOR THE PRIDE LANDS MOTHERFUCKERS!” he screeched, flinging himself off the cliff like a goddamn lunatic.

You had about half a second to register Beverly doubling over with laughter, Ben’s panicked expression as he scooted away from the splash zone, and Eddie clutching your bag like it was his emotional support animal before Richie smacked the water with a loud, echoing 'SLAP.'

A massive wave of water exploded upward, raining down over all of you, soaking your legs, your arms, your goddamn face. You didn’t even get a chance to shield yourself before you were getting pelted from every direction.

“Fuck!” you yelped, stumbling back as a particularly aggressive splash nailed you in the side of the head. The icy shock of it had you shaking yourself off like a dog, running a hand through your damp hair as you glared down at the water.

Richie surfaced a second later, gasping like he’d just been baptized in the name of stupidity. “FUCK — shit — that was —“ He swiped the water out of his face, blinking rapidly. “That was so much higher than I thought it was — holy fuck —”

Stan, who had remained completely dry on his rock, barely glanced up. “Maybe next time, check before you hurl yourself off a cliff.”

Richie coughed, hacking up a lungful of quarry water. “Maybe next time — screw you, Uris!”

Beverly was still cackling, one arm wrapped around her stomach as she gasped, “Oh my God, you belly-flopped so fucking hard —”

“No, I didn’t!”

Bill winced in sympathy. “N- Nn... No, yeah… you did.”

Eddie stood there, dripping wet from head to toe, his usually meticulously styled hair plastered to his forehead in a way that made him look more like a drenched animal than a human being.

His face was a picture of pure, unadulterated rage, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes narrowed into slits. He looked like he was about two seconds away from committing a homicide, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

Richie had a special talent for pushing people to their limits, and Eddie was no exception.

With a sharp, irritated motion, Eddie wiped his face on the driest part of his shirt, which had been unceremoniously dumped a few steps away from him. The fabric did little to help, leaving him looking even more dishevelled than before. 

“Richie,” Eddie began, his voice low and dangerous, like the growl of a cornered animal. “I hope you know I’m never forgiving you for this.” His words were sharp, each one laced with venom, and you could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. 

Richie, of course, was completely unfazed.

If anything, he seemed to thrive on Eddie’s anger, his grin widening as he floated lazily in the water, his arms spread wide like some kind of deranged water deity. “You love me,” he smiled, his tone sing-song and teasing, as if he hadn’t just single-handedly ruined Eddie’s day.

Eddie’s response was immediate and full of conviction. “I want you dead.” 

You couldn’t help but snort at that, flicking some of the leftover water from your arm as you muttered under your breath, “Yeah, well, good luck. He’s like a cockroach — hard to kill and just keeps coming back.” 

Richie’s head snapped toward you, his mouth dropping open in offence. “What!” he exclaimed, his voice rising an octave as he splashed water in your general direction. 

You shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “See? Case in point.” Seriously, Richie was an idiot.

Tozier, now floating on his back like the world’s most annoying starfish, threw up a pair of middle fingers in your direction. “You guys are fucking bullies!” he declared, his voice carrying across the water like a petulant child’s. 

Beverly, who had been watching the entire exchange with an amused grin, leaned back on her palms, her red hair catching the sunlight like a lit flame. “Aww, poor baby,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Should we kiss your boo-boo better?” 

Richie’s eyes lit up at that, and he opened his mouth to respond, no doubt with something completely inappropriate, but you cut him off before he could even get a word out.

“Shut up, Richie,” you said, rolling your eyes as you shook your head. The sun was already starting to dry the water clinging to your skin, leaving you feeling sticky and uncomfortable.

You could deal with the sheer amount of bullshit this group produced — hell, you’d been dealing with stupid people in general for years — but not while slowly baking alive in the heat.

With a sigh, you peeled off the rest of your outer layers, tossing them onto the growing pile of clothes next to Eddie’s shirt. The cool breeze that swept across the rocks was a welcome relief, but it wasn’t enough to completely counteract the oppressive heat.

You needed to get in the water, and fast. 

“Alright, move assholes,” you announced, taking a few steps back to give yourself a running start. The group turned to look at you, their expressions ranging from curious to mildly concerned, but you didn’t give them time to react. 

Richie, that piece of shit instigator, grinned up at you from the water, his wet curls plastered to his forehead. “Oh-ho-ho, big words —” he began,

But you didn’t even let him finish. 

Your scoff cut him off, but the truth was, this was exactly what you needed. The stupid, pointless arguing, the way everyone threw insults around like they were love letters — it felt like shaking off the weight of everything else. The town, the heat, Patrick fucking Hockstetter and his gang of future serial killers. They didn’t exist here. Not right now. 

Beverly gave you a pointed look, already ankle-deep in the water. “You’re actually getting in?” It was a simple question, and since you'd already undressed yourself the answer was pretty obvious, though before you had the freedom to do what you wanted — Richie's annoying ass had still remained in the water, clearly waiting for you.

You stretched your arms above your head, feeling the sun already starting to cook your shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on.”  

Richie immediately turned to Bev, his hands cupped around his mouth. His body was completely re-drenched in water now as every inch of his skin dripped with the probably piss-riddled water. “Too late for that,"

Beverly's sharp retort sliced through the humid summer air, her voice dripping with playful disdain. "Sit and twist, Trashmouth," she interjected, finally tearing her gaze from the hem of her underwear, which she'd been absentmindedly fiddling with.

Her lips curled into a crooked smile, and the sunlight caught her fiery red hair, making it blaze like a halo of flames. The glint in her eyes was unmistakable — a challenge issued and accepted.

Richie recoiled theatrically, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. "Ouch man. Right in the heart." he practically yawned, though the mischievous twinkle in his eye betrayed his enjoyment of their banter.

Meanwhile, Ben sat a little apart from the group, his posture tense. He cast a wary glance at the shimmering water, its surface reflecting the midday sun. "Jumping ins stupid.." he muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. Though droplets of water clung to his skin from an earlier, hesitant dip, he remained mostly dry.

It was clear he was wrestling with the idea of jumping back in, battling the fear of appearing cowardly.

Richie, ever the instigator, zeroed in on Ben's discomfort. With beyond fake wall of sympathy, he sidled up to him. "What's wrong beefy? Afraid of water?" he taunted, his grin widening. "Don't worry, I'll hold your hand if you need me to."

Ben's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and he averted his gaze, mumbling something inaudible that sounded suspiciously like, 'I'm not afraid.' His fingers dug into the earth beside him, the internal struggle evident in the tension of his jaw.

Sensing the need to diffuse the situation, you stepped forward, raising your hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Alright, fine," you declared, your voice carrying a note of finality. "Let's just get this over with."

Richie's eyes lit up with excitement, and he threw his arms into the air in exaggerated celebration. "Yes! The tomb raider graces us with her involvement!" he proclaimed, his voice dripping with theatrical flair.

You shot him a withering look, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you by twitching upward. "Shut up!” you huffed, rolling your eyes. Despite your best efforts, a smile broke through, and a shared laughter rippled through the group, the tension dissipating like morning mist under the sun.

Eddie gave a small groan, mostly to himself. "She's gonna trip or something," he cursed under his breath, but you could tell even he wasn’t truly complaining. The sight of them — all of them, these familiar faces who’d gotten you through so many weird days — was like a balm for your overworked mind.

Without another word, you took off at a dead sprint toward the rock, water still dripping from your knees from Richies prior jump, leaving a trail of damp footprints in your wake. Gravel skidded under your feet as you pushed off the ground, propelling yourself forward like a bullet.

Bill’s voice barely registered as you sprinted up the rocky incline, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. Gravel skidded beneath your feet, small stones tumbling down behind you as you pushed harder, faster, legs burning with the sheer effort of it. The sun bore down, the heat clinging to your skin, but the wind rushing past as you climbed higher kept you cool — kept you focused.

Richie’s shriek of absolute panic rang out from below, and that alone was worth every aching muscle.

“Hey — wait — No?”

You didn’t even glance back, didn’t slow down. The ground beneath you sloped steeply, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the surge of adrenaline electrifying your veins. You could hear the others laughing, shouting, the distant splash of water as someone shifted, but none of it mattered.

The only thing that had been of any importance to you right now was the wide-eyed terror on Richie Tozier’s dumb fucking face.

“Holy shit!” Eddie’s voice cracked, barely carrying over the distance now.

You heard the frantic splashing before you even reached the top. Richie was actively trying to escape, arms paddling wildly as he kicked backward, like he genuinely thought he could just swim away from the inevitable.

Dumbass.

You skidded to a stop at the edge, feet planting firmly against the sun-warmed rock. The world stretched out before you—the shimmering expanse of the water below, the jagged cliffs lining the quarry, the green haze of trees far beyond the edge. The drop wasn’t that far, but the rush of standing on the precipice, heart hammering, body poised to jump, sent a thrill straight through your spine.

Richie was still flailing, blinking up at you, dripping wet and so obviously afraid. “Don’t you fucking dare!” he yelled, voice cracking in the middle like a choirboy mid-puberty.

You just grinned, and slowly bent your knees.

“Y/n, I swear to god —”

And then you jumped.

The moment of weightlessness stretched impossibly long, like time itself had slowed just to let you soak in the sheer rush of it. Wind tore at your skin, whistling past your ears, the air turning cool against your sun-warmed skin. For just a second, there was nothing. No sound, no thought, just the sky above and the water below, suspended in the perfect stillness of the fall.

Then Richie’s screaming cut through the air, loud and panicked, and fuck, it was so much better than you could have hoped for.

And then, impact.

The water exploded around you, the surface breaking apart like glass as you crashed into it with all the force of a goddamn meteorite. A tidal detonated outward, a shockwave of cold blasting through every inch of you, sending walls of water slamming into the rocks. The sound of the world vanished, swallowed instantly by the deep, muffled quiet of being underwater.

Bubbles roared past your ears as you were dragged down, limbs kicking instinctively against the sudden disorientation. It was freezing, the kind of cold that shocked your system awake, wrapping around you in a full-body jolt. But before you could even register which way was up, your body moved on autopilot, breaking the surface with a loud, gasping inhale.

And there, screeching just a few feet in front of you, was none other than Richie The-Human-Disaster Tozier.

He was coughing, sputtering, rubbing at his eyes like he’d just survived some kind of war crime. His senses of pride were gone — probably lost somewhere in the abyss beneath you — and his hair was now glued to his face, sticking up in weird, pathetic spikes.

