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Bill likes the quiet.
In the flashes and blinks of his past he’d get, he remembered the calm countryside, the tall grass, the sound of a river running softly by his feet. He would get brushes of the sensation of the warm summer breeze dancing across his skin as he would lay by the riverside, no one but the tweeting birds to keep him company – and he liked it, he thinks. Liked that there was no pressure to be perfect, to he heard, to be brave, instead, he could just be.
Later, though, the quiet meant danger, meant the little hairs at the back of his neck would stand at attention, meant something had gone wrong. The quiet made him whip around, counting for one, two, three, six heads, peering for a seventh, listening for an eerie coo. He learnt not to trust the quiet, and even during the first, second, third of the twenty-seven years to come, he was still wary when he had to begin straining his ears to hear something.
When he got in his father’s car and drove far, far away from the town he once called home, he started to yearn for the quiet again. Wished for the faulty pipe in his shitty dorm room to stop drip, drip, dripping onto his countertop, wished for his upstairs neighbors to get the hint and go to fucking sleep, wished for his roommate to stop talking his ear off while he’s trying to write, wished until he finally got it.
He got the quiet in the massive, impersonal mansion he bought, in the way he didn’t have to see his wife for days if he locked away in his office and typed, typed, typed, in the way his heart no longer leapt and screamed and yelled at every touch Audra gave. He didn’t like this quiet, but he settled into it, convinced himself this was the only quiet he could get, found comfort in this quiet. Until a phone call.
His quiet broke in fits and starts – the whirring of a plane engine to the thumping of footsteps to the screams of terror to the crumbling of that old house on Neibolt street. That same gut-pinching feeling from twenty-seven years ago was back, except instead of having six to put him back together again, he has four. That was enough to bring back another quiet, a different quiet.
Bill used to like the quiet. This quiet though, the absence of Audra’s voice carrying throughout the mansion and bringing a rare smile to Bill’s face, the absence of the whir of her complicated coffee machine, the absence of Eddie’s whining and complaining, of Stan’s one-line quips, is unbearable. So, of course, he bears it alone.
--
Today, he’s tasked himself with two things: do the laundry, and write a chapter.
The moment he wakes and remembers the two, two, things he has to accomplish for the day, he considers flipping around and going back to sleep. Pure spite is the only thing that gets him up and bent over the washing machine, staring blankly at the pile of clothes on the floor from the laundry chute. It has some of the clothes from that day in it, and when he bends down to pick them up, he catches sight of what must be Eddie’s blood on the collar of his shirt, and immediately has to sit down.
He sinks down onto the floor, staring, the quiet making his ears buzz and ring, and he faintly realizes that he’s not doing well. The groupchat the remaining Losers made has been buzzing almost non-stop since they all left Derry, and Bill’s not sure he opened it after he sent a quick, “Got home.” message after landing in LA. He knows the others are worried about him, saw it in their gazes when he left the motel to go to the airport, but he just can’t face them knowing he’s the reason they’re down a Loser.
He's not self-centered enough to think Stan’s suicide was his fault – he knows Stan made up his mind the second Mike called him, and also knows Mike is battling with that guilt – but Eddie, if he hadn’t yelled at Eddie after the whole incident with Richie and Spider-Stan, maybe he would’ve stayed cowardly and gotten away in one piece.
The guilt rides on Bill’s chest, makes it difficult to draw in a full breath, and he decides laundry is for another day, a day where his head is screwed on straighter than it is now. He gathers himself, ditching his dirty clothes on the floor, and makes his way upstairs into his office.
It’s a beautiful room, with massive windows that let the light shine in and leaves the place in an ethereal glow, and his big, mahogany desk in the center, a lumpy old couch pushed into the far corner. He forgoes the desk, only pausing to pick up his notebook and laptop, before flopping down onto the couch with a sigh. He tousles his greying hair, feeling for his glasses he knows he left there earlier, and slips them down and onto his nose.
