#*bichie

 INT. One William Denbrough, eroding into the earth every time Richie leans close enough for Bill to feel the ghost of his breath on his skin, and touches him softly, a thumb brushing his left brow and allowing Bill’s mind to entertain thoughts and ideas he would otherwise deem impossible.

“It’s just so insane,” Richie says, face close to yours while his other hand holds your hair up from your forehead, and examines the silver thread of a scare over your temple. His glasses are pushed down the bridge of his nose so that you can see the dark chocolate of his eyes clearly, unobscured by the lenses.

You count one, two, three freckles in the corner of his right eye and whisper, “Yeah,” the very effort taking all the air from your lungs. Richie does not blink.

“Seven hours,” he continues, “You didn’t wake up for seven hours?”  

You nod. Your cheek brushes the skin of Richie’s palm, and you fight not to lean into the warmth. “D-dad s-s-says they almost lost me a few tuh-times during, but mom says he’s making that up. I just think sh-she doesn’t like to think about it.”

“And they think that’s what caused the stutter?” Richie says, “You getting hit by that car?”

You shrug. The word No lingers at the forefront of your mind and tickles the back of your tongue, but instead you bite it away and say, “Yes. I got h-hit and thrown against a wall. Knocked out. It de-did something to my head.”

Richie leans away. Cool air kisses your cheeks in his absence.

“Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

You shrug, a stab of shame poking you in the stomach. “I don’t know. It’s weird, I guh-guess.”

Richie frowns. “It’s not weird,” he says.

“And I didn’t w-want you to look at me different.”

“It’s not weird, Bill.”

“It is weird, R-Richie. I died for a few minutes. It’s weird. I’m weird.”

“Not to me.”

You close your eyes, whispering, “Seriously …”

You can still hear the smile in Richie’s voice when he says, “I think it’s amazing, actually. You had a near death experience. You’re like a fuckin’ superhero, Denbrough.”

You open your eyes. Richie is close to you. He had been close before but now he’s closer still, the shadows from the flickering embers kissing the curve of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and the cleft of his chin. It’s close to ten and Richie’s parents will be expecting him home soon. It’s close to ten and your parents won’t be home for the weekend.

It’s close to ten and your best friend is looking at you in a way that best friends should not.  

INT. A boy blue, first name Bill.

Richie’s eyes are velvet under the orange haze of the wood burning in the fireplace. His lips have fallen open a sliver, as if awed, and he is whispering, “Hey, Billy,” and you think this may be what does it, the last straw. “Billy, Billy, Bill …”

He is still whispering your name against his lips when you kiss him.

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