“You —” His own coughing cut him off, the sight alone eliciting multiple cackles from you as the boy continued to try and speak.  “What the fuck —" Richie attempted to sound serious, but him squiggling around in the water didn't too him too many favours.

You swiped water from your face, blinking through the droplets clinging to your lashes. The second you got a clear look at him, the absolute betrayal in his expression, you lost it. An echoed, proper laugh ripped out of you, loud and breathless, a wild grin splitting your face.

“Should’ve moved, dipshit,” you shot back, easily treading water as Richie floundered like a soggy, half-drowned raccoon.

Richie threw his arms up, spitting water. “Move where?!”

“You could’ve tried,” Uris called flatly from the shore, arms crossed like he hadn’t just watched his friend get obliterated in real-time.

“Stay out of it, Stanley!” Richie barked, still coughing up half the goddamn quarry.

Ben, who’d been wiping water from his arms, just shook his head in amazement. “I think you actually killed him,” he said, watching as Richie splashed wildly just to keep himself upright.

“You definitely killed him,” Eddie agreed, though he didn’t sound too broken up about it.

Richie, still gasping, wheezed out, “G-get — get me a rock.”

“Yeah, sure, let me just dive to the bottom of the quarry real quick,” you mocked, tilting your head. “While I’m at it, I’ll summon some fish to carry you back to shore, your majesty.”

On the rocks, Beverly was done for, practically doubled over, her whole body shaking with laughter. She barely managed to get words out between wheezes. “That was — holy shit — that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It was stupid,” Eddie corrected, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You could’ve fucking died. I could’ve died from secondhand stress. And now I have to sit here and worry about whatever deaths are currently close to happening in this goddamn pisshole —”

“Oh my God, Kaspbrak, do you ever shut the fuck up?” You yelled out from the water, splashing more at the Trashmouth who was still coughing and sputtering. 

“Not when he’s right!” Richie snapped, pointing accusingly at Eddie before whipping back around to face you. His glasses were luckily not on his face, probably and hopefully left with the rest of his clothes by now. “You are such a freak. I — I was having a peaceful moment, okay? And then you — you torpedoed me!”

“Didn’t seem very peaceful from where I was standing,” you teased, sending a tiny splash in his direction.

The water shimmered under the warm afternoon sun, the surface disturbed only by the ripples of your playful attack. The lake stretched wide and endless around you, its depths darkening towards the centre, where the water turned from crystal-clear to something more mysterious.

Richie recoiled like he’d been shot. “I'm gonna kill you.”

You barely had time to register what was happening before he was on you, fingers digging into your shoulders as he used his weight to shove you under. The water rushed around you in a flurry of bubbles, the world above disappearing in a distorted blur. The lake was cool against your skin, muffling every sound except the pounding of your own pulse.

But you weren’t about to go down without a fight.

Kicking off the sandy bottom, you surged upward, hands finding purchase on Richie’s arms as you yanked him down in return. The moment his face hit the water, you heard the garbled sound of his muffled yell, cut short by another splash.

And just like that, it was war.

The water churned violently as limbs thrashed and waves crashed against the weathered wooden dock, sending sprays of water high into the air. Each droplet caught the sunlight, scattering it into tiny, fleeting rainbows that danced across the surface of the lake.

The air was thick with the sound of laughter, curses, and the occasional yelp of surprise, a chaotic symphony that echoed off the surrounding trees. You and Richie were locked in a battle of wills, each of you determined to come out on top — though by this point, "winning" had devolved into little more than a test of endurance.

It was less about victory and more about who could outlast the other.

From the safety of the dock, the rest of the Losers Club watched the spectacle unfold with a mix of emotions. Stanley stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression one of profound exasperation. His sharp features were pinched in a frown, and he squinted down at the chaos like a disapproving parent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, his tone heavy with the weight of someone who had long since accepted that he was doomed to be surrounded by idiots. “I can’t believe I’m involved with this level of stupidity,” he added begrudgingly, rubbing his temples as if the mere sight of you and Richie was giving him a migraine.

Which, really, wouldn't of been too shocking to you knowing how Stan was.

Beverly, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained. She shifted closer to the edge of the ground, her bare feet skimming the surface of the water, and leaned forward with a wicked grin plastered across her face. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight, framing her face like a fiery halo as she watched the two of you with the glee of someone who had front-row seats to the best show in town.

“Let ‘em fight,” she hummed, her voice laced with amusement. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she kicked her feet excitedly, sending ripples across the water. To her, this was pure entertainment, and she wasn’t about to miss a second of it.

Bill, standing a few feet away, shook his head with a bemused grin. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his shorts, and he rocked back on his heels as he glanced between you and Richie. “I give it two minutes before one of them actually d-d... drowns,” he predicted, his stutter doing little to mask the amusement in his voice.

Despite the potential danger, he looked far too entertained for someone who had just casually mentioned the possibility of a watery demise. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and he exchanged a knowing look with Eddie, who stood beside him.

Eddie was not nearly as amused. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and his face was a picture of pure exasperation. His lips pressed into a thin line as if he were fighting off the world’s worst need to complain. “I really hate them,” he muttered, though the way his eyes flickered toward the water contradicted his words.

If he truly hated you both, he wouldn’t still be standing there, watching every second like some kind of reluctant referee. His sneakers tapped impatiently against the dock, and he let out a long-suffering sigh. “Someone’s going to get hurt, and then I’m going to have to deal with it,” he grumbled, though there was a hint of fondness beneath his irritation.

The sound of another loud splash drew everyone’s attention back to the water, followed by a startled scream and a fresh round of violent spluttering.

“Get off of me you little bitch!” you shrieked, your voice ragged and high-pitched as you managed to kick Richie away. Your foot connected with a pressure point that made him yelp and retract his hands, which had been clawing at you like some kind of deranged octopus.

You gasped for air, your chest heaving as you glared at him, wondering for the hundredth time what the actual hell was wrong with this guy.

The chaos only escalated from there. Gusts of screams overlapped, body parts splashed both above and below the surface, and water flew in every possible direction. Beverly whooped with delight, clapping her hands as if she were watching a particularly intense sports match.

Eddie groaned even louder, his face buried in his hands as he contemplated jumping into the water just to drown you both himself and put an end to the madness. “This is why my Mom hates you guys,” he whined, though no one was listening.

Richie, meanwhile, was still battling for his life, splashing wildly as if the lake itself had conspired against him. “I swear to God, if I die, I’m haunting your ass forever!” he shouted, his voice cracking mid-threat.

He flailed dramatically, his limbs flapping like a malfunctioning windmill, and you couldn’t help but laugh despite yourself.

You snorted, shoving him under the water again with a triumphant grin. “You’re already annoying enough while you’re alive!” you screamed in retort. The water closed over his head, and for a brief moment, there was peace — until he resurfaced with a sputter, his face red and his eyes blazing with mock indignation.

Bill leaned toward Stan, his grin widening. “Five bucks says one of them comes out with a black eye,” he said, his tone light and teasing.

Stan nodded. “Make it ten,” he deadpanned, his voice flat but his eyes glinting with reluctant amusement. 

The battle raged on, the lake’s surface roiling like a storm caught between warships. Richie’s bony fingers clawed at your arms, his full, gangly weight bearing down in a desperate attempt to dunk you under. Water splashed violently around you both, soaking the rocks where the others sat watching with varying levels of amusement and exasperation.

For a split second, it seemed like he had the upper hand — his wiry frame locking you in place. But he was Richie, which meant he was reckless and had the upper body strength of a damp paper towel.

Twisting sharply, you slipped out of his grip like a fish escaping a net, resurfacing with a victorious gasp.

Richie barely had time to blink before you struck back, launching yourself at him with the force of someone who had zero intentions of playing fair. Arms locking around his waist, you threw your weight forward, dragging him under in a chaotic tangle of limbs and bubbles.

The lake swallowed you both, the world above melting into a warped, sunlit blur.

Richie thrashed wildly beneath the surface, his flailing movements more dramatic than necessary, as if he had suddenly forgotten how to swim. You let go before he could land a kick to your stomach, shoving yourself upward and breaking the surface with a triumphant gasp.

Richie burst back to the surface, coughing violently, his body convulsing as he spat out a mouthful of murky lake water.

“Oh, you’re so dead,” he rasped, his voice raw and ragged, like gravel dragged through a sieve.

He pawed at his face with his soaked hand, attempting to wipe the water off of his forehead, but it only smeared the water into his eyes, leaving him squinting and dishevelled, his dark curls plastered to his forehead like seaweed.

You grinned, triumphant, sweeping your hair back from your face with a hand that still trembled slightly from adrenaline. The lake’s chill clung to your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but the thrill of victory warmed you from the inside out.

“You're such a shit talker Tozier,” you shot back, your voice bright and taunting, echoing off the quarry walls.

The water lapped gently around your shoulders, its cool embrace a stark contrast to the electric buzz still humming in your veins. Behind you, the others lounged on sun-warmed rocks like a jury of indifferent gods, their laughter rippling across the surface of the lake.

Richie’s eyes narrowed behind his smudged glasses, glinting with a feral, mischievous light.

“Yeah?” he growled, low and petty. Before you could react, he lunged — a sudden, wild movement that sent water cascading in arcs around him. You twisted sideways, your reflexes just sharp enough to evade his grasp, but the force of his momentum betrayed him.

His feet slipped on the algae-slick stones below, his arms windmilling comically for balance before he tripped over nothing at all and face-planted into the water with a spectacular, graceless splash.

Beverly’s laughter erupted like a firecracker, sharp and bright. She clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking, her freckled cheeks flushed pink with delight. “Th- That was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen!” she managed, gasping between giggles.

Richie resurfaced with a sputtering snarl, shoving his sopping hair out of his eyes with the unneeded over-the-top actions of a 19th-century orphan caught in a rainstorm. “You saw nothing,” he bristled in protest to her clear enjoyment, though the effect was ruined by the way his voice cracked mid-yell.

On the rocks, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression a masterpiece of long-suffering disdain. “Why are we even friends with you two?” he muttered, more to the sky than to anyone in particular. The sunlight glinted off his pristine sneakers a few inches away from him, untouched by water, as if he’d willed himself into a bubble of dry superiority.

Bill, perched beside him, shook his head with a fond, lopsided grin. “You two should be mm... more careful,” he warned, his stutter softening the admonishment. His eyes crinkled at the corners, betraying his amusement, though he’d never admit it.