This book he’s writing, is not so subtly about what happened in Derry, what had been happening in Derry, and features the Losers without expressly giving it away. There’s a Muslim boy, who’s looked down on for his different beliefs and obsessive tendencies, a mute character who’s only way of communicating with their friends is a pen and pad, a Black boy who’s the only in the whole town. Bill doesn’t know if he really expects this book to get published, but he knows he has to get this story off his chest before it chokes him, and it’s getting damn near close.
Normally he’d write in silence, but today the quiet seems too much, so he decides he’ll give one of the many playlists Richie curates and sends in the Losers groupchat a go. He opens his phone, fully intending to ignore the chatter in the groupchat and just find the playlist, but upon opening his messaging app, at the very top he sees a text from Mike.
Mikey Hanlon
Hey, Bill.
Did you see that Richie invited us to his new place? You’re going to be there, right?
Have you been checking the groupchat, Big Bill?
Is everything alright?
I’m here if you need to talk.
Bill’s stomach churns with guilt – him and his sulky attitude is worrying Mike, the absolute last person he’d want worrying about him. His nose starts to burn, and he quickly removes his glasses and lets them hang from his finger off the edge of the couch. He wants to ignore the message, just go back to writing, but he knows Mike will notice he read the message but didn’t respond, and somehow, imagining Mike’s worried face is enough to get Bill to press the call button before he can stop himself.
He panics for a moment, remembering how badly he hates phone calls, and debates hanging up before Mike answers and telling him it was a mistake, but the dial tone stops playing and he hears a husky voice ring out on the other end.
“Bill? Hey man, what’s up?”
Bill’s mouth gapes open like a fish – he’s not sure if he’s trying to speak, or if this is his natural reaction to Mike’s presence. He swallows once, twice, and a garbled sound escapes his throat, leaving him praying the speaker didn’t pick it up as a flush heats his ears.
“Big Bill? You alright?”
“I—” Bill’s at a loss, mind stalling. What should he say? Hey Mikey, I’ve just realized I can’t function anymore after what happened and just wanted to call to let you know I’m not sure if I can do this anymore? That’s a surefire way to get Mike all worked up, which will in turn get Bill worked up, which won’t end up doing anybody any good.
He doesn’t want to lie either – he can tell Mike knows something is up, knows something is wrong, and Bill pretending as if everything is hunky-dory will still end up worrying Mike, so that’s no more of an option than his first idea.
He settles on just – just talking, starting up a conversation, and if him and his rapidly deteriorating mental health come up, they come up.
“Hey man, sorry. I just—I haven’t,” he huffs in irritation. It’s like even his words have evaded him, like he’s so off that stringing a few words together became a herculean task he can barely push his way through.
“I sss-suh—uhm. Saw. Your message.”
Cringing, Bill lets himself sink backwards in his couch, head thumping against the arm rest heavily. That, as well, has become something else his dirty little mind has noticed and decided to torture him about. He’d become so used to not having to pick and choose his words, not having to dance and tiptoe around syllables he knew he’d trip over if he faced head on, not sounding like a brain-damaged fool, that he forgot what it was like to have his tongue work against his brain.
The moment Derry came back in his memories, so did the stutter. And he hates it. Hates it more than he did when he was a kid, maybe now because he’d grown so used to only stumbling over his words when he’s piss drunk, so he’s taking it harder than he should. In Derry, with his mind preoccupied with the killer clown trying to murder him and his friends, his family, he’d ignored it, pushed away the rawness of his tongue, the tick of his jaw, the headache he’d get when a stubborn word held on tight to the corners of his throat. But now, now that he’s safe and far away from that old town, he can’t help but grit his teeth when his childhood impediment makes itself known.
He thinks the trauma exacerbated it – the loss, grief he’s feeling; some days he can’t force more than a croak from his dry lips, tongue curling and bending around nothing until he gives up entirely and resigns himself to another day of quiet.
