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New York City. The Big Apple. City that Never Sleeps. Home to surprisingly a lot of colleges.
From far too many phone calls, road trips galore, and incessant planning and re-planning, the Losers’ Club had agreed on meeting in New York City after Stanley graduated High School. And finally fulfilling their shared goal of moving in together.
Richie, Eddie, Mike and Stan were planning to drive from Derry down to Portland, where they’d meet up with Bill. They’d stay with him for the night, then Bev would drive down the next morning. She would join them, and they would catch a plane- it turned out to be several, but it was only one in their plan- down to New York City. Then they’d meet Ben at the airport, who would fly up from Omaha.
They really gave it their best effort, but in the end, it stumbled.
Everything was great up until the Losers (minus Ben) got to the airport to catch a plane down to New York. Apparently, there’d been a problem with the bookings, and they could no longer all go on the same flight.
It ended in Richie and Mike taking the original flight. Then Bill, Bev, and Eddie took another; which left Stan to take one by himself.
But they all landed in New York, where the first two groups met up straight away. Stan had already found Ben when they’d spotted him.
So, that left them all together, in New York City.
Now, they just needed to get to their house.
Eddie flagged down an airport taxi, which drove them to their shared residence. They all hefted their luggage out of the car trunk, paid and thanked the driver, and turned towards the townhouse that was more tall than it was wide.
“This is it,” Mike uttered, amazed. He fumbled with the key he’d been mailed, shaky hands inserting it into the door’s lock.
The door creaked open. With Bill leading, the seven teens traipsed inside. It was a seven-bedroom, four-bathroom house. It looked cramped, even with no furniture.
Eddie gulped as he perused the first floor. “Is this place structurally sound?”
“Well, it’s—”
“Nevermind, Ben, I don’t think I actually wanna know,”
They all migrated to the second floor eventually. Then the third. Everything looked to be in place, so they met down in the living room again to claim rooms.
Ben and Stan had assembled a list over the phone when they’d found out the house’s layout before buying it, considering many variables that would play into someone’s room placement.
The four rooms on level two would hold Eddie, Beverly, Richie, and Ben. Their college work could consist of much louder activities.
Mike, Bill, and Stan would get the three bedrooms on the top level, seeing as their work would be the quietest (Mike and Stan later came to regret this decision due to the noisy nature of Bill’s typewriter, yet it was too late to be changed).
With these arrangements, the Losers broke off to go unpack their bags. Said process took about four hours for all of them to be temporarily finished, as their other belongings were being shipped to them in a couple weeks.
They met in the unfurnished kitchen, sitting strewn across the tile floor.
“I hope you’re all happy with your rooms,” Beverly said tiredly, almost groaning the words as she rubbed her aching biceps. “They’ll be where you’re sleeping for the next four years; at least.”
They all mumbled satisfactorily. Then Bev rose from her crumpled form and got her coat on. Eddie followed, and the two left with an announcement that they’d be back with takeout.
The Losers ate dinner on their kitchen floor. Eddie and Stan both complained about the uncleanliness and propped their meals up on their knees.
They finished supper and threw away the leftover containers, then all gathered in the living room, where they would all be sleeping tonight in a pile of sleeping bags and pillows.
“Tomorrow’s schedule. What is it?” Richie asked absentmindedly, shoving his hand under his shirt, hiking it up to reveal that he was idly picking lint from his bellybutton.
Stan looked over Bill’s shoulder where he held several printed schedules of all their college classes. He squinted, then snatched them all up to conduct a closer examination.
“We’ve all got orientations tomorrow,” he informed. “All classes for our majors start next week.”
“What’d everyone decide on in the end? I don’t think I was actually told while planning this. I’m… obviously majoring in Architecture.” Ben said, rubbing his elbow sheepishly. His friends all smiled at him, then looked to one another as they listed off their planned majors.
“Going double, Haystack. Music Theory & Composition and Ventriloquism.” Richie declared.
“Automotive Engineering for me. But I also need to get started on my chauffeur license.” Eddie muttered.
“C-Creative Wuh-Wruh-Writing,” Bill’s stutter held his words back slightly. Ben figured he was anxious after the stressful day they’d had.
“Fashion design,” Bev supplied, blowing her bangs away from her eyes.
“A double major for me as well: Library Science and History.” Mike sighed out, stretching from his spot on the hard floor.
“Accounting,” Stan said, finalizing the listings.
Ben nodded thoughtfully, then yawned. He glanced outside the window, where inky darkness swam against the discolored panes.
He fell asleep slumped between Bill and Stan. Richie followed soon after, his head falling against Bill’s shoulder. Mike passed out next to Richie, and Eddie next to him. Beverly was the last out; checking all the locks just to be sure before she lied down next to Stanley and dozed away from the real world.
Their first night had been uneventful. No one had broken in, like Richie had said they would. And no one had choked on their own saliva by not having the proper pillow support, like Eddie had said they would.
Mike woke first. He left to get them some breakfast.
When he returned, Bill and Beverly were up, hopping from room-to-room with last-minute unpacking and orientation preparations. Ben got up to help Mike hand out breakfast, which consisted of seven coffees and seven hot dogs he’d bought from a street kiosk.
“None of them have gone vegetarian yet?” Ben laughed.
Mike laughed too, though nothing about the subject was particularly humorous. “Bill tried; didn’t work out. Richie still doesn’t eat meat on Fridays.”
The smell of food made both Richie and Stanley stir awake, bickering with one another groggily as they dragged themselves to the kitchen. Their spots on the floor were already furnished with Arlene Hanscom’s old cushions Ben had brought on the plane to New York.
Eddie was the last up, crashing their breakfast just as everyone else was clearing out.
He ate alone, content and peaceful as his friends bustled around him, rushing to get ready for the day to come.
That night, after all their college orientations, they curled up on Eddie’s bedroom floor- one of the three bedrooms with carpet; the others being Richie’s and Ben’s- and fell asleep before even getting the chance at dinner.
They all skipped it that night.
During the prolonged napping period, Beverly and Stan both got up to move to less cramped spaces. Bev went to Richie’s room and Stan lied down in Ben’s. The rest stayed packed close on Eddie’s carpet.
On their 9th night in New York, several shipments of their furniture were delivered. They spent hours putting everything together over the weekend, following all of Ben’s instructions, as they trusted him more than the manual, oddly enough.
In what felt like only a month though it had really been several, the Losers had settled into their new lives. Their classes ate up the majority of their schedules, homework even more of them, but the group had some spare time to explore the city.
They all had a favorite spot in the city soon enough. Everything was going great.
______________________________________________
Until it wasn’t. Until Bill had been on a phone call with his mother, sitting at their dining table tossing an apple in his free hand.
Over the phone, Sharon was struggling.
“Love, I need to ask a favor of you, and I don’t know if you’re going to like it,” she said, causing Bill to frown. He slumped his shoulders, anxious despite his best attempts at hiding the fact from his mother.
“Stop e-e-equivocating, M-Muh-Mom,”
Sharon sighed, clearly disappointed in hearing his stutter appear. Bill tried not to let it bother him as she picked the conversation back up.
“I’m sending George on a plane to New York; to you and your friends,” The woman didn’t pause for more than a second. “He’s been misbehaving, Bill. Skipping class, getting into fights. He won’t talk to me! Oh, and what if he’s doing dru—!”
“C-C-Calm d-down,” Bill felt his words cling to the sides of his throat as he willed them up. “Juh-Juh-Georgie’s a t-t-t-teenager. Thu-Thu-This stuff ha-happens.”
“Maybe. But Bill, I’m still sending him to you for a couple months, at least. He hasn’t been doing great ever since you left, y’know. It’ll be for the best.”
Bill didn’t disagree. He didn’t agree either. He simply tried once more to soothe his mother, then hung up with a promise to call her later.