But your triumph was short-lived. As you opened your mouth to lob another taunt at Richie, he struck — a sly, underwater kick aimed with sniper precision at your shin. Your yelp pierced the air, sharp and startled, as your legs buckled. The world tilted, the horizon flipping violently as gravity yanked you backward.

The lake rushed up to meet you, its cold embrace swallowing you whole, water flooding your nose and mouth with a bitter, mineral tang.

When you broke the surface again, coughing and blinking against the sting of the water, Richie was already howling with laughter. He floated on his back, arms spread wide, his cackles echoing off the quarry walls like the manic cries of a hyena. “See?” he crowed, slapping the water with glee.

“That’s what you get bitch!” His glasses had finally slid off the random rock it had been on, but he didn’t seem to care — not when vindication glittered in his eyes, brighter than the sun dipping below the trees.

The rest of your day had slipped by like sand through your fingers, dissolving into laughter, shouts, and the occasional splash of water at the quarry.

The hours had blurred together in a haze of sun-soaked skin, the sharp tang of chlorine mixed with the earthy scent of the water, and the sound of your friends’ voices echoing off the rocky walls. By the time the sun had started its slow descent into the horizon, casting the town in a golden, honeyed glow, you and the Losers had migrated to Ben’s house.

Ben’s house was, from your point of view, a safe bet. It was cozy, lived-in, and filled with the kind of warmth that made you feel like you belonged. The conversation had shifted naturally, as it always did, somewhere between passing around sodas and rifling through his collection of books.

Ben had a way of steering discussions toward topics that felt important, even if they weren’t always comfortable. Tonight, it was the disappearances. It wasn’t something that had ever fully captured your interest before. You’d heard the stories — everyone in Derry had. The missing kids, the posters that popped up on telephone poles only to be torn down and replaced with fresh ones weeks later.

It was just another shadow in the town’s history, another thing people whispered about but never truly addressed. You’d always brushed it off as just another part of living in a small town, where rumors spread faster than facts and tragedy was often romanticized into folklore.

Now, hours later, you walked alone through the streets of Derry, the air thick with the lingering warmth of the day. The sun had fully set, leaving the sky a deep indigo, dotted with the faint pinpricks of stars struggling to break through the light pollution.

The neon glow of store signs and LED-lit windows painted the sidewalks in streaks of pink, blue, and orange, casting an almost surreal glow over the quiet streets. A few people loitered outside the diners, their laughter spilling into the night, and across the street, a couple of older teens stood near their bikes, passing a cigarette between them.

The faint sound of arcade games chimed from the open door of the local game shop, their electronic melodies blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The usual crowds had thinned, leaving only the older kids, the ones near your age bracket, and the occasional adult hurrying home from work. Fewer little kids ran through the streets now — most of them had been corralled home before the sky fully darkened.

The town still buzzed with life, but it was different, quieter, more subdued.

Your hair, though no longer dripping, was heavy with the faint scent of lake water, sticking to the nape of your neck in stubborn strands that refused to dry completely.

The walk home wasn’t far.

You’d done it hundreds of times before, knew these streets like the back of your hand. Every crack in the sidewalk, every flickering streetlight, every overgrown hedge that spilled onto the path — it was all familiar, comforting in its own way. But tonight, especially after the new rules set in place for when everyone needed to be home, you felt weird.

Maybe it was the conversation at Ben’s house, the way the disappearances had been brought up so casually that had you overthinking. You shook your head, deciding to dispel the unease that had settled in your chest. It was just your imagination, you told yourself.

Derry was the same as it always was — a little strange, a little too quiet, but home.

You sighed, shoving your hands into the pockets of your shorts as you walked. Your legs ached from the hours spent swimming and climbing around the quarry, and your shoulders felt stiff, the kind of tired that seeped into your bones and made every step feel like a chore.

A neon sign buzzed somewhere overhead, casting a faint red glow onto the pavement. Your feet slowed as you considered your next move. Going home fast was your best option, but you could already hear your mother’s voice ringing in your ears, sharp and edged with disappointment.

'Do you even know what time it is? Where have you been? Why didn’t you call?' 

The mental image alone made your stomach twist. You hadn’t planned on being out this late — it just happened. The quarry had a way of swallowing time, and between the laughter, the splashing, and Ben’s endless rabbit holes about Derry’s creepy history, the hours had slipped away faster than you’d realised.

A sigh escaped your lips as you kicked a loose rock with the toe of your shoe, watching as it skittered down the pavement. You could go home now and face the inevitable lecture, or — your gaze flickered across the street, landing on the bright, blinking lights of the arcade.

It wasn’t your fault.

Well, okay, maybe it was a little bit your fault, but it wasn’t like you’d done it on purpose. Besides, it isn't as if you were out doing anything bad. You hadn’t been drinking or smoking or whatever it was parents thought teenagers did when they weren’t under constant supervision.

You’d just been living?

Was that such a crime?

The small building stood out against the otherwise sleepy town square, its large windows glowing with the soft, multi-coloured hues of game screens and LED strips. Through the glass, you could see a few kids still inside, their faces illuminated by the blue light of the machines, their hands furiously smacking buttons and twisting joysticks.

A pretty manipulative-looking claw machine stood near the entrance, filled with plush toys stacked haphazardly on top of each other, their beady eyes staring blankly out at potential winners.

Your lips curled into a small smirk as an idea sparked in your mind.

Maybe, just maybe, a peace offering could soften the blow when you finally did get home. If you could win something — some dumb, overpriced plushie — you might be able to bribe your mom into overlooking the fact that you were wandering around town at nearly seven-thirty at night.

It was a long shot, sure, but it was better than nothing. Besides, you’d seen it work before. One time, Riley had shown up late to a family dinner with a bouquet of flowers he’d "borrowed" from someone’s garden, and your Mom had been so distracted by the gesture that she’d completely forgotten to yell at him.

If that annoying cum-stain could pull it off, why couldn’t you?

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you made up your mind. Turning away from your usual path home, you stepped off the sidewalk and pushed through the glass doors of the arcade. The moment you crossed the threshold, the world outside seemed to fade away, replaced by the chaotic, neon-lit universe of the arcade.

The air inside was thick with the familiar scent of popcorn, soda, and the faint mechanical rumble of the machines. It was a sensory overload in the best way possible, the kind of place where you could lose yourself for hours and forget about everything else.

The noise swallowed you whole the moment you stepped in.

The beeping of old-school racing games, the chiptune jingles of jackpot wins, the occasional frustrated groan from someone losing their last life — it all blended together into a symphony of chaos. The arcade was packed, as it usually was at this time of night, with teenagers clustered around the machines, their faces lit by the glow of the screens.

Some were laughing, others were shouting, and a few looked like they were on the verge of throwing a controller across the room. It was the kind of energy that made you feel alive, even if you were just there to win a stupid plushie.

The claw machine stood right near the door, its prizes stacked in a taunting pile of neon-patterned fur and stuffed limbs. The plushies were ridiculous. Brightly coloured, overly cartoonish, and probably made of the cheapest material known to man — but they were perfect.

Your mom had a soft spot for anything cute, and you were banking on that to save your skin tonight.

You dug into your pocket, pulling out a couple of stray coins. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for a few attempts. If you were lucky, you’d walk out of here with a prize and a clean slate. If not… well, you’d cross that bridge when you got to it.

Rolling your shoulders, you stepped up to the machine, cracking your knuckles as if you were about to perform some impossible feat of skill. “Alright, you little piece of shit scam machine,” you muttered under your breath, eyeing the plushies like a predator sizing up its prey.

The claw machine had always been your nemesis, a fickle beast that seemed to delight in taking your money and giving you nothing in return. But tonight, you were determined to beat it. “Don’t piss me off today,” you added, as if threatening the machine would somehow make it cooperate.

Dropping a coin into the slot, you gripped the joystick and took a deep breath.

The machine whirred to life, the claw swaying slightly as it moved into position. You zeroed in on a plushie near the top of the pile — a bright pink cat with an obnoxiously large bow on its head. It was hideous, but it was also the easiest target. You nudged the joystick, guiding the claw with the precision of a surgeon.

You’re demolishing this stupid game.

The claw descended, its metal pincers closing around the plushie’s head. For a brief, glorious second, it looked like you had it. The claw lifted, the plushie rising with it, and you held your breath, your heart pounding in your chest. But then, as if the machine had a personal vendetta against you, the claw jerked slightly, and the plushie slipped free, tumbling back into the pile with a soft 'thump'.

“Oh, come on!” you shouted, slapping the glass in frustration. The machine beeped cheerfully, as if berating you, and you glared at it, your jaw clenched. You're going to rip this god-forsaken machine apart.

But you weren’t ready to give up yet. You dropped another coin into the slot, your determination renewed. You're going to win one of these glittery, nightmare fuel wastes of human resources. And you weren’t leaving until you found out which one it was. You gripped the joystick tighter, shaking out your shoulders like a prizefighter stepping back into the ring. Fine. If the machine wanted to play dirty, so could you.

This time, you picked a different target — a small, blue stuffed bear wedged snugly between two other plushies. It seemed secure, less likely to slip through the claw’s grasp like the last one had. With practised precision, you maneuvered the claw over your prize, pausing just long enough to ensure perfect alignment before hitting the button.

The claw descended, pincers stretching wide as they neared the bear. You watched with bated breath as they closed around it, gripping its fuzzy body in what looked like a solid hold.

Yes. Yes!

Then, just as it began to rise, the bear twisted. One of its stubby arms caught on the edge of another plushie, and in a cruel, almost slow-motion betrayal, it slipped free. The bear tumbled back down, landing even deeper into the pile than before.

You stared blankly at the glass, lips pressing into a thin line. The machine beeped, its bright, looping jingle playing mockingly through the speakers.

“You little bastard.” you hissed under your breath, digging back into your pocket for more change.

There had to be some kind of trick to these things, some secret strategy. You'd seen kids walk away from these machines clutching armfuls of prizes before — hell, even Richie had managed to win something once, and he had the hand-eye coordination of a drunk raccoon. 

Another coin. Another attempt.

You went for a different angle, deciding to grab something closer to the chute — a small stuffed frog that looked a little lopsided, like its stuffing had been unevenly distributed. 'This should be easy,' you told yourself.

The claw went down, grabbed the frog, lifted it —

— and then let go.

The frog flopped against the pile like it had never moved at all, tumbling down the lifeless cotton-stuffed corpses with the tenseness of a scared goat. This sadistic machine not even humouring the chance of you winning anymore.

Your eye twitched.

Okay. Maybe you weren’t as skilled at this as you thought.

