#it ficlet

 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.

 _

The field was windy, cool. A gust of the air sent a shiver down Richie Tozier’s neck. He didn’t usually get stage fright, but this time he had good reason. In his hand, Richie held a small, scrawled upon note of paper. His script - what he was meant to recite. He looked out at the people below him, all glassy eyed and red nosed. Among them he saw his friends, The Losers Club - or what was left of them, of course.

A deep, shuddering breath in, and Richie began. Well, he tried to. As he opened his mouth to speak, for once in his life not a word would come out. A mixture of bile and phlegm built up in the back of his throat as the truth finally dawned upon him. The horrible truth that his best friends were dead, and not coming back. Unconsciously, the note in Richie’s hand had turned into a paper ball as he clamped at it in rage and frustration. 

Finally, defeated, Richie shook his head twice and allowed the tears to flow down his face and his cheeks, chilling him as the cold wind blew quickly. Disregarding his script, his note, Richie rambled.

“Uh..” He began, slightly awkwardly, “Stanley Uris was, one of my best friends..” Richie thought for a moment, “He was my best friend,” He agreed with himself, and a light chuckle, “Despite his sarcastic remarks and his bitchy sighs, I knew he would die for me - and I, him. I hadn’t seen him in twenty-seven years but here we are,” Richie gestured around, “At his and Eddie’s funeral. All of the memories, good and bad, are flooding back. Stanley Uris was a brave, talented and intelligent soul whom I loved with my whole heart. May he rest in peace.”

Richie breathed out, looking down at the casket to his left. Then he looked at the one to his right, and took another breath in.

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” He started, chuckling oncemore, “How much I have to say about him. They say - when a boy pulls a little girl’s pigtail it’s because he likes her; well, this was the case with Eds and I. I pulled his pigtail, hell,” Richie breathed out, “I never stopped pulling. We all left Derry and I was young and naive, having grown up in such a messed up town. I didn’t know the feelings I felt for him,” Richie took an almighty sniff in, and wiped some tears from his face, “I loved, and will always love, Eddie with my life. I hoped to one day marry him, be saying this with him facing me, and him agreeing. I wanted to slip a ring over his finger, say ‘I do’ and throw the bouquet. Life doesn’t always go that way. Edward Frank Kaspbrak, I love you, rest in peace.”

If you live in Derry, Maine there is a single unspoken rule you must follow. It’s a secret that seeps up through the bedrock of the Neibolt-Turner cross street and follows you home, quiet, like a 2am nightmare. You’ll never see it coming, you’ll never remember it in the morning.

Its whispered and well known, a secret passed down from grandparents, to parents, to their children; Not as much a fact, than a feeling; it’s the cold wind in a dark room or the choke of anxiety at a carnival, it’s knowing in your bones that despite the flowers that grow in the Neibolt yard there’s truth in the pain that radiates from that house. You can never put your finger on it, but you feel it, a conditioned response, like a past life, like a distant memory.

That house, the only one rebuilt, and repainted, and taken care of on the desolate corner of Neibolt and Turner, it appears innocent and inviting, with its warm yellow paintjob, and large curtained windows, and beds of sunflowers. Many a brave child has walked up to the house only to be dragged away by their shirt collars.

“It’s not like anyone lives there!” “Hush”

Its said, that if you visit on a certain day of the summer you’ll see a man sitting on the porch. A tall, lanky man, in a fancy suit that screams he has no business being in, of all places, Derry, Maine. Just sitting there, eating vanilla ice cream, laughing to himself. The deep crows’ feet around his eyes leaving lasting impressions, the melting ice cream getting into his silver hair when he pushes his glasses back up his large nose with the same hand. He won’t answer you if you call out to him, just wave and go back to laughing.

It’s those days where the house seems just as it should be, not a shell housing a secret, but a place as full of life as you’d think it would have. Even if all of that life is only coming from one man, it’s like he’s radiating the life of the souls said to be lost there. With the summer sun shining through the grass, and the warm wind flowing through the open windows, there’s a peacefulness.

It’s also said, that if you turn back with the sun just right, you will see a younger man doubled over in laughter right there next to him.