He went to class and sort of forgot the whole call; but after dinner that night, as he sat at his desk hunched over a typewriter, he heard the phone start to ring downstairs. Then Richie called his name.
Bill blanked for just a moment, raising an eyebrow and wondering who would be calling. Then he stood and shuffled down to the kitchen, where Richie stood leaning against the fridge, one hand holding the phone and another fiddling with the cord.
“Well Mrs. Denbrough, it’s been lovely speaking with you, but unfortunately Billy’s here to cut our time together short,” Richie’s voice trailed off when Bill snatched the phone, then he shrugged and sauntered off to his room.
Sharon relayed all the details of the trip to her eldest son; what time George would fly in, any new prescriptions he’d started, how he’d be completing his schoolwork during the time period.
Apparently George had gotten a pardon from attending his middle school due to the nature of his disability, which Sharon had lied and said was acting up.
Then, Sharon had told Bill, George would have packets of lessons and work to do with him. So he was practically being homeschooled.
When Bill asked what would happen if George didn’t understand the material of the lessons, Sharon simply responded that Bill and his friends were there for that support.
So, they had to all go to school while also schooling an angsty 8th grader.
Great.
__________________________________________________
On the day George was arriving, all of the Losers helped tidy the house and set up a mattress on the floor of Bill’s room. Apparently, the younger Denbrough would be arriving at the airport, then taking a taxi to la casa de la Losers’. No pickups needed.
Bill awaited anxiously. He hadn’t seen George for almost a year; not since he’d moved to New York.
Stanley and Ben had helped Bill make George’s favorite food for dinner; pigs in a blanket (with a liberal side of pesto).
At 6:20, Eddie and Mike got home. They both pouted when told dinner wasn’t to be eaten until George arrived, but eventually collapsed on the couch to watch television with Richie.
Beverly was stepping through the door twenty minutes later, kicking her shoes off and going upstairs to arrange her fabrics for a project.
When George still wasn’t there at 6:50, Bill sluggishly came to sit on the couch next to Mike. He, Richie, and Eddie were watching a show Bill remembered from his recent childhood: The Donna Reed Show.
Ah. That’s right. It’d been released in 1958; but The Losers’ Club hadn’t even realized it existed until after that year. They hadn’t had much time to focus on shows that year.
It made Bill’s stomach turn, thinking about that summer. Thinking about how George had almost lost his life at the age of six. How instead he’d lost his arm.
Anxieties piled higher and stabbed his gut when he tried to distract himself with the show playing on the television. It was an episode about parents attempting to deal with their teenage childrens’ many difficulties.
Richie could sense his friend’s discomfort, so he changed the channel.
At approximately 7:00, there was an echoing knock on their door. Stan was nearest, and he calmly opened it to let a short figure shuffle inside.
“Hey, George, how was the flight?” Stan asked, smiling as he reached to help George take his raincoat off.
George didn’t have time to answer before Bill was in the room, eyes wide, jaw dropped. “Georgie!” he yelled cheerfully, opening his arms and bending down slightly to accommodate his brother’s height.
In just a moment, Bill knew he’d be feeling his brother in his arms again. Maybe Georgie would cry, and Bill would comfort him and tell him that everything’s alright. And then Georgie would talk to Bill and the Losers about what’d been bothering him and causing him to act out, and Sharon wouldn’t have another problem when her youngest returned home.
That moment didn’t come. Bill peeked an eye open to see George untying his shoes; thanking Stanley as he took the younger’s luggage upstairs. Bill faltered.
“Um,” he frowned, starting to wilt in nervous energy again. Maybe Georgie’s just jetlagged, he reasoned. “Y-You’re ruh-r-rooming w-w-with me during your st-st-stay. Juh-Juh-Just like old t-t-times, ey?”
“Sure is, Billy,” George hummed, setting his shoes by the door and stretching. He looked around, hand on his hip, surveying the house with narrowed eyes. The rest of the Losers strolled over, all brightening at the sight of the boy.
Ben hugged George, patting his back soothingly. Bill was almost angry at him.
How did Ben hug Georgie before Bill did?
Luckily, the rest of his friends got the message- Ben did too once he looked over at Bill, and an expression of guilt instantly settled upon him. They backed off and stayed standing to the side as George greeted them. He finally got to Bill, an off-putting half-smile occupying his chapped lips.
“Hey there, Billy,” his voice didn’t sound emotional in the least. Bill’s chest ached. “How’s college been? Published a book yet?”
“Nope, but he’s been spending hours up there on his typewriter. At first I thought he was just jerking it, but then I was in Stan’s room and heard all that clacking of the k—”
“Beep-beep, Richie,” Bev murmured, sharing a fond chuckle with George before asking if he was hungry. He followed her to the kitchen as Eddie trailed beside him and Bill hung back by the door, dumbfounded.
“Is there anything we should know while you’re staying? Medically?” Eddie rambled, gesturing nonsensically, movements awkward. “Do you need help tending to your amputation or do you have it covered? I know you’ve dealt with it for eight years but if you ever need help—”
“Leave him be, Eddie,” Mike intervened, earning a grateful glance from George.
After a couple minutes of settling in, all occupants of the house found themselves sitting at the dining table, paper plates piled with the meal they’d made. Ben’s plate was mostly salad though.
George said it was good, but didn’t comment much on it being his favorite. Then after dinner, George announced himself tired and went off to bed.
For the first time in quite a while, Bill didn’t know what to do.
___________________________________________________
“Bill, he’ll talk to you, just give it some time,”
“Yeah, I’d be worried if he opened up straight away,”
“He’s probably just tired, Big Bill,”
“Don’t worry, he’ll come around,”
“Billy, ma boy, you ‘oughta let ole’ Georgie come to you ,”
“At least he ate with us,”
Bill thought of his friends’ reassurances as he crept into bed that night. George was asleep on the floor mattress, luggage shoved down by his feet. At first, Bill thought he looked peaceful. But within an hour, he awoke to the boy’s cries.
“Stoppit, stoppit… my arm… hurts…” George’s miserable pleas tortured Bill. He knew they were just nightmares. He got them, his friends got them, but having to face the thought that Georgie got them was just… so unfair.
To make matters worse, the nightmares featured his arm. Or lack thereof. Or the process of coming to lack it. Bill didn’t know which was worse. The finality or the agonizing foreboding.
He wanted to wake George, but he knew that in the end, the boy needed sleep. And he wouldn’t remember the dream in the morning anyway.
As Bill willed himself to ignore his brother’s desperate yet subconscious sobs for help, he was half-certain he shed a few tears too before falling back into a deep slumber.
__________________________________________
They’d fallen into a routine with George within a week of his stay. Sometimes he’d accompany them to class, though those were mostly just for him to get out of the house.
Today, he was sitting in Ben’s linear programming class, working on one of his homeschool packets quietly.
The lectures were long and boring, and George tried to tune them out. He might’ve actually cried tears of joy when the professor dismissed his students for lunch.
“Where do you usually eat lunch?” George asked as he followed Ben through the crowds of people walking around the campus. He didn’t add on that he was really hungry, as that was probably implied.
Ben hesitated, then went to sit under the shade of a tree. George hesitated longer, then mirrored the action.
“Usually I skip lunch, but I figured you’d be hungry,” Ben said, and oh , George forgot just how sweet and considerate this boy had always been. He pulled a container of leftover pigs in blankets out of his backpack. “Sorry if I packed too much, I didn’t know how big your appetite was.”
George opened the container to see that yes , Ben had indeed packed too much. Sure, like any other 14-year-old, George had a big appetite. But not this big.
“…Thanks. You want one?” he asked, stuffing one into his own food hole, then handing one to Ben.