Glancing around, you made sure no one was watching before muttering under your breath, “I swear to God, if I don’t win something, I’m going to flip this whole thing over.” It was a vow, a promise of violence.

You went for the same pink cat from before, deciding it was personal now. Your fingers clenched around the singular stick control like a soldier gripping their weapon in battle. This was now about pride. About proving to yourself — and this cheap, rigged excuse for entertainment — that you weren’t useless.

The machine let out its familiar, cheery jingle as the claw mechanism shook to life.

The LED lights blinked in rapid, almost taunting sequences, casting flashes of neon across your determined expression. You narrowed your eyes, zoning in on your target — the obnoxiously pink cat, the one that had eluded you time and time again.

This ends now.

You exhaled slowly, steadying your grip, then maneuvered the joystick with surgical precision. The claw swayed slightly as it hovered over the plush pile, its metal pincers opening wide like the jaws of some great mechanical beast.

You adjusted. Recalculated. Made sure you were lined up perfectly.

Your thumb hesitated over the button, your pulse hammering in your ears. This was your last coin. If you lost now, you’d have nothing to show for it except the crushing weight of defeat.

No. That wasn’t an option.

You pressed the button.

The claw descended, its metal fingers stretching toward the pink cat. Time seemed to slow as they closed around the plushie’s soft body, gripping it firmly. You held your breath, watching with wide, unblinking eyes as the claw actually lifted the toy, rising steadily toward the chute.

Oh my god, it’s working.

Your heart pounded as the claw ascended, the cat dangling precariously from its grip. The machine’s motors whirred, carrying it across the pit of lost dreams, toward the promised land — and then, just as it reached the drop zone, the claw flicked itself sideways.

The plushie slipped.

For a single, agonizing second, it dangled, clutched by only the tip of its oversized bow. Your entire body tensed, every nerve in your being screaming for it to hold on.

And then, it fell.

Not into the chute. Not into your waiting hands.

But back into the pile. Back to square one.

The sound that left your throat was somewhere between a gasp and an outright cry of disarray. Your hands slapped against the glass, your reflection staring back at you with the same wide-eyed horror of someone who had just watched their dreams shatter before their eyes.

The machine beeped, bright and chipper, chirply announcing your failure. The arcade lights flashed. The music continued to blare. The world carried on, completely indifferent to your suffering.

You dragged your hands down your face, groaning in frustration. "You have to be kidding me."

This was an injustice greater than anything you'd ever faced. This was cruelty in its purest form. You had it. You won. And then, at the last second, it had been stolen from you by a machine designed explicitly to crush souls. Your jaw clenched, your eyes narrowing as you glared at the pink cat buried among its fellow prisoners.

You had no more coins.

No more chances.

No choice but to admit defeat.

And yet, despite every rational part of your brain telling you to walk away, you remained rooted to the spot, staring down at the cursed machine like it was your sworn enemy. Maybe… you could find another way to get one of those plushies. You tore your eyes away from the glass, exhaling sharply through your nose as you rubbed at your temples. There had to be another way. No way were you walking out of this arcade empty-handed — not after everything you’d been through.

Then, movement caught your eye.

Past the rows of blinking screens and flashing neon lights, just behind the main counter, sat an entire wall of plushies. They were bigger, brighter, and far less crumpled than the ones trapped inside the claw machine. Some were stuffed into wire bins, others sat proudly on the shelves, neatly stacked like trophies waiting to be claimed.

And there it was.

Sitting smugly among them, was the pink cat. The same one that the claw machine had dangled in front of you like a cruel joke, only to rip it away at the last second. Its oversized bow seemed to glint under the lights, as if it were laughing at you. 

Your hands twitched at your sides as you stared at the wall of plushies behind the counter, the fluorescent lights overhead casting an almost holy glow around them. They sat in perfect rows, pristine and untouched, their beady little eyes and stitched-on smiles teasing you with their abundance.

You should’ve just walked away. You should’ve accepted your loss, accepted the reality that you had no more coins, no more tickets, no more anything to bargain with. The rational part of your brain — the part that sounded weirdly like your Mom — was screaming at you to cut your losses and go home.

But the other part of your brain, the part that was fueled by stubbornness and a desperate need to win, refused to back down. Because the thing was right there. Out in the open. Completely within reach. 

A plan began to form in the back of your mind, half-baked and reckless, but steadily growing stronger the longer you stood there. Your eyes flickered toward the counter itself. A tired but entertained-looking teenage employee leaned against it, chewing gum as he looked through some tickets he'd just been handed.

His uniform vest was crumpled, his name tag crooked, and his expression one of pure focus. He wasn’t paying attention. Not to you, not to the arcade, not to anything. Behind him, the plushies sat untouched. Unprotected. 

You could steal one. 

The thought hit you with an almost electric charge, sending a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You had never stolen anything before — well, aside from the occasional handful of candy from a bowl or a French fry off someone’s plate.

But this? This was different. This was intentional. This was... well, this was just theft actually.

You could already hear your mom’s voice in your head, obnoxious and disapproving. 'Do you even think before you act?'

But then you thought about her other voice — the one that would be scolding you the second you stepped through the front door, demanding to know why you were late, why you hadn’t called, why you couldn’t just be normal for once. If you walked in holding a brand-new plushie, maybe — barely — it would be enough to distract her.

She’d probably roll her eyes and mutter something about you being too old for stuffed animals, and then just drop it.

That was worth the risk, right? 

Your fingers curled into fists, your nails digging into your palms as you weighed your options. On one hand, stealing was wrong. Obviously. You knew that. But on the other hand… it was just a plushie. A dumb, overpriced, neon-pink cat that no one would even miss. And if it meant avoiding another lecture, wasn’t it worth it? 

Okay. You were doing this. 

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax, to move casually as you approached the counter. No one ever suspected people who looked like they belonged, right?  You leaned against the counter, casually drumming your fingers on the surface. The employee didn’t even glance up. 

Good.

Your eyes darted over to the prize wall, scanning for a weak spot. Most of the bigger plushies were stuffed into bins, but the smaller ones — the ones closest to the counter — were stacked in neat little piles on a low shelf. Close enough to grab. Close enough to take.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you ran through the plan in your head. 

Step one: Distract the employee.  Step two: Grab the plushie. Step three: Walk out like nothing happened. 

Easy. 

You cleared your throat, leaning a little closer to the counter. “Hey, uh, do you know if the ball thrower game over there is broken? It ate my tokens.” 

The employee finally looked up, his expression one of mild confusion. “Which one?” 

“The one by the claw machine,” you replied a bit slower than you'd intended to, gesturing vaguely toward the other side of the arcade. 

He sighed, pushing himself off the counter. “I’ll check it out.” 

The second his head turned, you shimmied.

Your fingers closed around the pink cat’s synthetic fur, its cheap fabric slightly rough under your grip. With one swift motion, you yanked it off the shelf and tucked it under your arm, pressing it tightly against your side. Your heart was a hammer in your chest, pounding so hard you swore the entire arcade could hear it.

Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.

You turned on your heel, forcing yourself into a steady, casual stride. The neon glow of the arcade lights flickered over you as you weaved through the crowd, dodging kids with sticky hands and teenagers bickering over high scores. The plushie’s oversized bow jabbed awkwardly against your ribs, but you didn’t dare adjust it. That would look suspicious. You just had to get to the door.

A few more steps.

Almost there.

Just a little—

“Hey!” The word sliced through the arcade noise like a knife, shackling and immediate. You froze, your entire body locking up as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Slowly, like a character in a horror movie realizing they weren’t alone, you turned around.

The employee was staring at you now, arms crossed, his face no longer bored but sharp with suspicion. “You gonna pay for that?” he asked, nodding toward the plushie still clutched under your arm.

Obviously no, you’re not paying for this.

Your mind went blank. Completely empty. “Uh…” Your throat felt like sandpaper. “Yeah. Of course.” The guy didn’t look convinced. He raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight onto one foot.

“Then bring it up here.” Your fingers clenched around the plushie. This was it. You were caught. There was no way out of this. No excuse that would get you off the hook. No undo button for stealing a stuffed animal.

This was humiliating. You were just about to give in — to mumble some excuse and slink back to the counter in defeat — when a voice stepped through you both.

“Hey, man, the racing game’s still broken! You gonna fix it or what?” The employee hesitated, looking past you toward the row of arcade cabinets. Some guy — probably older than you, his hands shoved into his pockets — stood near one of the machines, scowling.

The worker’s gaze flicked back to you for a second, indecision written all over his face.

And in that second — that beautiful, stupid, perfect second — you ran.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You bolted.

One second you were standing there, frozen under the guy’s scrutiny, and the next you were tearing through the arcade, shoving past kids and darting around flashing game cabinets.

“Oh what — hey!” The employee’s voice rang out again, but you didn’t stop. Your sneakers pounded against the floor, your breath coming fast and sharp as you closed in on the exit.

The doors loomed ahead, glowing with the promise of freedom.

The night air hit you like a slap, cool and sharp against your flushed skin. Your legs kept moving, carrying you past the arcade’s neon glow, past the loitering teenagers, past the payphones and the vending machines. Only when you rounded the corner, heart thudding, lungs burning, did you finally stop.

You doubled over, gripping your knees, the plushie still clutched in one sweaty hand. Holy shit. You just stole something.

A wave of adrenaline crashed over you, your whole body buzzing with the rush of it. Your heart was still pounding, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you tried to steady yourself. You half-expected alarms to start blaring, for cops to come peeling around the corner with their sirens wailing, but the street was still.

The only sounds were the distant laughter of a group of teenagers hanging out by the diner and the occasional buzz of a passing car. The world hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even noticed what you’d just done.

Slowly, you straightened, looking down at the plushie in your hands. Its dumb little pink face stared up at you, its oversized bow slightly crumpled from your frantic escape. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat, threatening to spill out as you realized what you’d just done.

Now, all you needed to do was deal with your Mother.

The thought of her reaction was enough to sober you up a little. You could already picture the way her eyes would narrow, the way her lips would press into a thin line as she demanded to know where you’d been, what you’d been doing, and why you thought it was okay to come home so late.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice the figure standing a few feet away until his voice cut through the night air like a jagged blade. “The hell?” The words were sharp, harsh, and they hit you like a punch to the gut. Your breath hitched, your body still humming with adrenaline from your escape.

Slowly, almost painfully slowly, you turned toward the cause of said words. 

And there he was. Henry Bowers.