. . .

-Making out under the bleachers at football games

-clothing being ripped when getting down and dirty

-knife play

-teaching him breathing techniques when he gets anxious

-him running his fingers through your hair when you can’t sleep

-You totally appreciating his mullet

-you constantly booping his nose

-lots of butt grabs

-A lot of inappropriate acts in public

-Belch crushing on you  and Henry threatening to gouge his eyes out

-Intense jealousy

-pinky holding

-footsies under any and all tables

-You both being obsessed with the same snack foods

Suggested by @peppermint-pretty! Hope you enjoy <3 And if it's shit it's because I have no understanding of how straight people interact, sorry not sorry!

"You're an idiot, Bill Denbrough," Beverly snorted as she tugged off her overcoat and lay it in the booth next to her. Her boyfriend, Bill, grinned back at her goofily, with a considerable amount of whipped cream on his nose from what must've been a milkshake at one point.

"And you are beautiful, Beverly Marsh," Bill replied smoothly. At this, Bev chuckled and reached over the table to wipe the cream from Bill's nose with a napkin.

"I'll let you off on that one then," She continued, taking a handful of fries, "It's good to get a break from the rest of The Losers Club."

Bill nodded and chuckled.

"I know - I love them but christ, they're chaotic," He said simply, shrugging his shoulders a little. He couldn't take his eyes off of Beverly. Her curly orange locks were curled up into two buns, which balanced upon her head precariously - accompanied by a couple of hair clips. The setting sun's rays hit the freckles scattered across her face, and illuminated their glow in a way so unbelievably beautiful. On the day, she had chosen to wear a peridinkle pair of dungarees, accompanied by a baby pink shirt. To Bill, she was breathtakingly gorgeous - to the point where his old stutter almost resurfaced.

The diner they had chosen to have dinner in was unknown to many people in the town of Derry, but it was one of the best out there. A jukebox sat at the back, surrounded by red leathered dining booths. The waiters' and waitresses' mode of transport were a pair of rollerskates, and it got chaotic at times - but this was the place where Bill had first asked Bev out, and had become that of a tradition for the two of them.

Beverly's favourite order from the place was a plate of their overly salted fries, and a vanilla thickshake. To Bill's disgust, but not surprise, every time she would combine the two - claiming it was like sucking an angel's dick. Bill usually drifted to a double cheeseburger meal with a diet coke on the rocks. In honor of their two year anniversary, the two decided to vary from their usual traditions.

"The ice-cream sundae?" A waitress asked, holding a tray precariously in one hand as her feet slipped slightly will the contact between the skates and the tile floor.

"Both of us, thanks," Bill nodded. She flashed him a grin, before zooming off behind the counter.

"I think she liked you," Beverly winked, taking a spoon and diving into the sundae. Bill scoffed, a light red shade.

"I only have eyes for one beautiful girl, and she's right across from me at this very moment."

It was Bev's turn to turn red, and she leaned over the table to gently kiss her boyfriend. It was soft and tender, much like the others that the two had shared over the span of their relationship.

"I really do love you, Bill Denbrough," Beverly gushed, before eating the ice-cream from her spoon.

-Midnight campfires in the woods

-Him teaching you, a lightweight, how to keep your alcohol down

-Carving curses into trees and benches

-writing your names like graffiti into random surfaces

-Making sure no one’s looking when you hold hands

-You pushing him to show his affection in public

-Him giving in to your adorable pleads and pouts

-You refusing to smoke and him teasing you about it

-The gang teasing him furiously

-You exposing your threatening side

-You not having patience for any negativity

-Permission given for you to hit any member of the gang for being a jackass

-You picking up any and all insults

-You stealing his clothes and wearing his oversized clothes

-Him throwing rocks at your window in the middle of the night, waking your tired ass up

-You planting constant kisses on his cheek and him scrunching his nose

-You unable to help yourself from squeezing his strong arm

-Him giving you gentle massages as you stress over school and home life

-You being right there for him when he often times needs it

-Telling him it’s okay to cry

-You stroking his face and making him maintain eye contact when you talk