What he didn’t expect was for Ben to cower away, flinch back like he’d been struck with something hard. George blinked in puzzlement.
“Wha—“
“Sorry, I’m okay,” The older boy insisted, taking the food quickly and moving it to his mouth. His arm looked like it was straining against hundreds of pounds to do so. George’s pretty sure the other boy broke a sweat. Ben finally managed to nibble on the pastry-wrapped piece of meat. “Sorry. I just have a bit of a complicated relationship with… well, food.”
“What?”
Ben flushed dark red. He shoved the food he’d been given into his mouth, maybe to avoid talking. He looked almost in pain as he chewed and swallowed. Then he looked ill.
“It’s just, I went on a diet back in high school. A real intense one. And I don’t think I’ve really been able to enjoy eating anything since.” Ben explained, tipping his head back to chug half his water bottle.
George couldn’t imagine not being able to enjoy food. He liked food. A lot. He remembered how Bill used to make them microwaved grilled cheeses, or hot cocoa on cold days. Fond memories he wasn’t willing to voice, even if they helped Ben- which he didn’t think they would.
Instead, he asked nonchalantly: “Why’d you go on the diet?”
Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped out a melody. George could hear students laughing and talking about classes. A group of about three or four students walked by, all exchanging bewildered stares after spotting George. He’d been getting a lot of those. Because he was fourteen on a college campus, or because he only had one arm, he couldn’t say.
He crammed another pig in a blanket into his mouth and finally looked up as Ben answered.
“I… didn’t like the way I looked. The way I was.” Ben looked solemnly down at his hands that hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d swallowed the food. George stared with wide eyes. He thought Ben was wonderful. Even as a kid, he’d looked up to Ben and had loved anytime he’d come over to the Denbrough house. He couldn’t see how someone held so dear in so many people’s hearts could lock themselves out of their own.
But then he looked down to where his left arm tapered off into a misshapen stump and understood.
“I don’t like the way I am either,” he said, earning something of a squawk from Ben, who followed the younger’s eyes down to the residual limb.
“People call me a freak for it. Kids are scared of me. Mom won’t even look at it.” George listed off morosely, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing. He felt Ben rub his back.
“You’re not…” The older of the two deadened his insistent voice to something much softer. “I know how you feel, but honestly? Sometimes I can’t find it in myself to care about what others think. And I’ve found that I’m the happiest in those moments.”
That wasn’t completely true. Ben felt the happiest when he did care what others thought, and they thought good things. Receiving praise made him feel flustered, but usually in a good way. Always in a good way when it was his loved ones.
George, though, was smiling when Ben glimpsed back to him.
“Thanks, Big Ben. I’ll try that.”
Ben grinned in return and told George to finish up lunch so that they wouldn’t be late to class.
__________________________________________________
A week or so after his moment with Ben, George found himself tagging along with Richie to his aural skills class. Richie had said it was one of his worst classes, because even though it was musical, all the students had to sit still and be quiet for most of it.
To cope with this tragic experience, Richie was continuously passing notes to George during the class. And not with a smidge of stealth.
The ripped pieces of notebook paper held pretty typical conversations for the first hour or so; but when your only form of communication for such a long time is note-passing, things tend to get a little deep lest the conversation lag.
As Richie slid a newly-torn paper scrap across the long wooden desk, George didn’t hesitate to sigh and turn it over, bringing it closer to his face to read it.
Do you ever feel like if you don’t talk constantly, people will never remember you?
George most certainly did not feel like that. Ever. He scribbled down a simple ‘No’ and passed the note back. It returned to him within seconds.
Oh
Oh? Oh? What the fuck did ‘ oh’ mean?
Part- the majority part- of George’s brain told him that this was an opportune moment to let the uncomfortable conversation end. The other part told him that what Richie wrote signified that he didn’t want it to end. He just wanted to force George into contributing. Or give him space to, or whatever.
The smaller part of his conciseness won out, and he wrote back, hand shaking.
But sometimes I remember people are going to forget me and just won’t be in my life anymore.
He slid it to Richie. It came back, and for the first time that day, he was genuinely frightened by what he would see when he flipped it over. He did it anyway, because in life you have to do things that scare you, and they just might be worth it in the end.
Who could ever forget you?
The scribbled question made him smile, if only slightly. He knew exactly who.
Bill , he wrote, then handed it back.
Richie took longer this time to respond. He spun his pencil for a good two minutes, then wrote something, then erased it. George knew he wasn’t the best at comforting people. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
But then Richie started writing, finished in a few minutes, and only hesitated a bit before sending the note over. George seized it; turned it to his view. He knew that if Richie didn’t fuck around with his answer, then he could probably trust it. Richie quite possibly knew Bill better than anyone- besides George, of course (or at least he always told himself that). The note appeared to be genuine, he noted as he read it.
Bill couldn’t. I tell you this because every night during dinner, since we moved here, Bill goes ‘Wonder what Georgie’s up to right about now?’ and cries whenever you don’t answer his calls.
The class’s professor shot a snarl George’s way when he laughed rudely into the musical almost-silence. He smiled apologetically, then thrusted the parchment back to Richie after writing: We’ll see who’s crying over who when he publishes a book and becomes a famous author, Trashmouth.
Hours they’d spent passing notes. Time went by fast, George realized, as the professor called out a dismissal and the students started gathering their stuff. One last time- because George was sure he and Richie wouldn’t continue or even mention these conversations ever again- Richie slid the word-laden piece of paper across the smooth surface of the table. George watched it coast along the plane of the desk like a paper boat might glide through water runoff towards a storm drain.
Richie stood up, George followed, reading the note quickly but thoughtfully, corners of his lips tugging up.
Published author or not, Big Bill would sooner dump his bike into the Canal than stop talking to you. Ma boy, your big brother’s a stubborn man.
That was true. Bill was stubborn. And despite how George disliked the amount of references to Derry the message had, it secured something in his mind. Some hope that Bill would never stop caring about him.
George beamed, if only just for a second, then balled the note into his fist and hurried after Richie, who’d already walked to the door to leave.
______________________________________________________
George was 14, he was a growing boy. So he didn’t think it was a sin to want a snack every now and then, even if it was late. Early, technically.
At 3:27 AM, Mike walked downstairs, only to find George ransacking their cupboards for decent food.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” Mike asked.
“Why aren’t you ?” George quipped back, not looking away from the task-at-hand. He muttered something about Bill’s inability to grocery shop.
From behind him, George heard Mike sigh tiredly. For a moment, he expected him to just go back upstairs. But then he heard nearing gentle footsteps padding across the kitchen floor.
“Sit down, Georgie, I’ll make sandwiches,” he ordered, to which George hesitated for a moment, frowning guiltily. Mike patted his shoulder. “I don’t mind, I’m feeling hungry anyways.”
Leisurely, George got off the counter. He pulled a chair up to it instead, and sat while Mike fished the bread out of the refrigerator.
“Having trouble sleeping?” Mike questioned dully as he opened a new container of peanut butter. George nodded, rubbed at his stump.
“I guess. You?” he replied, tucking his knees up to his chest, suddenly cold in his pajama shorts and t-shirt.
“Yep. Late night studying. And, I won’t lie, one or two nightmares.”
George hummed. He knew all about nightmares. Sure, he’d had them all his life, but they’d taken on a new type of horror when he was six- after the Incident. He’d wake up perspiring, sobbing and screaming for his parents, or more often, his brother.
He suddenly remembered the time his 5th grade class had taken a field trip to the circus. He’d passed out the minute the cloying smell of buttery popcorn had assaulted his senses, calliope music stabbing into his consciousness as it faded into a muted petrification.
The memory made him a little sick, and he hesitated when Mike put a plated sandwich in front of him. But Mike was patient as he picked up his own sandwich to bite into, dragging another chair over.
