Chapter Text
Beverly Marsh leans heavily against her bathroom sink, hands shaking as she attempts to steady herself. Her ragged breaths sound heavy, suffocating, to her own ears.
(You're still my little girl, right?)
The ghost of a hand curling around her hair, hot breath wafting in her face, forces shivers down her spine as she clenches her eyes tightly.
(Yes, Daddy.)
Shame, hot and heavy, curls its way into her gut. Tears pour silently down her cheeks as she attempts to swallow the growing lump in her throat. Raising her head slowly, she stares at her reflection in the grimy mirror. She struggles to recognize the person that gazes back. It’s a vague kind of detachment, like she’s not really there at all; like all she is is what he’s tried to make of her.
Her hand lifts as if of its own accord, fingertips trembling as they stroke over long strands of hair. Her father's voice still rings in her ears as she reaches over and grasps a pair of scissors. Taking a deep, quivering breath, she holds them firmly in her grip and grabs a handful of hair. A strange kind of exhilaration fills her as it’s cut away, as it swirls slowly down the drain.
Another chunk goes, and another, again and again until finally she looks at her reflection in the mirror and sees herself. It’s really her, for what feels like the first time in forever, despite the tear tracks and blotchy skin and red rimmed, haunted, eyes staring back.
As she reaches up to run her hand through what’s left of her hair, she feels as if she can finally breathe again. In this moment - this brief, ragged moment - she is her own.
It’s this feeling that urges her forward, away from the walls and the person that always feel as though they’re closing in on her. She quietly unlocks the bathroom door, relief flooding her system at seeing her father's bedroom door firmly shut, taking gentle steps until she reaches the side door and slips through it.
As she clicks it closed behind her, she leans back and tilts her head up towards the sun. Something builds in her chest as the rays hit her bare neck, a kind of warmth she hadn’t realized she was missing. A laugh bubbles up out of her mouth, loud and sharp and almost hysterical, and she flings herself down the stairs of the fire escape with a reckless kind of ease.
She starts to walk without a destination in mind, the cold autumn wind at constant battle with the sun. Her hands itch for a cigarette, and she shoves them deeper into her pockets as she wraps her cardigan tightly around her.
Realizing after a while that she’s headed in the vague direction of the quarry, she decides that it’s as good a spot as any to waste away a few hours of her Saturday. The red and gold of the autumn leaves reflect off the dark water, and something in her stills.
____________
In a house on the other side of town, one Richie Tozier is going out of his goddamn mind. He lays flopped down on his twin sized bed, lanky limbs awkwardly folded beneath him as he finds himself reading the same paragraph of his history textbook over and over, eyes blurring slightly and fingers tapping erratically against the pages. Sighing, he unfolds himself and sits upright, throwing his pencil down somewhere in the general vicinity of his bed.
“Hey, Stan,” Richie says, trying to gain the attention of his friend sitting across the room, whose homework is currently being cast aside in favour of an attempt to organize the disaster zone that makes up Richie's desk. When Stan doesn’t look up, focused on rearranging a small pile of comics, switching from going by author's last name to volume number to general colour scheme and back again, Richie decides it might be in Stan's best interest as well as his own to be provided with a proper distraction.
“Stan. Staaaan. Stan the Man.” Receiving no response for his efforts besides an annoyed huff, Richie jumps from the bed and bounds across the room, wrapping his arms around Stan's shoulders and resting his chin gently on top of the other boys' curls. As Stan tenses slightly beneath him, fingers pausing in their restless efforts, Richie puts on his best British gentleman voice. “Why my good fellow, I daresay you oughta give your best friend in the whole world some love and attention before he dies of heartache!”.
Turning slightly and removing himself from Richie's grip, Stan rolls his eyes. “You 're right, Rich. Toss me my phone so I can give Bill or Eddie a call.”
Richie groans loudly, clutching at his chest, “Staniel, why must you wound me so! I have never, in all my thirteen years of life, been so hurt. Alas, if I must battle Big Billiam for your affections, it’s a hardship I choose to accept. I don't know about Spaghetti though, his little face is just too damn cute to mark up.”
“Let's not ignore the fact that Eddie could kick your ass,” Stan points out.
Richie has to agree on that point. “Yeah, Ed’s a feisty one.” He glances down, a small smile on his face, ignoring Stan’s raised eyebrow. What he doesn’t ignore, however, is that Stan’s released his grip on the comics. Mission accomplished, then, although he catches Stan's fingers twitching slightly like they itch for nothing more than to return to their previous activity.
Deciding the best course of action to prevent this is a change of scenery, Richie spins Stan fully around in his chair before grabbing his hands and pulling him to his feet. “Stanny my boy, it is a Saturday and I refuse to spend any more time wasting away in the mental prison that is this history homework. We need to be free, and wild! We need to experience an epic adventure, to make a name for ourselves so that one day some poor children will be reading about us in their history books!”