It makes him wonder what’s going to happen when he publishes another bestseller, and has to do an interview – Stuttering Bill Hits the Stage! He doesn’t know how he’s to explain him disappearing for a week, and coming back with this vice hanging around his throat.
He’s sick of this, sick of himself, and though he knows Mike won’t judge him if he stutters while they talk, it irritates Bill himself to no end.
Mike is near silent on the other end, seemingly having heard Bill’s inner turmoil and navigating the correct route to go about their conversation. Bill hates that he has to be treated like a small, scared animal, about to scamper off at any sudden movement, but he also knows it’s necessary, that he could and will shut down if the conversation takes a turn in the direction he’s dreading.
“The one about Richie’s get together? Yeah, we thought it would be nice to see each other again, to catch up properly. You know, since the last time we saw each other wasn’t really conducive for friendly conversation.”
Bill feels like he should laugh, like this is his cue to make it known that yes, he can function, but his head immediately swims at the idea of hanging out as The Losers with two of them gone.
Bill shoots up from where he was laying down, uncaring of his laptop and notepad that have sprawled to the floor, acid crawling up his throat. Thick saliva coats his tongue, making it hard to speak, swallow, anything, and for a second, he thinks he’s gonna hurl. His vision pulses, and he digs his palms hard into the bone of his knees, trying to stay afloat.
If he goes to Richie’s stupid house, he’ll have to have drinks without Stan complaining about how shitty their choice of alcohol is, even though he’s always the first to get wasted and finish their stash. He’d have to play truth or dare without Eddie whining this shit is targeted, why the fuck do I get stuck with all the nasty ones? He’d have to see how lost Richie is without his soulmate, his other half, the love of his life. And Bill – Bill just can’t.
“Mikey, I’m—I—” Bill’s sure he’s speaking like phlegm is stuck in his throat, words sticky and warbled and not making any sense, but he can’t just hang up, can’t leave Mike like this.
“I-I don’t think– I can’t– uhm. I have to do… I’m really busy w-with—writing? And—and-and my publisher is… is a bitch and I juh-just. Tell Ruh-Richie I’m sss…suh—fuck,”
Bill can tell he’s losing it, mind floating off and words jumbled. He hears Mike trying to interrupt him, trying to get him to stop and listen. But he needs Mike to understand that he just can’t do it.
Mike’s concerned voice jostles him, and he shifts to pressing his thumb deep into his cheekbone instead of into his leg.
“Bill—Bill. It’s alright, you don’t have to go. I’ll let Richie know you weren’t feeling up to it, okay? But Bill, if this is because of Eddie and Stan, you know—”
And that does it. That pushes Bill right over the edge and into hysteria, toppling him over the barrier he almost crossed this morning with a harsh shove. His heart is fluttering so hard in his chest, he’s convinced it’ll end up in front of him, and his eyes have finally gone blurry. He almost throws his phone – mad, angry, because why would Mike bring that up, why would he talk about them, why would he, but he manages to leave the phone be, and instead yank at his hair, the stinging pain keeping him grounded.
“Mike don’t—” his voice hitches with a sob, and before he knows it, hot tears are streaming down his cheeks. “Don’t, d-don’t talk about—I’m-I’m huh-hanging up. I’m—sorry Mikey, but I cah-can’t.”
Bill cuts Mike off, shutting down his phone and standing up abruptly. He sidesteps his computer on the floor, and marches straight out his office doors and into his kitchen. His hands are still shaking as he passes the wine cabinet and reaches for something stronger, something to burn, to hurt, and he fumbles for a glass. With all his incoordination, the glass slips from his fingers, narrowly missing his foot, and shatters onto his kitchen tile. He hardly reacts, forgoing another glass, and instead pops open the bottle of whisky, tipping his head back and downing a good portion of it. It burns his throat, leaving it dry and scratchy and almost pulling a gag out of him, but he thinks it’s worth it.