“What about?” George asked. Then promptly regretted the question. He pulled a Trashmouth, redirecting into a joke. Falling into the safety net he felt weak using. “Surely they must’ve been about my mom loving this arrangement so much that I just move here for good! That’d sure be a nightmare for y'all.”
Mike chuckled, looked to consider something, then shook his head.
“Why… How’s school been? Back home?” Home . George felt upset in a way at Mike’s usage of the word, referring to Derry like that. Derry, Maine was a horrible place that no one should ever have to call home, George was certain. Then, startled, George remembered that he didn’t live in Derry anymore. Mike meant Portland, where he lived, his home . The fact that Derry had instantly come to mind… it made George nauseous.
Quickly, he composed himself before Mike could notice the unease.
“Fine,” he said in answer, though continued after a moment of petulant frowning. “Well, not really. I guess it kind of stinks. And the bullying is bad.”
He started to pick at his food, then took a bite to avoid Mike’s sympathetic gaze. It wasn’t bad, the sandwich. The flavor was mostly peanut buttery, but there was something else adding to the texture, serving to mellow out the taste.
“Bullying, huh?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “What do they do?”
Despite it being a rather impolite question, George didn’t mind it in the slightest. He took a large bite of his food, content with it in his sleepy state.
“The usual. Insults, mostly. Sometimes I get beat on.”
It was mostly about his arm. Dumb and illogical rumors about how he lost it. Some of those who’d known him since elementary school had brought up Bill. Those were the times when George got into fights. He’d once punched a kid for saying Bill didn’t seem like a good big brother. It sounded petty, but if you’d been there, you could’ve heard how the kid had said it, not out of concern or worry but a wish to provoke a reaction from George.
George frowned when Mike patted his back. He hoped it wasn’t out of pity.
“I got bullied a lot as a kid too,” he said, and it actually made George feel a bit better; less alone. “Bowers, mostly. Killing my dog was probably the worst he did.”
George was a bit horrified that someone could do that, but then he remembered Henry Bowers. The boy had been raised by a crazy father and grew up to be a crazy man. There were rumors that he was now in Juniper Hills.
The conversation seemed to take to a logical end after that and both boys finished their sandwiches. When asked, Mike told George that they were peanut butter & onion sandwiches, his personal favorite since childhood.
And that was sort of disgusting, but George held his tongue on saying so.
Before turning off the kitchen lights and heading back to their beds, Mike smiled at George and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.
“I know it sucks, Georgie, but bullies are just insecure pricks. The dangerous ones can be taken care of, but only if you let yourself ask for help.”
And with that, Mike raced up two flights of stairs to his open bedroom door. George watched him shut and lock it, then eventually walked to his brother’s room to settle back on the floor mattress, no longer hungry, and smiling.
___________________________________________________
George had been five years old the first time he’d been introduced to the concept of sex. It wasn’t a concept he understood, nor would he for another five years, but he’d heard Richie mention it with childish wonder; the pride of knowing something your friends didn’t. Something adult.
George had been 12 when he’d had someone fully explain the act of sex to him. One of his classmate’s siblings had dropped by during lunch period and told them all about sex. What he’d learned in the high school Sex-Ed courses was extensive knowledge in a middle schooler’s perspective, but really it was quite limited.
It hadn’t made much sense to George back then, why people did it. But now, as a 14-year-old, he thought he was beginning to understand the appeal.
It was still confusing, and it still made him wonder about the psychology behind it all, but the squirmy sensations he often felt that only increased when thinking about sex - or what he knew of it- kind of… scared him too.
So when he was sitting in a costume history class with Beverly, and he heard her say that word , he looked up curiously, almost shocked.
“What’d you say?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested. If Bev noticed, she didn’t say anything about it, and she answered casually, as if telling Bill’s little brother about anything vaguely related to sex wouldn’t result in certain death.
“Oh, I was just telling Loretta Bramley over there that the noise down the hall is probably just Ariadne and Joseph having sex in the bathrooms again,” she laughed, as did the girl she was gesturing to. “Second time this week!”
George was a little taken aback. People were having sex ? In the building ?
He knew that logically, he’d been in a building at the same time as coitus was occurring. He’d had parents, after all. But just the thought of it made him stiffen up in his seat beside Beverly.
She noticed. Looked concerned for a moment, but then returned her attention to the professor's insistent lessons.
It was only after the class had let out that she’d cornered him; gently enough that it didn’t feel like prying.
“You were alright in there? You looked a bit pale.” Bev remarked, brushing a stray piece of hair out of George’s eyes as they walked through her campus. He didn’t object to the action, but felt a bit like a child being fretted over.
“I’m alright. Just…” he hesitated, searched for Bev’s mood through her expression- content, perhaps mildly uneasy- and spoke again. “College kids have… y’know…”
Bev raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips in confusion. She shook her head. “They have…?”
“Sex?” George asked meekly, face burning at even the slightest mention of the activity. Bev looked surprised, then her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s as she struggled to hold in laughter.
“Sorry, George, I don’t mean to laugh- it’s just,” Bev composed herself. “Just… I guess I’ve forgotten how little middle school kids really know about sex. Shit, when I was your age, I didn’t know half as much as I do now.”
George couldn’t stop himself from asking, even though he knew it was stupid and embarrassing: “Why is it so scary?”
Beverly stopped walking, eyes wide as if she’d had the air knocked out of her. She looked exactly how Eddie had one time earlier that week when George’s prescription bottle had fallen off the counter, pills rattling around inside it like a druggy maraca.
When George shifted uncomfortably from his left foot to his right, then back to his left, she shook her head quickly, falling back into step beside him.
“Scary, huh?” George nodded at the older girl’s question. She smiled softly, a little bit melancholy.
“Well, Georgie, it’s… I don’t think it’s meant to be. But it can feel that way when it’s so shrouded in mystery. When people don’t talk about it and shame anyone who does.”
Quickly, wanting to make certain that Bev had the right information, George shook his head. “People talk about it all the time. It’s all the boys at my school can ever talk about.” he thought some more though, and kept going. “I guess I never hear girls talkin’ about it though. Maybe girls just don’t like sex that much.”
George was a bit floored that the word he’d flinched at for so long now slid off his tongue easily. But the short swell of pride that came ended as soon as Bev started shaking her head.
“No, they do. They can. Often, I guess you’re right that they don’t, but they can like it as much as a man. It’s just that not many people care whether they like it or not.” Bev shrugged, eyebrows furrowing together as she pondered that for a moment. She glanced over to where George looked a mix of nonplussed and depressed.
“I guess I never thought about it that way,” he said, looking guilty for his earlier assumption.
The two found themselves standing in a line for smoothies, something Bev claimed was the sole purpose she ever survived through the day’s work. George stayed silent, and so did Bev, until they got their smoothies. They started walking to Beverly’s next class, George trailing slightly behind before speeding up to be beside her.
“Did it scare you ? Or Bill? Am I just being a pussy right now or did it scare you guys too?” George asked, voice becoming increasingly more desperate for an answer as he became more and more self-conscious of his anxieties.
Bev sipped her smoothie, gray-green eyes trained intently on him, before answering George.
“It scared the hell ‘outta me,” she admitted, proud of herself for not hearing a hint of shame in her own voice. It meant there’d been progress since the last time she’d talked about this- which, it had been quite a bit. “And I’m sure that Bill was at least intimidated by it. It’s normal to feel fear about things that are ostensibly adult, y’know.”
George nodded. He felt a bit better knowing the thought was almost universal. Or rather, normal. Ordinary.
As he and Bev arrived at the doors to her next class, Beverly swung her hair into her hands so that she could tie it up, smiling at George as she gave a final piece of advice.