Stan sighs loudly, crossing his arms. “Okay, what’s the big plan then, genius?”. Doubt laces his tone.
Richie blinks quickly, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “Oh, uh.. wanna hang out at the quarry or something?”
Yeah, that sounded about right. 'Epic adventure’ my ass, Stan thinks. He has vague concerns that he may permanently damage his eyes from rolling them too hard if he continues to hang out with Richie so often. Still, he collects his belongings from where he stacked them in the single corner of Richie's room that's cleared of trash and dirty clothing. Turning towards Richie, he zips up his jacket and smooths his collar down neatly. “Why is the quarry your first thought when it's the middle of November and there's frost on the ground? There's no way I'm going anywhere near the water,” he threatens, no real heat behind his words.
Richie grins widely, nodding his head. “Uh huh, uh huh, definitely not, no way José. Going in the water would be very irresponsible and not at all hilarious,” he says in the most serious voice he can muster.
“Okay, whatever you’re planning, I’m not dealing with it alone. Text Bill and Eddie to meet us there.”
“On it my good sir,” British Richie salutes, faltering slightly when he gazes around his whirlwind of a room to try and remember where in the chaos he left his phone. His best bet is that it's buried somewhere in the tangled sheets upon his bed. This hunch is proven correct when he marches over and, before Stan can think to stop him, grabs said sheets and whips them as hard as he can into the air. His phone goes sailing across the room, landing with an unfortunate sounding thud on the hardwood floor. “Whoops,” Richie laughs sheepishly, picking it up to inspect the damage. His grin turns triumphant when he turns it over. “All clear!” he shouts, holding it up in the air triumphantly.
“Rich can you see anything out of those fucking glasses? That thing is smashed to hell.”
“Nah don't worry, it was already like that. This baby's a trooper,” Richie coos down at his phone while he texts their friends about the plan for that afternoon. “There ya go Stan, the cavalry is on the way! Now let's get the fuck outta here before the boredom physically kills me.” Throwing an arm around the slightly taller boy, Richie leads them into the hallway. He shouts a half assed goodbye to his mom as they pass while dodging the windbreaker she tries to toss him, and then the two boys are grabbing their bikes and heading for the quarry.
____________
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Eddie Kaspbrak looks up from where he’s perched cross legged at his kitchen table, reaching over and swiping off his phone alarm with practised fingers. Time for his afternoon pills. With a sigh, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms slightly before getting up and heading toward the cupboard. Grabbing a glass, he inspects it carefully before filling it with water and swallowing down a medley of slightly bitter pills in one go.
“Eddie Bear?”
Sonia Kaspbrak shuffles into the kitchen, voice sickly sweet as her gaze lands firmly on her son. “Have you taken all your pills? You know it's not good for you if you don't stick to a strict schedule every day.” Her voice leaves little room for debate.
“Yes Mommy, I took them as soon as my alarm went off. Like always.” Eddie winces slightly as his last sentence comes out sharper than he intended, hoping his mother doesn't pick up on his tone.
Unfortunately for him, her eyes narrow just slightly at his words, before a smile slowly spreads across her greasy face. “Well we can't be too careful, now can we? Let me just have a quick looksie at your phone, make sure everything's still in order. You're so delicate dear, who knows what would happen if I didn't look out for you.”
She holds her hand out expectantly, and Eddie reluctantly passes his phone over. Typing in the pass-code she’s long since memorized, she pulls up the abundant number of alarms she had programmed in the day Eddie first got his phone. She scrolls through them slowly, a satisfied glint in her eyes.
When Eddie's phone pings suddenly with an incoming text, he instinctively reaches over to try to grab the phone back from his mother. This movement is aborted when she clenches the phone tighter in her hand, drawing her arm into her side. Eddie is usually so careful about avoiding this exact situation. It’s no secret that his mom doesn’t approve of his friends. He always deletes every message from them immediately after he responds to it.
His careful system is no help in this case however, as Sonia's mouth pinches into a tight line, brows furrowing as she reads the words that have appeared at the top of his screen. In a carefully mediated voice, she turns the phone towards Eddie. “Eddie, dear, who is this?”.
Eddie's heart sinks as he reads the words on the screen. It’s a text from Richie, reading ‘eds! Get your cute ass over to the quarry asap! oh and tell your mom i say hi and i’ll swing by for a visit later ;)’.
Clenching his teeth tightly, Eddie raises his head back to look at his mother as anxiety courses through his system.
“Well? Who is sending you these filthy texts?” Her voice has turned steely as she looms over her son.