He stumbles his way over to his massive couch, using his empty hand to wipe the drying tears glazing his cheeks, and takes another swig. He knows he’ll regret this in a few hours, when he can’t open his eyes more than slits and his stomach feels like it’s on fire, but when he thinks about the fact that he’s alive and Eddie and Stan aren’t, he can’t find it within himself to care. Sprawled over the couch, whiskey in hand, he can’t help but think if it was his time to go, this is how he’d prefer to. Mike and his awful phone call at the back of his mind, he raises the whisky, before taking another gulp. To Eddie and Stan.
--
The pile of clothes is still there, still staring at Bill from their spot on the floor. It’s been a few days since he called Mike, since his subsequent meltdown, yet he still hasn’t been able to step foot into his laundry room and just shove the damn clothes in the washing machine. His mind is scattered more than usual, and he’s only been between his bedroom, office, and the kitchen, pausing to peer hauntedly into the laundry room before holing himself back up in his office. Quite frankly, he’s getting irritated with himself.
He never used to get this bad before – sure, he had no recollection of the supernatural being that haunted his childhood, but back before he returned to Derry, he’d get days where everything was just too heavy, the weight of his mystery past pulling and dragging him back into bed, where Audra’d find him. She used to stay with him, early on. Stay with him and brush back his hair when it fell into his eyes and his hands were shaking too badly to do it himself, hum a little song her mother used to sing to her when Bill was close to tears, kiss his eyelids, then his nose, then the apples of both his cheeks before assuring him that it would be alright. That they’d be alright. That stopped a few years ago, and sometimes he’d go through these episodes by himself without Audra ever catching wind. It stung, the absence and loneliness and quiet stung, but Bill got used to it.
Bill’s not sure he’s going through an episode now, per say, but maybe a season, a chapter, where he’s felt this horrible sinking feeling for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to have his head above water.
Speaking of water, Bill hasn’t been able to shower since his breakdown, the steady stream of water pelting onto his face and back too reminiscent of the cold, still plunge of his old basement, of little Georgie’s disfigured face, of the grief in his younger self’s eyes. The morning after he drank himself halfway to death, he’d tried to sober up under his luxurious shower head, and ended up almost slipping and busting his ass in his rush to exit the bathroom and soak his carpet with the water still dripping from his naked body, dry heaving and sobbing in his blinding panic. He hasn’t tried to shower since.
He's well aware that he smells like sweat and alcohol, that his hair is greasy and plastered onto his forehead, but he figures it’s alright since there’s no one to see or smell him. No Audra to drag him into the tub, muttering softly to herself about how she married a toddler who can’t seem to take care of himself, sharp fingernails digging into his scalp as she scrubs his hair. No, that left with Audra’s keys in the bowl by their door, with her boots in their closet, with the wedding ring she left on their bedside table.
A plus to all this, Bill finds, to all this pain and hurt and grief, is that he’s nearly halved his most recent book. The day of his “shower”, he’d clumsily wrapped himself in a towel, rushed his way into his office, and sat there, typing, typing, typing, until his skin was clammy where he hadn’t dried off and his inner thighs were stuck to the cotton of his towel.
He’s never been a fast writer – even when motivation strikes, he’s only able to write maybe a chapter or two a day, always going back and perfecting and picking and erasing and— oh, that character shouldn’t have said that last chapter, and—
He’s always teetered on the edge of too inspired, where the thought of his words coming out wrong in the only place they won’t fail him churns his stomach, sends him marching in tight circles around his office, little notebook in hand, ironing out all the kinks and possible mistakes he may have made.
Now, though, Bill’s sat faithfully at his desk, feet neatly folded beneath him as his fingers tap methodically at his keyboard. The screen had cracked a bit from when he dropped it, and a little ink could be seen slothing its way down from the corner of the display, but as long as he’s still able to see the words he’s printing out, he doesn’t see an issue.