“Georgie, if you ever want to talk about it, no judgment, you can come to me. Or better yet, I have a friend- her name’s Kay- who’s even better than I am with this stuff. Either way, you don’t have to feel ashamed to ask questions; they’re normal.”
An offer that George wasn’t inclined to accept due to how embarrassing these kinds of talks seemed to be, but it was the gesture in itself that made him grin up at Bev, giggling when she ruffled his hair.
“Thanks, Bev, I’ll keep that in mind,”
______________________________________________________
It’d been a month since George’s arrival. Bill and he still couldn’t hold much of a conversation, but they were getting better.
The awkwardness was slowly breaking Bill’s heart. His friends knew, George didn’t.
And at the current moment, he probably wouldn’t have provided much of a reaction, in too severe of pain to even speak more than a few strained sentences.
He was lying facedown on his mattress in Bill’s room, groaning with agony as a burning sensation licked up an arm he didn’t have anymore. His phantom pains didn’t usually get this bad; they’d mellowed for the most part out by the time he’d turned eight.
Back when he’d first had his arm amputated ( eaten , an odious voice insisted), George remembered, the sheer anguish of the phantom pains that’d attacked his frail six-year-old body were dreadful. They’d left him sobbing for hours in his parents’ arms, crying for the pain to end. The feeling- or, memory of the feeling, he supposed- of impossibly sharp teeth, like hundreds of razor blades, falling upon his tender-fleshed arm. Ripping it off like grass from a soccer field.
That’s a little like what he felt now, paralysis biting down on his limbs, holding them in place, twitching. Even the shuddering breath George gasped in made his not-there arm throb. He cried out into his pillow.
“Georgie?” a voice- a real one- called.
“Yeah?” he called back without thinking about it, muffled by his pillow.
George didn’t know who it was. For a moment, he hoped it was Bill. Coming to hold his brother in a time of need. But then common sense kicked in, reminding him that Bill was off attending a journalism class with Mike all day.
A hand shot down to rub between George’s shoulder blades, and that definitely didn’t help him determine their identity, because he knew that logically any of them would comfort him if needed.
“George? Turn over for me.”
The voice was slowly becoming less staticky, so George obeyed, despite a part of his mind still hysterical that the voice only wanted him to turn over so that It could devour his right arm.
As soon as he flipped onto his back, George immediately felt two hands grabbling his left arm- or no , his amputation. It put him on alert on first instinct, but in the wake of panic came a relief from the pain.
“George, I need you to answer me,” The voice he finally recognized as Eddie ordered, his hands applying more pressure.
“I’m… Thanks, I mean,” George uttered hoarsely, using his right hand to swat Eddie’s away, despite how the massaging had helped. It made sense, that Eddie knew how to help with the pains. George had been a bit surprised to hear that the hypochondriac wasn’t majoring in a medicine-related field.
He was definitely cut out for it, George noted again as Eddie rooted through the bottles on the counter. The endearing part was, George knew of the older boy’s sensitivity to all things medicational. The sound of pills sloshing inside their containers made him flinch. That he’d put himself through that, rifling through George’s immense array of medicine, really said something about the bravery of Eddie Kaspbrak.
“Aspirin alright?” he asked, picking out the proper bottle as the boy beside him nodded, trembling still.
Eddie helped George sit up and dry-swallow the pill. Then they moved down to the dining table after a while of recollecting themselves.
George was the first to break the silence that’d settled thickly between them.
“Sorry,” he said. “That you had to see me like that.”
Eddie answered right away, crossing one leg over the other in his chair, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. “I’ve been friends with Bill for decades. I’ve seen you like that plenty of times.”
That… was actually pretty true. George cowered a little.
Bill’s friends had seen George in his weakest of states; many times. They’d seen him cry from a skinned knee; knock on Bill’s door at midnight, trembling from a nightmare; fall from his bike and tear the skin from his cheek raw as it’d collided with hot concrete. And they’d seen some of his early phantom pains. Heard them, more commonly, from Bill’s room as they’d awaited his return.
“It’s all right, Georgie,” Eddie assured, smiling as softly as he could manage while still being riddled with anxiety. “…I can take you to the doctor if you think something’s wrong. Are they… usually this bad?”
“These ones were a bit intense, but I’m fine. It just happens sometimes.”
Eddie hummed, eyeing the younger like he was scared he’d faint. George looked away, considered what to say next to properly move the conversation on.
Before he could even take into account more than a couple possibilities, Eddie interrupted his thoughts.
“Is everything alright? With you and Bill?” he asked.
George nodded on instinct. Of course, though, he knew everything was not alright. Bill had fucking left him. Packed up his shit and left . Sure, George had known about the plan, but he hadn’t had much of a chance to say goodbye.
One night Richie, Stan, Eddie and Mike had arrived at his house. The next, Beverly. Then at what couldn’t have been later than six the next morning, Bill had come into his room, kissed his forehead and left .
All that’d been there for George that morning when he’d gotten up two hours later was his emotional mother and a paper… airplane sitting on his desk, signed in Bill’s loopy inordinate handwriting.
Bill hadn’t ever made him a paper airplane. It’d felt like a jab for some reason.
Your brother left and didn’t even care enough to make a boat. Boats are the ones Bill likes making. He says the airplanes never fly that well.
And so George had retaliated with fucking up his own life. Smoking, drinking; he became the type of kid he used to fear as a young child. All because Bill had left.
So yeah, he knew his and Bill’s relationship was crumbling. Couldn’t find it in himself to care much.
He didn’t say any of this, but he felt as if Eddie could see some of it. The older boy smiled gently, reached out to ruffle George’s hair.
“Okay then,” he said.
“Okay,” George repeated.
They fell into silence again, but this time it felt comfortable.
After a while, Eddie spoke again: “Wanna go on a drive?”
George’s eyes slid over to the window, where rain puddled outside in what could be considered small ponds. He gulped.
“Won’t we aquaplane?” he asked.
Eddie followed his gaze, standing to squint out the window, looking between the roads and his car. “Not if we’re careful. We don’t gotta, George, it was just a suggestion. Something to help you calm down.”
George saw Eddie’s smile of pure understanding, looked at the rainy outdoors again, and grinned tentatively. “Maybe… we could just stay in? Play Crazy Eights or somethin’?”
Eddie was already reaching for the card deck on the coffee table when George glanced back at him.
________________________________________________
A month and a half since his arrival, and George still wasn’t ready to go back. The whole point of his mother sending him there had been to fix his behavior.
But very often he found himself sneaking away from Bill and his friends to smoke behind the house. He personally knew that they’d all smoked at young ages- excluding Eddie- but he wasn’t certain how kindly they’d take to him smoking.
Though, of course, George could admit that he was no longer smoking as often as he had been back in Portland. So, that was progress, anyway.
Presently, he was sitting on a park bench with his instamatic camera, holding it up as he searched for something worth snapping a photo of. When he found nothing, he sighed and turned to take one of the boy next to him.
“What was that for?” Stanley asked, never taking his binoculars away from his brown eyes.
“Couldn’t find anything photo-worthy, so I had to settle for your ugly mug,”
“Haha, George, I’m wheezing ,”
George giggled and looked back to the scenery before him. It was about an hour ‘til sunset, maybe an hour and a half. There were mostly joggers and dog-walkers roaming the park.
Like Stan, there were fellow birdwatchers too, binoculars aimed to the skies. But unlike Stan, most of them were very old men.
Eventually, they started heading back, the sun hanging low in a pool of luminous oranges and pinks. It was peaceful, but George knew he had to ruin it at some point. He’d been meaning to talk to Stan and this moment was perfectly opportune.
So finally, he mustered up his pathetic amount of teenage emotional courage, turning to side-eye his walking buddy before casting his gaze back to its original spot just as quickly.
“Stan?” he asked, earning a hum.
