#losermade

this is how he’s going to die. suffocating, beneath the ground. no way that he can get out. closer, closer, closer. no, no, no, no--    ben gasps as he wakes up, and there’s sweat on his face. his palms clammy. his shirt sticking to his chest, damp. he doesn’t know what to do. there’s a moment in which he can’t help but think he’s still there, two seconds away from being buried alive in the clubhouse that he’d built with his own two hands. that he was going to fall and none of them would realise. none of them would care. he shakes. trembles. terrified, through and through. there’s no light in the room and he needs-- he needs to get out. he needs to go somewhere, anywhere. and ben is stumbling, forcing himself out of his bed, and he’s tugging his t-shirt over his head. letting it fall to the ground. careless. vision blurry. he just needs to breathe. something to keep him grounded. it’s rude, he’ll realise in the morning, when he’s slept longer than an hour without pennywise getting inside his head even from beyond the grave. he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep without it reoccurring, without it playing over, and over. he’s running out of time-- it doesn’t even enter his mind who’s bed he gets into, but it’s the first door closest to his own that isn’t completely shut. ben isn’t saying anything, isn’t explaining or apologizing. isn’t waking them up. he climbs into their bed, and it’s ungraceful and his fingers still shake and there’s still a shudder dragging down his spine as he presses his face against richie’s ribs. breathes, breathes, breathes. in, out. in, out. 

          “  Hey  ,  Rich  — ”  He   barely   moves   his   head   to   glance   in   the   other  ’  s   direction  ,  just   the   subtle   shift   of   his   gaze   as   he   wiped   a   bead   of   sweat   from   his   forehead  .  “  You   ever  ,  oh  I   don  ’  t   know  ,  think   of   not   breathing   like   a   fuckin’   racehorse  ?  ”

                               there goes frog face

     As  much  as  the  baby  losers  hated  running  into  Bowers,  Henry  was  equally  IF  NOT  MORE  inconvenienced  with  their  encounters  as  the  summer  went  on.  It   was  easy  being  on  the  receiving  end  of  a  beat  down.  Just  close  your  eyes  and  wait  for  it  to  be  over  with.  Nothing  to  it.  But him?  He  had  to  actually  put  in  the  effort  to  make  it  hurt  and  remind  them  their  place.

    Any  other  day  and  yeah,  he  might  have  enjoy  cutting  the  edge  off  by  smashing  Richie’s  glasses,  but  last  night——Jeeeeezz.  He  slept  on  his  cot  wrong  and  now  has  the  WORST crick  in  the  neck.

        ❝ Not  so  fast  babyfag. ❞ His  hand  jets  out  to  grab  Richie  by  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  putting  forth  the  bare  minimum.  If  they  made  this  quick  he  could  make  it  to  the  doughnut  shop  before  it  closed.  ❝ Hand  it  over.  ❞

        “ do  it,  pussy,   you  won’t.  “

Blood pours from her lips as she rests on her hands and knees just long enough to look up at Richie after the blow to her gut occurs. She falls to her side, shaking as she covers the wound in her stomach with her nimble hands. She’s scared, but instinct is a funny thing--she’d jump in front of Richie again to save him if the situation replayed.

“F-f-fuck...that hurt worse than I thought.”

The joke is in poor taste, but she can’t help trying to make light of the situation as she reaches out to touch her little brother’s face tenderly.