Bill’s shirtless today, not from want, but from the curry from his late night – early morning dinner that plopped onto his shirt, the stain only made worse from his shaky fingers weaving the food deeper into its cloth as he tried to rub it out. It took him about ten minutes to get sick of the scent following him wherever he went, so he decided to forgo the shirt in exchange for his comfort. He ignores the icky feeling of the soft folds of his stomach pressing against each other, the feeling of his chest hair being tousled by the breeze from the window he forgot to lock weeks ago, the feeling of disgust every time he glances down.
But Bill’s tired. Despite his intense focus, he can feel himself waning – his vision blurring around the edges and ass cramping where it rests on his now stiff seat. Bill’s eyes are burning and his stomach is aching and his head is pulsing and he’s about to allow himself his one break of the day, draped across his sofa with a hand pressing little shapes into his eyes, when his doorbell rings.
Maybe it’s because it’s been a few weeks since the paparazzi showed up at his house to badger him for information, maybe it’s because he’s been out of it for the past few days, maybe it’s because he just knew, but the thought of danger doesn’t cross his mind even once.
He eases himself up from his seat, wanders down his stairs, walks through the foyer, opens the door, stares at Mike, closes the door—
Stares at Mike.
Stares at Mike.
Bill rips the door back open, convinced that his messed up mind must have mistaken some stranger for Mike, but he once again comes face to face with a vaguely amused Mike, lopsided grin slowly spreading across his face. Bill’s sure he looks insane – gripping onto his door as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright, mouth agape and eyes wide staring up at his best friend.
“Mikey? Mike, what—”
“Hey, Big Bill,” Mike says, shoulder jerking to adjust the backpack on his shoulder. It’s only then does Bill realize Mike brought luggage, a backpack on his back and a large suitcase at his side. He peers around Mike’s large frame, eyes meeting Mike’s car parked in his driveway. Mike, Mike drove all the way from Derry to fucking Los Angeles, all to see Bill.
“Mikey. Mi—you drove? From-from Derry? I—” Bill’s eyes dart from Mike to the car to Mike to the luggage to Mike and his smiling eyes. “What were you thinking?”
Mike doesn’t seem put off, if anything he seems thoroughly amused, slipping the bag off his shoulder and tossing it by the suitcase by his feet. “You needed me, Billy. So, I’m here.”
Bill has to fight the blush he feels crawl up his neck at the nickname, a name he hasn’t been called in—what? Twenty-seven years? Since Georgie—
“Don’t— whatever. You can, uh, come in?”
A chuckle rumbles from Mike’s chest, a low, husky thing, that sends Bill’s stomach into a loop, and he looks Bill up and down. “I, uh, think maybe you should put on some clothes first, don’t you?”
It’s only then that Bill remembers he’s been donning nothing but the skin he was born with, chest and stomach bare, and he lets out an embarrassing yelp, spinning on his heel and speeding up his stairs, ignoring the bellowing laugh Mike lets out as he welcomes himself in.
--
Mike refuses the beer Bill offers him, after Bill has finally put on some clothes; a tight old shirt from his crappy university that barely fits anymore, the faded crest stretched across his chest to highlight every crease and fold on Bill’s body. He’d be embarrassed by it, if he wasn’t just half naked at his front door, if it wasn’t Mike he was with. He cares less, Bill’s noticed, when Mike’s around – cares less about taking on the role of Big Bill, the Loser’s fearless leader, cares less about being William Denbrough, New York Times Bestseller, cares less in general, because he knows Mike doesn’t care about all those titles, knows he just cares about Bill, Bill in his truest form.
Bill suspects Mike can smell the scent of alcohol on him – if Mike’s raised brows are anything to go by – and resists the urge to pop open the beer and take a swig, instead stuffing it back in the fridge next to his souring week-old takeout.
Mike rests his hand on the small of Bill’s back, ready to guide him over to his couch so they can talk, when he stumbles on the broken glass marring the floor from weeks earlier. Bill flushes in embarrassment – ignoring Mike’s surprised noise of protest – immediately dropping to his hands and knees to clumsily scrape up the glass shards with his hands.