A sick sort of feeling started to nest into George’s gut, making his hand tremble where it held his camera. He didn’t like this. But all his previous talks with the Losers had gone well- benefited him for the most part. He almost convinced himself that this one would be different, but forced out his words before succeeding.
“What if… Well, it’s just that… sometimes I want to hurt myself,” he spat out. He heard a soft whooshing noise as Stan snapped his head in the younger boy’s direction, dark hair bouncing utop his head. “Badly.”
It was an incident from years ago that’d made George choose Stanley for this conversation. He figured Stan would understand the best. Because the certain event that’d occurred back in Derry, when George was twelve, was Stan’s suicide attempt. Stan knew what it was like to feel that way.
So George continued and assured himself that the look Stan was giving him was one of empathy and not pity.
“Sometimes I just want to rip off my other arm, y’know?” he whispered, even though the semantics of the comment prevented Stan from knowing on account of him still having both his arms.
“Like,” George continued. “I just, fuck, I don’t even know, dude. Pain isn’t something you should want .”
He felt a little embarrassed, but not nearly as much as he would’ve if this conversation had happened a couple months earlier.
Stanley looked more bewildered than he, in fact.
“No, I guess not. But George…” Stan’s eyebrows knitted together and his frown pinched. “I get it. The pain helps release some feelings, right?”
George nodded. He caught himself starting to bite the inside of his cheek raw, and stopped, despite missing the control it’d given him. “Right,”
Stan mirrored the nod, his tightening grip on his birdbook going unnoticed to George.
“But in the long run, it’s not very helpful. Even less so if it gets… serious.” he mumbled the last part, no doubt thinking back to his own attempt with death.
George began to feel guilty. Nonetheless, he pushed on, knowing it’d only upset Stan more if he dropped the topic entirely.
“Yeah. I don’t wanna die though. Really, Stan, I don’t.” he insisted, and it was true for the most part.
Stan smiled, briefly rubbed George’s forearm. “I believe you,” he said. “But if you ever do, just know that it’s not… it doesn’t help.”
“Okay. I believe you.” George mimicked, chuckling, his breath wafting visibly into the cold air.
They walked in silence the rest of the way home, but Stan stopped George just before they reached their house’s porch. He reached a gloved hand out to sit on the younger’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.
“I know I’m not great at this stuff, but you can always talk to me. I’ll listen. Won’t say a thing if you don’t want me to.” George felt a little apprehensive that they were standing right outside the house, but nodded and smiled nonetheless. “You’re loved more than you know, Georgie. Don’t forget it, yeah?”
Though it was choked and stuttered with the threat of tears, George’s reply was confident: “Yeah. Don’t worry, Stan the Man, I won’t forget.”
They shared a fond stare and nod before walking back into the warm house, following the smell of dinner, one of which Eddie and Richie had been excited about making that night.
George only turned around one last time to snap a photo of the sunset, which was set on a perfect display from their front porch, pink and orange and dripping through the clouds.
________________________________________________
This was stupid. This was so fucking stupid. George trembled as he sat on the green couch in the living room.
It’s gonna be fine, he assured himself, feeling foolish that the thought of what he was about to do was putting him on edge so much. Bill will listen. Bill always listens.
Except, that wasn’t true. As children, Bill had gotten bossy more times than George could count.
But, George argued internally, This is different. We’re older now. Bill will listen.
George had this all planned out. He’d checked up on everyone’s schedules, gotten Bill’s from Beverly. Eddie, Mike, and Stan were on a drive up to Cooperstown; they wouldn’t be back until late. Ben and Beverly had gone on a picnic date and wouldn’t be back for another couple hours. And finally, Richie was preoccupied up in his room, practicing throwing each of his special voices to match the movements of his school-issued dummy.
Bill was supposed to be getting home from an extra lecture on scriptwriting within the next five minutes. George was finally ready to talk to him.
Besides, if things went wrong or got awkward, Richie was right upstairs, the king of lightening the mood. George could just run to him and claim Bill was wearing jorts again.
But that was a last resort. First, George would force himself to try talking reasonably.
The unease in his chest spread to his limbs as he heard the door unlocking, though. And the resolution in him was slowly ebbing like a match dying to give way to utter darkness.
“R-Rich? I’m h-h-home!” Bill’s voice made its way into the living room, where George stiffened, preparing to call back with a deep inhale.
“Richie’s upstairs, Bill! Everyone else is gone!” George informed, wincing as he heard footsteps coming towards his location. Bill appeared, eyes wide, peeking around the corner to peer into the living room.
He strolled inside, setting the tartan satchel Bev had sewed him on the far end on the couch. He settled in an armchair himself.
“Hey, Georgie,”
“Hey, Bill,”
Tension grew thick in the air, and George found himself swallowing a lump in his throat in order to speak, albeit hushedly. “I’m ready. To talk.”
Bill looked up, shaken and wide-eyed. He raised an eyebrow concernedly, giving George the once-over. He stood up wordlessly to move to the couch, but George shook his head quickly, signaling his need of space and causing Bill to drop back into the armchair.
“I’m not okay,” George said, fists curled into his pant legs. Bill nodded cautiously. “I’m not okay. And I can’t remember the last time I was.”
“T-That’s uh-uh-understanble,”
“Think so?” George saw his brother nod. “Yeah, well, Mom doesn’t understand.”
Bill, perhaps unintentionally, scoffed. When the action earned him a raised eyebrow, he rushed to explain himself, palms held up to placate his brother.
“No, suh-sorry, just… s-she u-used to duh-do th-th—” Bill’s eyebrows furrowed, mouth narrowing into a thin line. He resumed after a quick breath and an apologetic glance at George. “Ignorance is h-h-her cuh-coping m-m-mechanism.” He tripped back into his stutter.
The boys shared a look. Sharon Denbrough was a strong woman, no doubt; but she had a bad habit of spacing out when bad things happened, leaving her sons to their own devices in terms of comfort. It’s how they’d learned to comfort each other so often.
George nodded, continued with a trembling tone. “Guess so. She just thinks I’m actin’ up.”
“Are you?”
“No, I’m just—” George felt tears piling behind his eyes, yearning to be released in a sob that he’d been holding onto for eight years. “I’m just tired , Bill.”
Bill had a pleading look in his eyes, and when George finally broke down, he looked up and nodded at the older boy. Bill crossed the room and instantly sat himself beside George, arms wrapping around him in a gentle hug.
“I’m sorry- I don’t mean to—” George gasped in more air as the sobs came. His voice, which had become squeaky and shaken, broke off and he dived into Bill’s embrace.
George’s heart seemed to unclench, shoulders dropping as a peace settled the room. Eight years ago, George had lost his arm, but he felt that he’d lost something else too. A consequential ambiance of his childhood. A filter he’d seen the world though had been stripped away, leaving him with the sights of the universe’s naked atrocities.
But in Bill’s arms, George would finally let himself relax. It seemed to work even still in his teenage years.
Faintly, he felt Bill’s hand carding through his hair. He sighed.
“That’s alright then, Georgie. It’s alright.” Bill whispered, voice swimming by somewhere distant in his brother’s head. “I’m here. I’ll be here. And It won’t be.”
George shook like a leaf caught in a gust of wind.
“I hate It. I hate It so much, Billy.” he said, keeping his volume down despite the urge to scream it.
“Good. You’ll never have to see or hear about that thing again.”
That, George couldn’t help but doubt. He’d been on house arrest- doctor’s orders- when Bill’s friends and Bill had faced off against It. George couldn’t actually remember much the months between his debilitating accident and when his brother told him It was gone. Apparently, he’d been partially catatonic after losing his arm, only regaining full cognizance randomly one day- the same day Bill had come home with the news of Its defeat. It’d seemed a miracle to Zack and Sharon, who never did nor would know the real reason for their youngest’s recovery.