He stood just a few feet away, his cigarette burning between his fingers, a thin line of ash breaking off and drifting to the pavement as if even the cigarette itself was shocked by your stupidity. His pale eyes flicked from your face to the plushie clutched tightly to your chest, and then back up again, slowly narrowing in disbelief. 

Well, okay. Shit.

Your brain took an embarrassingly long second to catch up, to put together the pieces of what had just happened. The arcade. The theft. Your sprint to freedom. The exact location of your escape route — right past Belch Huggins’ goddamn car. The same place you had explicitly told yourself to avoid. 

And now Bowers was staring at you like you’d just materialized out of thin air, and you were staring back at him like a deer in headlights, and neither of you were moving. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, until Henry finally broke it. 

“You fuckin’ good? Hell’re ya’ starin’ at, piss off,” Henry scoffed, tilting his head as he took another drag of his cigarette. His voice was slow, amused in that way that sent ice-cold dread dripping down your spine. 

Your fingers tightened around the plushie, its ridiculous bow pressing into your ribs as if it too knew just how fucked you were. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his eyes lingered on the plushie, on your face, on the way you were practically vibrating with nervous energy. He didn’t say anything, not at first, and that was almost worse.

Maybe you should —

“Piss off!” Henry yelled again, exhaling smoke in a lazy stream. His voice was louder this time, more forceful, and it made you flinch. But he didn’t move, didn’t take a step toward you. He just stood there, watching you with that same infuriating glare, like he was waiting for you to do something stupid. 

And he’s exactly right, it’s time to piss off. 

There was no thought, no hesitation — just pure decision to mind your own damn business. Your legs kicked into motion before you could risk annoying him further, sneakers slapping against the cracked pavement as you bolted. The plushie was still clutched tightly against your chest, its ridiculous bow digging into your ribs, but you barely noticed.

He must’ve been in a good mood if he was just telling you off, and luckily he didn’t notice that you’d been the same person that had stood with the Losers club.

You weren’t going to just stand there like some dumb deer waiting to get hit by a truck. You knew better than that. You knew what happened when folks got caught on the wrong side of them. You knew all too well, probably more than a few more.

So you minded your own.

Or at least, you tried to.

Because just as you turned, ready to put as much distance as possible between you and Henry, you slammed face-first into something solid. Something big. Something that reeked of motor oil, a whole lot of cheap beer, and the lingering stench of stale cigarette smoke.

Pain exploded through your nose, a sharp CRACK that sent stars bursting in your vision. You let out a strangled noise, the plushie nearly slipping from your grasp as you stumbled back, hands flying up to clutch your face.

"Woah —?!" That winded, confused voice sure as hell wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t Henry’s neither. No — this one belonged to Belch, Belch Huggins.

… Not his real first name, but one fitting for him anyway.

The sheer force of the hit sent him rocking back, his thick arms fumbling like a damn windmill trying to catch its balance before his back smacked against the side of his car. The rusted heap let out a pitiful groan under his weight, the metal creaking in protest. Your stomach dropped.

Your whole face was throbbing, but the second it cleared, you realised just how bad you’d fucked up. Belch was standing there, brows knit together, mouth hanging open like his brain was still trying to put two and two together. He looked more surprised than mad, but you knew that wouldn’t last long.

And it wasn’t just him.

Leaning up against the hood of the car, brows raised in mild amusement, stood Victor Criss. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, the end glowing red as he took a slow drag, his expression unreadable.

But that wasn’t what made your stomach twist.

No, what made your blood run cold was the boy standing just a few feet away from him, barely visible in the dim light.

Patrick Hockstetter.

Your breath hitched, panic curling up in your gut like a nest of rattlesnakes. Henry Bowers was bad. Belch and Victor weren’t much better. But Patrick? That was a whole different kind of nightmare.

And he was looking at you. The same look he'd cursed you with in those woods.

His lips curled into a slow, wide grin — too fucking wide, like he was enjoying watching you squirm. His gaze gleamed in the dim light, flicking over you in that way that made your skin crawl, like he was mentally taking you apart just to see how you ticked, once again. He made no moves to come closer, but from how he looked, you didn’t doubt that he considered it.

Hockstetter never became too involved with bullying sessions that involved the entire group, and most he’d hold someone down or shove them. So as much as he downright horrified you, you could at-least ease knowing he’d stay in his fucking lane while Henry was here.

Behind you, Bowers let out a low, drawn-out groan of annoyance, deep and agitated. His stance was aggressive, feet spread apart, hands clenched into fists. The veins in his neck were bulging, his breath coming in slow, controlled bursts like he was still taking in the moment. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, squishing it with the heel of his boot.

You doubted Henry would actually do something to you, especially since you were a girl. He didn't treat females any better than he did males, but at the very minimum he knew he couldn't just beat you up, regardless of if it'd been dark or not. He was horrible, and definitely still deserved to go to jail, but you knew he wouldn't do to you whatever Patrick did.

“Well ain’t this just a goddamn picture,” he drawled, his voice thick with half-assed fake amusement, his eyes never leaving you as he took a step closer. His boots scraped against the ground, dragging with a menacing slowness.

The blonde seemed more bored than he was interested, clearly he wasn't in the mood to deal with you — and was definitely doing this for theatrics, to show his gang that he was top shit or whatever. If he really wanted to hurt you, he wouldn't of told you to piss off.

Victor, standing beside Henry, exhaled a cloud of smoke, blowing it into the night air like he was too cool to care. But the look in his eyes was anything but casual. "C'mon Henry. She's just a girl," he remarked, his words clipped, almost too matter-of-fact.

This was bad. This was real bad.

Okay, when would be the best time to leg it?

Henry’s eyes slanted, scoffing — mostly to himself as his lips pulled back into a sneer. His eyes narrowed, tracking your every move like a hunter studying its prey. He tilted his head, the subtle shift in his posture oozing with a cruel amusement. “Where you runnin’ off to in such a hurry, huh?” His voice was low and gravelly, an undertone of something lacing each word like venom.

Your nerves were hammering in your ears, your breaths shallow and rapid, but your legs were frozen.

And just when you thought you couldn’t stand another second of this mounting terror, you felt a shift in the air. Your heart skipped a beat, and your eyes darted to the corner of your vision.

Patrick. That disgusting mesh of the human equivalent to evil.

He was no longer just standing off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows like some forgotten part of the landscape. He was actively moving now. Calmly and quietly. Each step he took was heavy, and calculated, the faint scrape of his boots against the pavement sending a ripple of unease through you.

There was no light here to cast shadows on him, but somehow, it felt as though the dark was clinging to him, just as much as his own unrelenting gaze was clinging to you. At first he didn't bother even stepping any closer, just watching you like he'd, in some sick way, been surprised to see you right now. 

In one fluid motion, Patrick slipped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. Without a word, he shoved Victor aside, almost carelessly, and Victor stumbled backward in a flurry of awkward steps, barely managing to right himself before his feet skittered beneath him.

Patrick didn’t even glance at him. His attention was completely focused on your chest now, eyeing the plushie before audibly giggling to himself for whatever goddamn reason, and it was enough to make the blood drain from your face.

The air seemed to get heavier as he moved closer, the space around you growing darker with each of his deliberate steps. His lips twitched into a sick, unsettling grin, one that stretched wider and wider with every moment that passed. Patrick wasn’t just looking at you now — he was staring at you.

Oh hell no.

"You eye fuckin' her Hockstetter?" Bowers cringed, face falling in utter disgust before he flicked his attention back to you, sizing you up as if wanting to find whatever it was that Patrick found interesting. "Cut it, y'know my old man doesn't help with no rape charges,"

Patrick was non-verbal.

It wasn’t a casual glance or the simple curiosity of someone noticing a person in their peripheral vision. No, this was different. It was as though he was looking through you, like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t wait to tear apart, piece by piece.

Hold on, pause — rape charges —?

Victor blinked, clearly flustered by the sudden shift in Patrick’s behaviour. His usual bravado seemed to evaporate in an instant, leaving him standing there like a deer caught in headlights. Instead of pushing back, instead of standing his ground like he might have done with anyone else, he just stepped aside.

His hands were outstretched, palms open, as if he were trying to signal that this was Patrick’s territory now, that he didn’t even have the courage to stand in his way. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. Even for all his bluster and bravado, knew better than to cross a future felon, if not current felon, like Hockstetter.

He shot you a weary look, his eyes narrowing as they flicked between you and Patrick. There was something in his expression — something between irritation and disbelief — but beneath it all, there was a flicker of discomfort. “What the hell man?” Victor’s defensive attitude was harsh, audibly upset.

But his tone held a hint of unease, a crack in his usual confidence that Patrick didn’t even bother to acknowledge. 

Patrick didn’t respond to him whatsoever, he hadn’t even spared him a glance. His current entertainment was you, and the expression on his face showed that more than clearly.

That was something you could never unsee. It wasn’t anger, or even malice. It was something colder, something emptier. It made your mouth as dry as cotton, like a thousand tiny bugs were crawling just beneath the surface of your gums, their legs skittering across your nerves.

It was something that could be felt it in your chest, in your stomach, and in the pit of your soul. 

You needed him dead. 

Henry, still looming behind you like a shadow, let out a small, attention grabbing yell to grab the taller boys attention. His eyes flickered between Patrick and you, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. “Stop your starin' and stay with the car.” His voice was loud, pushing through the tension that was thickening like smoke in the air.

But even as he spoke, his grip on your collar tightened, jerking you back just enough to knock the breath from your chest. "You can't be makin' dibs, not onna cunt like this. Fuck're you doing."

Patrick’s voice broke through the growing dread, soft and unsettling. He remained as polite as ever, his eyes not even bothering to leave you as he merely tilted his head. “Don’tcha have a curfew? I’ll take her.” He wasn’t asking to take you. He wasn’t offering a solution.

Patrick was demanding for you, like you were some kind of thing to be taken. And worse yet, the way he said it — he spoke like a man who already knew he'd get what he wanted. Henry paused for a second at the mention of his apparent 'curfew', the male didn't seem all too amused by the reminder — and from how his fists silently clenched and unclenched, you couldn't tell if Patrick was aiming to convince him or piss the guy off.

You didn’t even understand what his involvement meant. Why the fuck is he —

It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was the sinking feeling in your gut, the cold sweat creeping down your back, the urgent, primal need to escape that was seizing your every muscle. Your mind couldn’t catch up with your body.

For the briefest moment, the three boys — Henry, Belch, and Victor — seemed to falter. Their attention flickered between Patrick and you, and in that split second, it felt like the universe itself had stilled.

