“ i’m a being of pure power, i don’t need sleep. “
Bill would not beg to differ (because he didn’t beg, for one), but he would still insist greatly.
Richie’s leg had been going for hours. There was too much zing in his blood and the kid couldn’t deal with the reflex of the zang. Whatever containment had been there was now ruptured, and there had never been any filter. At the midnight mark, Bill’s own leg had begun to make a good mockery of Richie’s. Up, down, up,down, updownupdownupdown. Good company inspired good company, or something like that. (He wasn’t sure if that was something he had come across before, or if he had made that up himself, but it worked.)
“I don’t think Rockstars count as power,” Bill said, slow-like - for the benefit of his disorder, and from the cause-effect of his own tiredness. “It technically counts as being rented energy.” One that, he was certain, Richie would come down from in a grand crash. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been exposed to the vapid whirlwind that was Richie’s incredibly ability to zip around, but he’d never been there for the aftermath. Or, not really.
“I’m tired.” He admitted, half a laugh born from something soft in his diaphragm. Bill’s gaze fixed itself to Richie’s, and his head inclined a moment after. “And I nuh-need,” Here, while he didn’t pause in his speech, he did throw a quick gaze to rat-nest boy that was a fair epitome of a visual see? “sleep, and I’m sure if we laid down, by proxy you would probably conk out.” His mouth settled into a comfy line, good humored despite his initial issue of exhaustion.
“You’re not the energizer bunny, buddy.”