But if George remembered one thing, it was that when he’d seen all of Bill’s friends later that same day- he was introduced to Mike, Bev, and Ben, who all hugged him like they’d known each other forever- he’d seen the unease in their faces. The fear, the shakiness and panic. What stood out most was the doubt- only prominent on the mannerisms of Beverly and Stanley. The doubt they’d let off when Bill had collapsed next to Eddie and declared that they’d never have to deal with It ever again; that their remaining summers would be spent playing guns in the Barrens or Diplomacy in Stan’s basement on hot days.
Not all of them had believed Bill, is the thing. Some had, surely. But others had gotten quiet and developed sudden interests in their shoes and clothing hems whenever It was mentioned.
George didn’t know what he believed. But right now, he chose to simply nod into his brother’s shoulder, too immersed in the comfort to care much about what he was agreeing with. Bill seemed happy all the same.
“H-Hey—” Bill suddenly broke out into a teasing smile. “Don’t blow y-y-your snuh-snot on m-m-me.”
George laughed too, despite how the action made his scratched throat burn. They both stumbled into fits of soft giggling, joking around as they had back before Bill had left.
Oh, that’s right, George reminded himself, eyes widening. Bill had left. Sure, they were laughing now, but then George would go back to Portland- back to their mother- and they’d fall away from each other all over again.
Certain that he couldn’t handle if that were to happen, George quieted. His laughter fled from the room like smoke from an opened window. Bill looked startled.
“Why’d you make an airplane, Bill?”
That startled Bill even more. Perplexed him, really. Nonplussed, the older boy studied the younger. After another moment, Bill spoke cautiously.
“If a-anyone, B-B-Ben wuh-wuh-would be th-the o-one—”
“When you left,” George intervened, face blank. “You made me a paper airplane.” The ‘Like some fucking pothead uncle trying to get kids to like him’ went unsaid.
Bill choked on his words. It took him at least four tries to get what he wanted to say out. George waited patiently for his brother to finish. And finally, stuttering like a broken train whistle, Bill said: “I th-thought th-tha-that y-you’d get s-s-scared if I l-l-left a buh-buh-boat, h-honestly,”
George recoiled. Scared? Of a paper boat? He was scared of It , not paper boats. Not the thing that’d bonded him and his brother for so long before ultimately becoming the wayfinder to the worst and most traumatizing injury of George’s life.
But… then again, George thought, I don’t like the rain anymore. So, maybe, he considered, Bill isn’t so crazy to think that I don’t like his paper boats no more.
“Bill, I’ve always loved the boats,” he informed aloud, earning a smile from the boy beside him. “Even the one that you made me that day. She went real fast.”
Bill sniveled, though he wasn’t crying when George looked over at him.
“Yeah, she did,” Bill suddenly stood, ruffled George’s unkempt hair. “I j-just didn’t w-w-want to risk i-it. M-Maybe I sh-should’ve g-g-gone with a d-dif-different farewell t-ta-tactic.”
They both laughed again, and this time the noise must’ve been enough to distract Richie. He came barreling down the stairs, hurling his ventriloquism dummy up into the air and calling for George to catch it. George shrieked, backed up behind his brother and allowed Bill to grab the dummy.
“What are the Denbrough bros up to tonight?” Richie asked, retrieving his dummy and positioning it in one of the dining room chairs- Eddie’s chair, to be specific. He turned back to them. “I was thinking of movie night once everyone gets back.”
Bill smiled at George, then at Richie.
“S-Sounds g-g-good, Rich. Juh-Juh-Georgie and I w-were j-juh-just talking.”
____________________________________________
Bev and Ben got home first, having already eaten, both sleepy with the relaxation of the evening. They were asleep on the couch within ten minutes of their return. George draped a blanket over them as he walked by the living room.
Eddie, Mike, and Stan arrived back to the house about an hour after Bev and Ben. They shoved some leftovers into the refrigerator before being ushered to the living room by Richie. He managed to pile all the Losers- plus George- onto the sofa, though the positions were aborted when Bill and Stan moved to the ground.
“Turn on CBS Thursday Night Movie! Something’s gotta be playin’!” Richie demanded from his spot next to Mike. Bill nodded and skimmed through the channels. In the end, they started watching The Devil at 4 O’Clock .
They all enjoyed it at first, besides Eddie, who stiffened up whenever one of the lepers appeared on screen. The fact that they were children made it that much worse.
They were about to turn it off when the power shut down, shattering the comforting mood and shuttering the room in darkness.
“Fuck!” someone yelled out. George was pretty sure it was Bev.
“The power went out,” Stan observed, standing up and resting against the wall. Richie snorted, pointing out how indescribably helpful that was.
George felt Bill lay a hand on his forearm, patting him comfortingly.
It’s okay, Billy, he thought, smiling, I’m not scared of the dark.
He said nothing aloud, yet he reached out to pat Bill’s hand, reassuring him nonverbally that he was okay.
A couple of moments of silence passed before Richie stood as well, bending around Mike to yank Eddie up from the couch. The two strolled towards the stairway, muttering slurred goodnights.
“What are you guys gonna go do?” Ben asked cautiously, narrowing his sunken eyes at his friends.
Eddie said nothing, fell sideways against Richie and mistakenly allowed him to answer. Richie pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and grinned.
“Your mom, how ‘bout that?” he said. Ben groaned, but he went on. “No, really, we can tag team it. Whattya think, Eds? Up for the ta—”
“Beep-beep, Richie,” George yelled from the couch, earning chuckles and stifled laughter from around the room. “You’re gonna talk so much that your mouth will be dryer than a desert, and Big Ben’s momma ain’t gonna want to kiss you!”
The room erupted into laughter, even from Ben, who held a hand to his chest as he giggled uncontrollably. It wasn’t so much that it was a funny joke, it really wasn’t; more that George had been the one to make it. When he was finally participating and integrating himself into their fun, it was hard not to be uplifted by every joke he made.
Richie cackled, stopping suddenly to point at George with his free arm, using his other to pull Eddie further against his side.
“Georgie-Porgie Gets Off A Good One! Givin’ us our daily dose of Chucks!”
“Isn’t that your job?” Stan asked, smoothing his polo shirt out. Richie laughed again.
“I have many jobs, Stanley. It’s nice to have someone take over for once.”
Stan rolled his eyes, then turned to George, who was still riding the wave of joy brought on from the reactions to his joke.
“You know the point of beeping him is to shut ‘em up, right? Not supposed to fuel him even more.”
The comment pulled more laughter from George, and Richie- as well as several other of the Losers- smiled adoringly. George felt a hand roughing up his hair, glanced above him to see Richie mouthing a goodnight, alongside a promise to teach him some decent jokes. Eddie gave him a sluggish noogie before he and Richie headed off to bed.
Next was Ben and Stan, who both announced they were too tired to stay down and talk. Ben patted George’s shoulder as he sauntered by, and Stan leaned down to give him a brief one-squeeze hug.
Surprisingly, George was the next one to get tired enough to retreat upstairs. He paused his eye-rubbing to declare such, rising to his feet slowly, swaying with sleep.
Beverly squeezed his hand as she said goodnight, and Mike hugged him long enough that George was certain he’d actually fallen asleep in his arms standing up a few times.
Mike finally released him, keeping a grip on his shoulders for a moment to allow the boy time to steady himself. He then smiled and nodded upwards.
“Richie went into Eddie’s room for the night, so you could sleep in his, if you wanted a proper bed for once,” George brightened at the offer, sore back becoming all the more noticeable at the chance of comfort.
“Sure! He won’t mind?” George asked. Mike shrugged, but they all knew Richie wouldn’t. He never really did.