Patrick, the one who always stood slightly apart from the others, the one who barely said a word unless he absolutely had to, was suddenly acting... strangely. Even for him. There was something about his presence that was different this time, a quiet tap of something, a sense that he wasn’t quite right.

Patrick wasn’t just standing there anymore. He was moving. And with that movement, everything else seemed to stop. You felt your pulse quicken, your breath shallow. Every part of you screamed to attack him, to attack anyone — everyone.

But the world around you froze, like it was giving him a chance to act. And you were caught in it.

Henry’s jaw tightened, a flicker of genuine anger-filled bewilderment passing through his eyes. It was more than obvious he wasn't used to Hockstetter ever taking lead in something, and you could tell it was angering him more than it was making him uncomfortable.

He was looking at Patrick like he didn’t understand the shift either. But, just as quickly as it had come, the confusion was gone. His grip on you tightened, the pressure on your shoulders growing unbearable. His eyes were mere slits, and in all honesty, you were still internally debating which one would be worse right now.

Henry or Patrick?

Who'd skin you alive first, let's touch on that thought.

Oh god you're scared.

“Son of a...” Henry sneered, his rumble low and dripping with disdain. “Take the bitch then. But you best not mess nothing up.”

Patrick’s expression didn’t change. His mouth was wide, peeling across his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those dark eyes were solid — and yet, there was a new flicker in them now.

Something almost excited. He was like a kid in a candy store, his hands itching to get what he wanted. But it wasn’t hunger. It was something deeper. And suddenly, you now knew exactly when to run.

He moved faster now, no longer attempting to reign check himself, and Henry let you go without a second glance. You didn’t even have a chance to breathe. Patrick’s hand shot out, fast and precise, grabbing your arm with a force that made your skin burn where his fingers pressed into it.

"What? No. Get off me. I'm going home." Your voice came out hard — more in control than you actually felt.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew you had the upper hand out here in the open. You weren’t the one who had to slink off like a cockroach if a car came rolling down the street.

You weren’t the one who had to lie about where you were if someone went asking. It was late, sure. But it wasn’t late enough. Not for Patrick Hockstetter to pull whatever sick game was sloshing around in that head of his.

“C’mon now, sugar,” Patrick was visibly vibrating at your refusal to do what he's told you, his eyes wider than they had been before, his throat twitching everytime he forced down a shaky swallow. His sentence was soft, but the words landed with a sickening finality, like he was licking each syllable. “Don’tcha think it’s time we had a lil’ chat?”

You'd rather kill yourself.

Infact, you might.

Henry scoffed from the side, already done with it. He shoved past you both, shouldering Patrick a little harder than necessary, but Patrick barely reacted. Just kept his eyes locked on you, mouth twitching at the corners like he was biting back something between a laugh and a shiver.

The other two hesitated for a second, but then Victor muttered something under his breath and followed Henry to the car, leaving you alone with him. The moment they were gone, the air shifted. It got thicker, like the whole night had dropped a few degrees but still stuck to your skin.

Patrick took a slow step backwards from you, his whole body buzzing with something barely contained. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was feeling the air, like he was feeling this moment, the way some people savored the taste of something sweet.

“So loud.” His pupils were huge. Black swallowing up what little colour was left in his eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard, like he was holding back something bigger, something that wanted to come out.

Chapter Text

You were sort of annoying.

Patrick wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to entertain this for as long as he had, nor why he'd shown you as much restraint as he'd currently done. Normally, he didn’t bother with people who didn’t interest him, and you? You were a mess.

A chaotic, thrashing, screaming mess at that.

He’d seen it at it's full force back in the alley, how you’d fought him like some cornered animal, all teeth and claws with no real strategy. You had just a bit more grace in the woods, but all that basically vanished tonight, and he had not a single clue as to why. 

I mean, he was completely taken aback by how much attraction he'd felt towards you? Patrick himself came to terms with this crushing revelation that is creating children of his own, and still you fight it? Fight what you were quite literally made to do? 

It was rude, selfish.

It was embarrassing actually. Embarrassing to watch.

You weren’t made for this — this useless, flailing aggression. You weren’t built to survive in the world the way he was. You were soft, and fragile, yet you kept pushing, kept fighting, like you actually believed you could win.

It would've been somewhat funny if it wasn't completely unattractive.

And now, as he sat here, next to the dim, flickering light of his bedroom lamp, his head resting heavily on his palm, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d even taken the time needed to bring you to his home. You’d been disrespectful, unruly, and frankly, a waste of his time.

Yet here you were anyway, sprawled across his bed like some broken doll someone had carelessly left behind. Your breathing shallow, body limp, and your skin soft under the weak glow of the lamp he'd so kindly turned on for you, on the off chance you did wake up before morning.

Patrick’s eyes traced the lines of your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, before drifting lower, lingering for a moment on the curve of your breasts before completely just looking up at the ceiling from his crouched form. His mind had been unusually blank, much calmer in comparison to earlier.

He didn’t feel anything as he looked at you now — unlike a mere hour or two ago, his body showed no desire, no seething need to devour you, just a detached, bored, unsavoury sense of waiting. You were easy to look at, sure, but that was about it. His gaze eventually shifted away, his head turning to the side as he let out a slow sigh.

Which, okay, this is alright, there was always a time and place to be horny, he knew that. And right now, he wasn’t in the mood. Not how he was before, anyway.

He's always been an honest, true believer in God’s plan. He’d never questioned it, not once. After all, it was God who had made him the way he was, who had given him the clarity to see the world for what it really was.

Patrick was the only one who truly understood, the only one who was real.

Everyone else? They were just… things. Hollow, meaningless things that existed to serve a purpose that revolved around him, even if they didn’t know what that purpose was. And he knew that, he'd known it to be true ever since he'd been old enough to comprehend the world around him.

But, really, what in the hell is that man thinking this time?

You were too loud, too emotional, too fake-alive in a way that made his skin crawl. God’s plan for you at this point was a mystery to him. What could someone like you possibly be good for if not to amuse him?

You weren’t docile enough to be used for procreation, which was his first fair thought, and your usefulness ended the moment the playing stopped.

Whatever facade of emotions God had given you, they were too much, too over-the-top. Patrick hated it when you things acted so righteous, like you wholeheartedly believed you had some kind of moral high ground? It was distasteful when you things fooled yourselves into thinking you were important.

He had, by default, assumed his desire for you was a needed reaction that his lord wished for him to have. But if that were the case, why were you going against it? Was this a new way God was using to elicit his excitement? Was Patrick meant to force you? He wasn't all to sure, not right this second. 

And that in itself made no sense. Patrick could count on one hand how many time's he'd ever been unsure about something. This wasn't his normal, it wasn't how things were meant to be.

He knew that whether you wanted to help him procreate or not, your opinions would fall deaf to his ears. You didn't have the privilege of getting a choice, and whatever pain you'd tricked yourself into thinking you could experience — wasn't his job, or care to abide by.

It was very likely that you were made to be a bigger obstacle than Patrick had expected, but just like animals — the stronger they are, the better the offspring, right? His eyes slowly fell back to your face, iris glossed over as his deepness in thought only skydived downwards even further.

That must've been it,

You would be too easy and predictable if you'd just flop over and let Patrick have his way with you. He's learnt enough about breeding between animals in the wild to know that only indicated weakness to a mate. And his creator would know how boring that would be for him, so it would... be somewhat logical why God had made you so uneededly disobedient.

But still, how much did he need to do in order to keep you at bay? 

Unlike the other things he'd played with, it wasn't as if he could just... stuff you away from the sunlight so quickly. You needed to help him procreate, however it was he'd get you in that position. You weren't some forgotten cat on the side of the road he could lure over with food.

He remained crouched near the bed, shifting closer a mere inch with his elbows resting loosely on his knees, fingers drumming against his leg bone in a slow, irregular rhythm. His head tilted to the side, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable expression for even himself.

Half agitation, half confusion.

He supposed that time would tell which it was.

Although, it was fairly moving to Patrick how much effort his Lord put into making you for him, and quickly — he had felt slightly ungrateful for disregarding you in his mind so quickly. Clearly, there was a lot of work used to keep you so lively despite being a husk, and for that, he'd forgive you for your silly reaction earlier.

Maybe he was being too careless, too direct with his intentions.

You were made to carry his children, however many it was that he'd decided he wanted, so without a second to think he had hurt you to show how excited he was to have something to hold such a serious purpose. But you probably, as the others, weren't allowed to know of your job like he did.

He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitched slightly in your unconscious state, like you were trying to escape something even in your dreams. You'd still been completely out-cold, but that was a given. He'd hit your head around a fair bit, if he knew you'd of ended up here held of held it back a smidge.

The sound your skull had made against the bricks was fresh in his mind, loud slapping noises that the bodies of his usual critter victims couldn't imitate. It must've hurt, must've hurt real bad, especially if it had you running away that badly.

Well, at least that was funny.

Patrick’s grin curled lazily, small but smooth, like a knife blade catching the light. He shifted his weight, the old wooden floorboards groaning softly under him as he leaned in a little closer, lightly inhaling to smell you.

You looked so… gentle like this, pathetically so.

You also, smelled like complete shit. Aren't you cute.

He hummed in contempt, resting his chin against his palm again. You could pass as somewhat pretty like this, all quiet and unaware. Patrick had always held a soft spot for things he found small and manageable, and as much as he knew you'd probably end up in the same place those animals did, he'd allow himself to humour you for now.

His other hand hovered just above your arm, fingers flexing like he was considering something. Then he pulled back.

Not because he thought better of it — Patrick never second-guessed himself — but because he was enjoying this too much. Letting the moment stretch. Letting his amusement simmer just under the surface, bubbling but never spilling over.

The fun about you wasn’t in the action. It was in the anticipation.

His head lolled back slightly as he let out a slow, exaggerated sigh through his mouth. "Wonder how long you’re gonna stay like that," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t really talking to you. More like testing the sound of his own voice in the heavy silence.

It wasn’t like he cared if you woke up soon or not. Either way, it didn’t make a difference to him. He had all the time in the world. But like any teenage boy his age, having a girl in his room was a bit strange. Even if Patrick understood his shyness was essentially all for naut, it was still there.

Gosh, here he goes, being the gentleman he'd been raised to be.

Patrick leaned back, his fingers still tapping against his clothed skin as he watched you. The flickering light of the lamp cast strange shadows across your face, your closed eyes lightly flinching in your unconscious state.

He wondered what you were dreaming about, if you had even been capable of it, being soulless and all. Was it him? Or was it something else entirely?

Well. Actually, It didn’t matter.