“That,” Eddie squeaks out before clearing his throat, “That's uh, it's Richie, Mommy.”
“Ah,” She closes her eyes and nods slightly, breathing out a heavy breath through her nose. “That boy- he is not a good influence for you, Eddie. Going to the quarry, especially in this weather? He's going to get you killed! I don't want you associating with him any longer.”
Anger begins to rise in Eddie's chest. “He's one of my best friends Mom, I've known him for years, you can't tell me I'm not allowed to see him.”
“Well I am!” Her harsh words echo through the kitchen, reverberating in Eddie's ears. “He’s a bad kid, a dirty boy, and I will not let him infect my child.”
Infect? “What do you mean in-”
“He is sick, Eddie!” She’s shaking slightly now, a manic gleam in her eyes.
Eddie glances back down at the texts, nausea curling in his gut as he finally understands the meaning behind his mother's words.
(Get your cute ass over to the quarry)
For reasons he can't understand, tears begin forming in Eddie's eyes, and he wills them away as he works to get his words out. “That's not.. he was just kidding mommy. Richie's not like that, I promise.”
He can't stop the thoughts that start pounding their way through his brain. Even if Richie was like that, who cares? Who cares if Eddie was like that? Just because Derry is apparently stuck in the 1950's, it doesn't mean the whole world is.
He isn't like that though. And neither is Richie.
Sonia continues to stare down at her son, anger suddenly gone, replaced with that familiar sickly sweet expression. “You know I only ever do what's best for you, Eddie Bear. I love you, and I have to protect you. Now, you seem stressed out today, why don't you go for a nice lie down. I'll hold onto this for the time being,” she gestures to the phone still clutched firmly in her sweaty palm, “We don't want anything distracting you from getting your proper rest.”
Her hand firm on his back, she leads him out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. His shaky hands click the door gently shut, and as soon as he hears her heavy footsteps padding away in the direction of the living room, he leans heavily against the frame. Tears leak slowly out of his eyes, and he takes two gasping puffs from his inhaler to try and get his breathing under control.
As his body slowly settles back to normal, he feels his anger from earlier returning. Who did his mom think she was? To pass harsh judgments on his best friends, to constantly police who he gets to see, where he gets to go. He paces back and forth in front of his bed, unable to stay still as his mind whirls.
It's not fair. He knows the way she keeps him cooped up isn’t normal. Just because he’s sick doesn't mean he can't live his life - what's the point of choking down pills day in and day out if he can't even leave his bedroom?
His mind drifts back to Richie’s text. Heading back towards his door, Eddie’s able to hear his mother's stories playing on the television, accompanied by loud, groaning snores. He steels himself and marches over to his bedroom window, opening it and climbing out before he can change his mind.
____________
Ben Hanscom, despite having resided in Derry for several months now, is still known only as The New Kid. While he knows there are much worse things he could be called, he can't help but hate the nickname, and the isolation that comes along with it. He’s yet to make a single friend - the only people who even seem to acknowledge his existence are Henry Bowers and his lackeys. As much as spending so much time alone hurts, that pain is nothing compared to the bouts of terror he’s been forced to endure at Henry's hands.
He shivers at the memory of his last confrontation with the gang, when they cornered him after school the previous afternoon. They had pushed him off his bike and refused to let up until Henry got a phone call from his father and hurried off after one final swift kick. Now, sitting in an empty corner of Derry Public Library, Ben adjusts his sweater slightly in a failing attempt to have it sit more comfortably upon his bruised body. He flips idly through the pages of the poetry book in front of him.
He normally loves poetry; there’s a certain kind of magic he thinks only a really good poem can create. Today, however, Ben can’t even concentrate enough to make out the words. His mind keeps drifting to that most recent beating, where not a single person came to his aid. It’s nothing new, but Ben still hasn’t quite figured out how to stop himself from caring.
While he’s always been one who can appreciate silence and his own company, it’s only since moving to Derry that he really learned the difference between being alone and being lonely.
Sighing quietly, he returns the book to the shelf and meanders slowly out the library doors.
He’s wandering listlessly down Derry’s main street, thumbing through apps on his phone, when he hears a sickeningly familiar voice call to him from a passing car. Henry Bowers shouts at someone to turn the car around, and Ben breaks into a run.
He has no idea where to go, where to hide, and panic is truly beginning to seep into his bones when a hand shoots out of nowhere and pulls him down a side alley that Ben hadn’t noticed in his frightened state.
Whipping his head towards the person connected to the hand he’s currently clutching like a lifeline, he huffs out a breath in recognition. Mike Hanlon, his brain supplies. The home-schooled kid.