___________________________________________________
Richie’s room wasn’t terrible. Sure, it was untidy, and Stanley would've had a breakdown if forced to sleep there. But George didn’t. He turned Richie’s dummy away from the bed and was able to fall asleep within the hour- despite the rain hurtling heavily against the window and making him stiffen periodically, he stayed asleep.
That is, until a shadowed figure traipsed into the room and woke him. Vision bleary, he could do nothing but sit up, struggling, as he watched the figure come further in his direction.
“What the fuck —”
“Juh-Georgie?”
Oh , it was Bill. George sighed, bringing his hand up to rake through his hair, now plastered to his forehead with sweat. His voice came out hoarse, as if he’d been giving a motivational speech instead of sleeping for the past four hours. “Yeah?”
“Yuh-Yuh-You’re a-awake,” Bill observed, coming to a stop beside Richie’s bed, eyeing his little brother warily. George scoffed, but smiled nonetheless.
“Courtesy of you, Bill,” replied the younger boy. Bill didn’t laugh, simply scanned his brother up and down with scared eyes. “…Nightmare?” George asked, recognizing the mannerisms. Sharon would often have nightmares about her youngest son. Like Bill, she would rush to George’s side and look him over until sure that he was safe and unharmed.
Bill nodded, then picked one of his hands up from his side to stoke George’s hair away from his forehead, putting on an apologetic smile.
“S-Suh-Sorry. I juh-just n-n-needed to m-m-m-make sure you w-were o-o-okay. Guh-Go b-back to sleep, al-alright?”
George frowned, furrowed his eyebrows and batted Bill’s hand away from his head lightheartedly. “You don’t have to talk, Bill. I’ll go back to sleep; you should too.”
Bill nodded, then opened his mouth, presumably to speak one last time. Whatever it was, George figured it was important enough that Bill wished to say it even in his stammering state.
“Love you, Juh-Juh-Georgie,”
George’s eyes widened and he turned to beam at his brother. It’s not like he was deprived of the sentence; his mother told him everyday. But Bill hadn’t told him that since George’s hospitalization eight years previous.
“Yeah,” he replied, voice shaky on the precipice of tears. “I love you too, Billy.”
Bill smiled. He gave George a quick hug before ushering him to lay back down, tucking the covers back over his body.
Bill tiptoed away even though George was still awake, shutting the door, presumably headed back to his own room (though George wouldn’t be surprised if Bill retreated to one of his friends’ rooms for further comfort).
The pattering of rain against thick window glass wasn’t so loud afterwards. Or if it was, the fact went unnoticed by the younger of the Denbrough brothers as he drifted off again into the seamless spread of sleep- of nothingness.
_________________________________________
George hefted his last bag down by the front door, breathing harshly out his nose and bending forward a bit. Beverly had offered him help on his way downstairs, but she would’ve had to put down the delicate beginnings of a blouse held together by pins, so George had declined politely.
Ben was there, at the door, loading luggage into a taxi trunk as it came. George gazed idly, not knowing exactly how to assist. He gazed up until Ben was finished, looking at the younger boy expectantly and nodding outside to the taxi.
Yeah, George consoled himself, starting to walk forward. I’m ready to go.
Outside stood everyone else, all bright smiles and encouraging eyes. Beverly even ran down after a moment, apparently having dropped her design off at her desk upstairs. Ben shut the front door as he walked further outside too.
Now wasn’t the time to get emotional, yet everyone seemed to have tears building up like water trapped behind a dam. Mike was already wiping moisture from his face as he watched George stare. So naturally, he was the first George chose to address- to say goodbye to.
“C’mon, man. You really don’t want me to stay.”
Mike laughed, reaching to hold George in a short embrace, rubbing the younger’s back. “Forget what I want you to do, kid, your mom’s waiting.”
George smiled and nodded into Mike’s shoulder, a couple- hopefully- unnoticed tears staining the fabric of an ocher cardigan Beverly had made.
Mike handed him a small baggie when he pulled away. They both effortlessly ignored Richie’s exclamation: “ Drugs! ”
George didn’t need to do much more than hold it to realize all at once that Mike had taken the time to make him two pb & onion sandwiches, sliced into four obtuse triangles.
“For the plane ride,” Mike whispered.
Kind of in the background of his mind, George wondered if these sandwiches were the only thing Mike knew for sure how to make. Then he pushed aside the thought for later, focused on how maybe he’d try to replicate the snack back in Portland, as it had served to both comfort him and fill his stomach when Mike had made it before.
Pocketing the baggie, George moved onto Eddie next. They didn’t hug, opting for mutual shoulder thumps instead. Eddie leaned down- or forward, actually, since they were about the same height- to voice a promise in a not-so-whispery volume. “Hey, next time you visit, I’ll teach you how to drive,”
George brightened at the declaration, nodding hastily as if he’d been asked to receive a million dollars for free. Eddie giggled and even more so when Bill leveled a stern glare his way.
Already mentally planning his next excursion here, George moved down the line to Richie, who cleared his throat.
He was so confident in whatever he was about to say, but he stopped last minute and looked to consider. He smiled, genuinely.
“‘Til next time, good ‘ole Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
George giggled. Richie knew how to make him laugh, always had. The song reference he slipped in went unnoticed by everyone but George, but no one questioned it either way.
Bev was next. She squeezed George’s hand, placing her other hand on his shoulder. “It’s been really nice having you with us, you know. I wouldn’t hate it if you moved in once you graduate.” She winked, and George grinned.
“Take it up with Bill, Bev. But that’d be really cool.”
“Yeah? I will, kid.” Beverly replied, sending George down the line of Losers to Ben.
Ben fist bumped him, then pulled him in for a hug. His arms tightened around the younger, enough that George hit his shoulder as a message to release him. Ben quickly pulled back, smiling sheepishly.
“Heh, sorry, man. I’m just gonna miss you…”
George returned the sentiment with a nod. “Yeah. And, uh, dude?” he said, “Remember, you… need to eat. I don’t think starving yourself is a real good idea.”
Ben’s jaw snapped back from its smile, and the look of a man utterly taken aback took its place. His widened eyes followed George as he walked to Stanley.
“See ya, Stan The Man,” The two boys shook hands, and Richie snorted pathetically loud at that.
“See ya, Georgie. Stay safe, alright? I’m counting on you coming back here soon.” Stanley looked vaguely worried, but George’s sincere nod seemed to put him at ease.
In a lighter sprit, Stan leaned in and whispered to the shorter boy; “Bill’s got the hots for a girl in his Scriptwriting class, her name’s Audra Phillips. Thought you’d like to know.”
George snickered, glimpsing at his brother playfully. Bill’s love life had been relatively empty in the past, but he’d told George about every single crush he’d had.
Bill caught George’s gaze and held his arms open. He was almost knocked down as his little brother ran into the embrace.
“Love you, Billy,” George kissed his brother’s cheek, much to the other’s surprise.
Bill beamed. He kept his left hand resting on George’s shoulder while his right one fished something from his coat pocket.
Out he pulled a crumpled paper boat, presented it to George in the palm of his hand.
“Here. Don’t go sailing her without me.”
George’s lip quivered and he nodded, hugging the creation to his chest like it was a priceless gem. “Thank you…”
With his small collection of gifts, George ducked into the yellow car, where the driver- who had been parked there for over 20 minutes- looked quite annoyed.
As George pulled the door toawards him, he gazed softly at the seven teens facing him, all waving. He snorted to himself, eyes narrowing in on his brother.
“Catch you later, Mr. Phillips!”
Bill’s face flashed carmine as George slammed the cab door, and through the tint of the car window, George could see Bill turn to Stan accusingly.
Teasing Bill about his girlfriend wasn’t a bad addition to all the things George had loved about coming to visit. But it didn’t matter either way, it was already a long list.