Dreams were just another way for you things to lie to yourselves, to pretend that you had some kind of control over your fake little lives. But Patrick knew better. He knew the truth. And the truth was, you were nothing, waiting to be used, waiting to be broken.

And Patrick was the one who got to decide when.

Of course, he had done his research. He’d read enough about packs, about animals, about the natural order of things to know that a pup would always need its mother. A baby without its female parental role would grow up violent, angry, or even downright hateful.

Patrick didn’t want his children to be like that.

He didn’t want them to be dark, twisted things like so many others in this world. No, his children would be different. They would be perfect. They would be real.

He’d felt what it was like to question if something else was real before. Avery had been... an experiment, of sorts. A test to see if someone else could be like him, could understand the world the way he did. Avery was a way for Patrick to see what else it was he'd been capable of personally feeling, and doing.

But that thing hadn’t been suitable anyway.

He wasn't strong enough, smart enough, or even real enough. Patrick had realised that now, looking back. Avery’s death hadn’t been the tragedy his parents so stupidly liked to cry over; it had been a stepping stone in Patrick’s personal growth. A necessary step in his journey to becoming the only one who truly mattered.

Because really, Patrick didn’t need Avery. Avery had been a leech, a weak, pathetic thing that clung to Patrick's parents like it thought it could become something more. But it couldn’t. It never could. Patrick had done everyone a favour by killing him. He’d rid the world of something that didn’t belong, something that wasn’t needed.

And in doing so, he’d proven to himself — and to God — that he was the correct choice.

But if he were to have control over what life, or lives, were to be birthed on this plain, he would be far more accepting of no longer being the only real person. His children, made by him, would be the only exception. They would be allowed to be here, just like he was.

It was also precisely why it had been so easy to bring you back, into his room, into his home. You were fresh. Not real, not like how you thought you were, but you had potential. You were loud, yes, and emotional, and chaotic, but there was something about you that intrigued him.

Maybe it was just the way you looked, the way your body moved, the way your skin felt under his hands. You'd been the only female that'd ever elicited any sexual interest in him, an interest that stuck for more than a second anyway.

Whatever it was that the lord saw in you that he didn't, Patrick had decided you were worth keeping.

His room was a reflection of him — sparse, utilitarian, and devoid of any unnecessary distractions. The walls were bare, painted a dull, now lifeless yellow that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The floor was covered in scuffed wooden planks, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use.

A single, flickering lamp sat on a rickety nightstand, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. The bed was small, its frame made of a cheap metal his Father had assembled himself, the mattress thin and lumpy. There were no posters, no decorations, no personal touches of any kind.

Well, none that Patrick himself added anyway. His parents had added small trinkets around his bedroom, one he'd quite liked or enjoyed — but ones he could understand well enough were a way for his parents to feel more connected to him. In reality, his parents were more-so like roommates.

They never bothered him, only ever spoke to him when it was an utmost importance. If anything, they avoided being near him for too long. Like his sickly nature was a disease that could be rubbed off onto anyone, or anything it came in contact to.

He could tell his parents were unnerved by him, yet craved a son so deeply that they'd cling to his very being — refusing to step back and see the stranger they'd let live in their home.

The only thing that stood out to him personally in his room was the small, neatly organized stack of books on the floor next to the bed. Patrick had read them all, of course. He’d read everything he could get his hands on — biology, psychology, philosophy. He needed to understand the world, to understand the things in it, even if they were all just shells.

Knowledge was power, after all, and Patrick intended to be the most powerful thing in Derry.

He couldn’t wait for you to wake up.

He wanted to see your eyes open, to watch the realisation dawn on you as you took in your surroundings. He wanted to see the fear, the confusion, the desperation. But he knew better than to shake you awake himself. You were such a loud little thing, and as much as it amused him to hear you scream, it wouldn’t be good to have you making noise in his home.

Patrick didn’t exactly tell his parents that he’d dragged you here. They wouldn’t get it. They never got it. They were just like everyone else that existed to serve a purpose they didn’t even understand. Patrick didn’t care for their input, didn’t care for their opinions.

They were irrelevant. Just like everyone else.

But he was getting tired of repeating himself in his head, Jesus Christ all he did was converse with himself. It was a shock he hadn't lost his mind being this utterly alone, but he'd been told countless of times already that God's greatest soldiers live the hardest lives.

Still, he more than deserved a break.

As long as you were here, he preferred to stay awake. Sleeping and waking up to you sneaking off didn't sound all too fun, and despite him knowing of your importance, his parents couldn't share that level of knowledge. They'd probably freak out, and considering how devout they were as Christians, that would not go so well.

His nose wrinkled slightly as he sat back, planting his hands on the floor behind him, his fingers scrunching idly against the cold floor. The room was quiet, save for the faint sound of your breathing — shallow and mostly uneven. Patrick tilted his head, his dark, empty eyes fixed on you as he considered his options.

He could wake you up again. Just to see what you’d do.

If you’d scream. If you’d cry. Or if you’d just look at him with those stupid, wide eyes, as if you believed you could make sense of him. Like you still thought there was some kind of logic to his actions, some kind of reason behind the things he did.

But there wasn’t. Point blank. Patrick didn’t operate on logic or reason. He operated on impulse, on instinct, on the simple, primal need to feel something. And right now, he was still quite bored.

Theoretically, he could complete your purpose now while you were still knocked out. It wouldn’t be difficult to get himself hard if he really needed to, so what damage could it do? If anything, since you’d been so difficult, so unruly, Patrick would be doing you a solid by getting it over with for you.

No fuss, no fight, no messy emotions to deal with. Just a quick, efficient transaction, and then he could move on to something more interesting. You'd most likely get pregnant, you look like you'd had a period, so you should have some eggs in you to make a kid right?

He lightly rolled his shoulders again, his neck swaying backward as he swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his tongue itching to run along something — teeth, lips, skin. That same dull ache in his teeth had returned, a persistent throb that made him want to bite down on something, to feel the give of flesh beneath his jaws.

It was unlike him to be so impatient, but then again, he was deeply aware of how little he had to do. And when Patrick was this in tune with everything, he got restless.

Sleazily, he slid up to his feet, quicker than he'd planned to — but quiet enough to kee p you asleep. His eyes dropped down to stare at your legs, the muscles on them once quick to try and escape, now resting lax against his bed mattress.

Your clothes were, to be frank, disgusting. Your shirt was stained with bile from earlier, the sour stench of it still lingering in the air. Blood droplets littered your shorts, as well as the collar and hem of your top, a grim reminder of the struggle that had brought you here.

It was only now that he took in how irresponsible it was for him to just dump you onto his bed while you were so unhygienic. Patrick utterly cringed at the thought, his nose wrinkling in disgust. But the cringe didn’t last long. Instead, he crawled onto the mattress, the old springs creaking softly under his weight.

He glanced over at his closed bedroom door, a quick, almost reflexive check to make sure no one was coming, before snapping his attention back to you.

His hands didn’t waste time. They moved with a kind of clinical efficiency, grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it up over your shoulders. The fabric caught for a moment, snagging on your arms, but Patrick didn’t care. He yanked it free, tossing it across the room with a careless flick of his wrist.

The shirt landed in a crumpled heap near the door, forgotten almost instantly.

Patrick’s eyes roamed over your upper body, taking in every detail with embarrassingly uneducated curiosity. Your skin was a patchwork of scrapes and bruises, the jagged marks standing out starkly against the soft, almost silicone look of your flesh.

The faint discolouration where he’d gripped you too hard earlier was beginning to bloom into deeper shades of purple and blue, a testament to his strength and your fragility. He tilted his head, his eyes lingering on the rise and fall of your chest, the way your breathing hitched slightly as his fingers brushed against your skin.

Even in your deep unconscious state, your body seemed to recoil instinctively from his touch, a faint twitch of your muscles as if trying to pull away from something your mind couldn’t yet process.

He didn’t mind.

In fact, he found it almost amusing. But more than that, he found it understandable.

Your body’s reflexive attempt to escape him, even while your mind was still trapped in the void of unconsciousness, was a small but satisfying reminder of his control over you. Patrick’s lips curled into a faint, lazy grin as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

His index finger traced a slow, meandering path up from your waist, following the faint curve of your stomach. His palm, much colder in comparison to the heat your body emitted, pressed flat against your lower abdomen, rubbing in slow, circular motions.

There was no real intent behind the gesture — not yet, at least. Patrick was simply feeling, exploring, mapping out the contours of your body with fascination.

He hadn't touched a woman before, not this openly. He'd groped a few girls at school, usually the ones forced to sit by his desk, or the few other girls that Henry had allowed for him to toy around with. That Bowers boy really didn't care much for gender, always itching to hurt something stupid enough to walk in his eyeview.

Sometimes it was a boy, and others it was a girl.

Whichever it were, Patrick only ever got to feel a woman's body when he'd had to hold down girls for Henry to punch around.

But regardless of his inexperience in undressing a girl, he couldn’t stop here. The shorts you were wearing were filthy, stained with blood and bile, and the sight of them made his spine want to shut in on itself imagining how his Mother would react to those kinds of stains on his sheets.

Patrick was many things, but messy wasn’t one of them.

He had a certain standard, a certain order to how things should be, and your current state was an affront to that. With quiet mechanical movements, Patrick shifted his weight, his knees pressing into the mattress as he leaned over you. His hands moved to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking under the fabric as he began to tug them down.

He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble. Patrick never fumbled. Every action, every gesture, was calculated, and precise.

As the fabric slid down your legs, Patrick’s attention followed, his eyes taking in every new inch of exposed skin. The bruises on your thighs, the faint scratches on your knees — each mark told its own little sob story, a story of struggle and no doubt resistance.

But those stories didn’t matter to Patrick. They were just details, like the patterns on the wings of the flies he trapped in jars to watch them die. He was not interested in the why of your pain, only in the how.

How your body reacted, how your own breathing choked you, how your muscles tensed and relaxed under his touch. These were the things that held his attention, the things that made you momentarily fascinating.

He tossed the shorts aside, the fabric thumping down on the floor next to your shirt. Patrick’s lips curled into a small, lazy grin as he leaned in closer, his breath growing heavier against the surrounding chill.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at you, his mind oddly blank. He didn’t feel anything good yet. No desire, not too much attraction, just a vague agreement with how you’d been shaped. Patrick hadn't seen all too many body types out in the air like this, but from what he was seeing on you, he liked it.

You had a good body underneath that annoying head of yours, one he definitely wouldn't mind scraping up more. Your purpose was to entertain him, and good for you, you’d been doing that pretty well right now.