Mike continues pulling Ben down the alley, then turns down a side street and cuts through a stranger's backyard. He doesn't stop until they’re both far away from the main street, Henry somewhere off in the distance. Ben huffs in big breaths of air, body hunched over and hands on his knees as Mike watches him in concern.
“Are you okay?”
Ben doesn't trust his voice quite yet, so he lifts one hand and gives a rather awkward, shaky thumbs up.
Mike huffs a slightly shaky laugh. “Okay, good. They were after me too, that's why I was hiding down that alley in the first place.”
Finally able to stand up fully, Ben shoots Mike a small grin. “Is it rude if I say I’m kind of glad? You probably just saved me from a heck of a lot of pain.”
Mike shrugs his shoulder, and grins back. “Yeah, I’ve been there too. Anytime man, really. I’m Mike, by the way.”
“I'm Ben. Anyway, thanks again Mike.” Ben makes to head off with a small wave, not wanting to keep Mike longer than he already has.
“Wait!” Mike calls out, and Ben turns back in surprise. “I mean, Bowers is probably still out there. We should probably stick together, for a little bit at least.”
Ben freezes, an odd, tight feeling in his chest. He hadn’t thought of that. What if Henry’s looking for them right now? He nods, expression serious. “Good idea. Where do you think we should go?”
Mike glances down a worn dirt path weaving through the woods to his left. Mouth set, he tilts his head at it in questioning. “What do you think, should we see where it goes?”
Ben follows his lead.
____________
Bill Denbrough smiles quietly to himself as he reads Richie’s text inviting him to the quarry, groaning slightly as he unfolds his legs and stands up from his bedroom floor. Hopping over the art materials haphazardly spread all over the ground, he grabs a jacket off the back of his desk chair and shuts his door behind him on the way out. It’ll hide the mess from his parents, although he really doubts they would notice either way.
They don’t notice much about him in general, these days. Not that Bill can really blame them.
His mind wanders back to the previous year, that familiar guilt slamming into him all over again as he recalls what his friends refer to as 'The Georgie Incident'. It had been Fall that day as well, but the similarities pretty much ended there. Today is beautiful; shining sun, clear skies. That day it had rained. Poured, really, bucketfuls of water dumped continually from storm grey clouds.
Georgie had wanted to go play. And Bill hadn’t.
There wasn’t anything more to it. He just - didn’t want to. So he’d faked a cough, thrown in a few sniffles, and sent Georgie off alone with just a paper boat and a plea to be careful. Georgie was just a kid though. And he was all alone.
He hadn’t seen the construction beam in time, and it knocked him unconscious. Bill had grown worried when Georgie was late getting home, and he told his parents where Georgie had gone. They were furious when they realized Bill had let Georgie go out alone, and rushed through the streets to find him still passed out cold in a puddle of water. Georgie was rushed to the hospital where he was treated for a concussion and pneumonia, and Bill was pushed firmly to the background of his parents' thoughts.
A year later, and Georgie is long since good as new. For this, Bill is eternally grateful. He loves his little brother more than anything in the world, can’t even stomach the thought of something happening to him. His parents, though - they’ve never quite figured out how to forgive him. He's not sure they’re even really aware of it. Bill tries not to let it get to him.
Georgie is okay, and that's all that really matters.
He wanders now into the kitchen, spotting his mother sitting at the counter, bent over a book with a coffee in hand.
“H-hey Mom, I'm gonna go to the quarry with some f-f-friends now if that's okay with you?” He asks hesitantly, not wanting to disturb her.
“Alright dear,” she answers absently, not looking up from her page, “make sure you're home by curfew.”
Bill nods slightly despite knowing she's not watching, not trusting himself to speak over the odd lump that has formed in his throat.
Heading into the hallway, he immediately feels better when he spots his little brother hovering by the door. “Hey G-georgie,” he grins, ruffling his hair gently, “how's it hangin'?”.
Georgie giggles, swatting Bill's hand away. “I'm fine Billy. I hope you have fun with your friends.”
The guilt ratchets up a notch. His parents have been so overprotective of Georgie in the last year, he’s hardly ever allowed to go out and have fun with his own friends.
He crouches down and wraps his younger brother up in a tight hug. “I w-won't have nearly as much fun as I have h-hanging out with you. Want me to bring you back an i-i-ice cream sandwich when I get home?” he asks, knowing full well what the answer is going to be. “I can sneak it to you in your room l-later and we can read for a bit before you g-go to sleep.”
Georgie gently releases himself from his brother's grip, nodding and grinning toothily up at him.
“Thanks Billy.”
“Of c-course little man. See you later, I love you.” With a parting kiss to the top of his brother's head, Bill heads out the front door. Grabbing his trusty bike from where it rests against the side of the house, he begins his journey up to the quarry.
“Hi-ho Silver, away!”