Patrick sighed out into the quiet wind around him, arms drooping away from you to rest by his sides as he remained on his knees. “Ain’t you grown,” he muttered, his voice low and guttural. “Wouldn’t’a guessed it.” He’d been essentially straddling your lap, his knees keeping him up and stopping him from sitting on you.

Unlike most girls at Derry High, you'd been growing fairly quick.

He'd never taken the time to look all too deeply, but you had some pretty nice tits. Patrick licked his teeth before pinning over you again — his hand moving to briefly hover a mere inch above your bra-covered tit.

He compared the size of your breast to his palm, eyeing it for a moment before chuckling to himself.

His words were not a compliment, nor were they meant to be cruel. They were simply an observation, a statement of fact. Patrick didn’t deal in flattery or insults; he dealt in truths, no matter how uncomfortable they might be.

He shifted a tad closer, taking a closer inspection of your breasts, his right hand moving to press his palm down next to your head — the other trailing down to lightly move two fingertips along the cotton of your underwear, inching downward to start rubbing you through the last shred of fabric covering you.

His touch was neither gentle nor rough; it was practised like a scientist probing an experiment. Patrick didn’t derive pleasure from this right now in the way he knew he'd need to if it meant to fuck you.

He was testing the waters right now, nothing was all too fun if he was the only one awake.

Patrick’s fascination with the human body was not originally born of lust, but of a deeper, more unsettling need to have awareness. He had always been this way, even as a child. It was the same need to know more that drove him now, as he explored your body with the same interest he might show a dead animal in the Barrens.

He was not a sadist in the traditional sense; he did not enjoy causing pain for its own sake. Rather, he was enraptured by the mechanics of it, the way pain and pleasure could coexist, how the body could betray its owner.

As his fingers continued their exploration, Patrick’s mind wandered. He thought about the refrigerator in the Junkyard, about the flies and the frogs and the cat he had killed. He thought about the way their bodies had rotted and stilled into rigor mortis, the way their eyes had glazed over.

He wondered if you would look the same when it was over, if your eyes would lose their focus, if your body would go limp. The thought didn’t excite him as much as it had earlier, it was just another possibility, another outcome to consider.

Patrick Hockstetter was not a boy who dreamed of the future. He didn’t imagine growing up, getting a job. He didn’t think about the consequences of his actions, about the horror he caused or the lives he ruined.

He lived entirely in the present, in the moment, and in this moment, you were his focus.

You were his experiment, his animal to breed with, his entertainment. And when he was done with you, when he had learned everything he could, he would move on to the next thing, the next person, the next creature god would bestow onto him to use.

That was just the way Patrick was.

As his fingers pressed harder, as his breath quickened ever so slightly, Patrick's blank expression switched to slight surprise as he felt your body begin to give off the natural reaction that he'd learnt about in the many outdated biology textbooks he sometimes flipped through.

You weren't wet, but he could feel whenever your form would involuntarily respond, be it either in disagreement or by pure unawareness. The part of his mind — the only part that seemed to function properly — catalogued these responses.

Apparently, it was meant to feel amazing during sex.

He'd heard enough crap from Henry and the others whenever they'd bring it up in the shade of the Kenduskeag Bridge or behind Derry High. The talk always nauseated him slightly. Of course, Patrick was a virgin. He never wanted to fuck these puppets, it as a whole just felt so wrong to him.

Sexual gratification came differently to Patrick — through fire, through his lighter, through watching things die in his refrigerator.

But, now you were here, and your usefulness had already been decided for you.

Patrick had made that choice long before you even realised what was happening — before you crumpled in the alleyway, before he slung you over his shoulder with all the care of a kid hauling a half-dead animal home to play with. You hadn’t been conscious for that part, and maybe that was a shame.

He would’ve liked to see your face when you saw there was no one around to stop him.

His fingers twitched idly before curling against your clothed privates, nails pressing into the fabric covering your lower half. Just enough to feel the heat of you, the faint, rhythmic pulse beneath your skin. Your body twitched slightly, your face scrunching up like you were fighting through the fog of unconsciousness.

He watched, waiting to see if you'd wake up.

You didn't.

How more pathetic could you be?

Patrick exhaled sharply through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, before tilting his head. He wondered if you could feel him, even in sleep. If some primal part of your brain registered danger, some buried instinct screaming at you to run, even though your body refused to listen.

The stillness of his bedroom amplified the sound of his breathing, the yellow wallpaper his mother had chosen years ago now faded to the white he saw every day and peeling in places, creating abstract patterns that sometimes looked like faces when the light hit just right.

And for a moment, he could somewhat understand Henry now.

The thrill of power, the rush of complete control — it was different from watching animals die in his refrigerator or his hands, but adjacent somehow, connected by the same dark thread of dominance.

He considered biting down — not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to see what you'd do.

A slow test of pressure. A mark of ownership.

The new and unknown urge pulsed within him, much like the desire he felt when holding his lighter to a grasshopper's legs or watching a field mouse panic as the refrigerator door closed. It wasn't sexual — not in the conventional way that Henry and the others talked about. But it satisfied something deeper, more primitive.

But in the end, he didn't.

There was a specific nature to Patrick's madness. Everything in its time. Everything in its place. The meticulously ordered shelves around his room testified to this — specimens in jars, dead insects pinned to a corkboard, bird wings preserved and labelled.

His parents had long ago stopped asking questions about his "collections," had stopped entering his room altogether unless absolutely necessary.

They sensed, on some instinctual level, what the teachers at Derry Elementary saw in his vacant stare — something wrong, something missing.

His dead eyes, the ones that had unnerved teachers since kindergarten, the ones that made his classmates shuffle away from him in the hallways without quite knowing why, scanned your unconscious form with the same way he might give to a butterfly pinned to a board.

Patrick's understanding of intimacy was, and always has been, fundamentally broken. Replaced by a desire to observe and demand. He didn't crave connection — he craved complete say over something. He liked pulling things apart just to see how they worked.

Ever since he'd smothered his baby brother Avery in his crib — an experiment in permanence, in reality — he'd been chasing that same feeling, that moment of realisation that he had the power to erase something from existence, even if he in his mind would make excuses for himself, and just prior had done so again.

He dragged his fingers away, pushing himself to sit back onto his heels, though his eyes never left you. The bedsprings creaked beneath his shifting weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of his room.

The walls here had witnessed countless smaller little tests of his — the silenced screams of trapped insects, but this was different. You were larger, more complex.

A more sophisticated test subject. He'd never killed cats or dogs here in his home, not where he could be found out.

His gaze drifted momentarily to the closet where, behind hanging clothes and stacked board games his parents had bought in futile attempts at normalcy, which had also been the same place his collection of stolen underwear was hidden.

Not because they aroused him — no, Patrick didn't function that way — but because taking them was another form of control, another way of proving his theory that others weren't real, that their possessions and bodies were simply props in his universe.

He'd taken random objects, clothing, or even discarded things from strangers all around him. He held no shame in the fact, there was no need to harbour any. It wasn't like he'd been taking them for any perverse reasons? They were just out in the open, and were lucky enough to come into his ownership.

Just like you, he supposed.

That's funny.

The clock on his nightstand ticked in rhythm to Hockstetter's heartbeat, marking time in a world that Patrick experienced differently than others. His parents would be awake in about three hours.

His mother would call up the stairs, voice tight with forced cheerfulness, announcing the morning, and breakfast without expecting a response. His father would drink silently at the table, eyes never quite meeting his son's, as if afraid of what he might see reflected there.

Patrick reached for the flyswatter hanging on a hook by his desk, only now making the effort to get off of his bed to grab it — a mundane object transformed in his hands into an instrument of power. He'd spent countless hours with it, perfecting his technique, learning how to snatch flying insects from the air with a single strike.

The small deaths had become a ritual, a practice for larger ambitions.

On his desk, amidst homework he'd been hounded into completing by his constantly stressed-looking mother, had been laid flat. Never brilliant, never failing — existing in the unremarkable middle that helped him avoid attention, lay his prized possession: a medical textbook stolen from the Derry Public Library.

Not the most enjoyable thing to read at his age, he knew.

The pages most worn, most frequently visited, were those detailing the body's vital systems, the precise mechanisms of life that, when interrupted, led to death. Patrick had memorised these pages, had studied them with more diligence than anything taught in school.

He set the flyswatter down and returned his attention to you. Your sleep engulfed body presented a unique opportunity — different from the animals in the refrigerator, different from the insects on pins. A human specimen, defenceless in his territory.

He leaned forward once more, his face hovering inches from yours, close enough to feel your breathing.

This proximity to another person, if not solely to hurt and abuse, would normally disgust him — Patrick avoided most physical contact whenever possible, shrinking from his mother's increasingly rare attempts at affection, keeping an arm-lengthed distance from even Henry and the other two he'd always been near.

What were their names again? Victor and... Reginald? Whatever.

Though, as you are the future carrier of his kids, he'd allow you to experience such special treatment.

In the corner of the room, a spider had built a web between his bookshelf and wall. Patrick had been watching it for days, observing its pattern of trapping and consuming. He felt a certain understanding with the creature, useless as that may be. Sometimes he imagined Derry itself as a web, with something ancient and hungry at its centre.

Not that Patrick believed in such things — the only reality was himself. Everything else was questionable.

His fingers traced the outline of your jaw, applying just enough pressure to test the resilience of your skin, to measure the depth of your unconsciousness. The bruise forming at your temple — evidence of how you'd ended up here — was now turning a gorgeous shade of purple.

The house creaked around him once over, settling on its foundation as the night-time cool began to fade. Soon, the sun would lengthen across Derry, across Witcham Street and Kansas Street and all the places where children should be safe but never really were.

Patrick's room, with its façade of normalcy — the school pennant his father had hung, the model cars gathering dust on shelves — was the perfect camouflage. No one looking in would see anything amiss.

That was his greatest talent: passing for human while being anything but.

Even Henry Bowers, with all his viciously cute little outbursts, was... Close to comprehensive in his rage, his pain, his desperation for his father's approval. Patrick was something else entirely — a void shaped like a boy, watching these things' ideas of 'humanity' from the outside.

He liked this part.

The in-between. The moment where sleep and reality blurred together and, for just a second, you didn’t know what was happening. Where you still thought, maybe, you were somewhere safe. As much as he wanted to see more of you, he'd hold it back for now. Even if you were pretty easy like this, 

Well, who cares. He can wait for morning to come, even if he truly didn't want to.