“God, I’m—so suh-sorry Mikey, it—it fell a few days ago and I just—I haven’t really b-been—”
“Bill—” Mike crouches down, gathering Bill’s hands up in his own, gently grasping at his elbows as he pulls him upwards to stand.
“Bill, you’re only gonna cut yourself. It’s fine, I’ll—where do you keep your dustpan?”
A sour, acidic thing bubbles in Bill’s gut, a feeling he gets every so often when he’s fucked up, when his editor shoots him a disappointed glance from over her computer, when his father would stare hauntedly at him from across the room. He’s associated his thing— this feeling with shame. With the need to hide away until his hands have stopped shaking and his throat has cleared and he can make it right.
He’s ashamed that Mike has to see him like this – he’d pushed away the initial humiliation of forgetting his shirt, but somehow displaying how broken he’s been during the last few days, how he can’t even take care of himself or his home without help makes it hard for Bill to breathe, hard for him to find his voice.
Bill’s head swims as he’s hauled upwards, needing to steady himself on his countertop. He notices Mike’s eyes on him, and for the first time he shies away from it, from his gaze. He wants Mike to stop picking him apart, to stop probing for something to latch on to, for the end of a ball of yarn to unravel to get to the root of Bill’s issues.
He averts his eyes downwards, gaze tracing the sharp, glinting edges of the glass freckling the floor, and swallows deeply.
“I, uhm. It’s in the—uh—”
He stops abruptly, eyes blinking and mouth hung open. He— he can’t remember where the dustpan is, can barely remember what he’s been doing for the past few minutes. It feels like he’s just been shoved back into his body; joints popping and clicking into place to fit the sharp mold he must’ve left, unable to orient himself enough to function.
He looks up, up into Mike’s waiting, patient eyes, sees the sorrow, the guilt hidden in their dark shadows, and a throaty sound escapes him as Mike gently traces a line up and down his forearm – the forearm that’s been in his hold this whole time.
“Why don’t you just show me, Big Bill,” he suggests calmly, although through his haze Bill can hear a hint of worry in his tone. Bill swallows, nodding to himself as he moves on autopilot, feet carrying him to the small closet off the side of his kitchen, by the laundry room. He’s sure Mike can hear his whispers of “dustpan dustpan dustpan” as he points dumbly to the closed door, trying his best to avoid looking into the laundry room and seeing the pile of clothes still sitting in their exact position, almost taunting in their unwillingness to move.
Instead, he focuses his eyes on Mike’s broad back as he retrieves the pan, turning to hold Bill’s hand as he guides them back to the kitchen to clean up. When Mike’s back is out of view, Bill’s mind reels, unable to find something else to latch onto, to grasp in its tiny little hands and rub and touch and hold. So, he slips.
--
Bill jolts harshly, hands flailing and eyes wide as he feels a peculiar warmth pressed to his fingertips. In his surprise, he almost knocks over the source of that warmth, if Mike’s rushed curse is anything to go by. Bill’s mind is finally a smidge clearer, no longer trapped in the confines of his memories, and he takes notice of a sheepish Mike to his side, holding – holding a mug of something steaming.
He’s – they’re on the couch, Bill notes, himself tucked into the corner with his arm resting stiffly, almost robotically on the arm rest and spine rigid against the back of the couch, while Mike is seated on the edge of the cushion. Just for a second, he allows himself to ignore Mike’s piercing gaze and the mug in his outstretched hand to drag in a deep breath, ribcage expanding as he comes back to himself.
Coming back from these – episodes? Moments? – has never been easy, they leave Bill feeling too big yet too small for his body, much like trying to shove a swollen foot into some football cleats. He’d often lose his fine motor skills, hands unable to hold anything for a few minutes as they quiver and shake, tongue laying heavy in his mouth.
This time, though, he feels – okay, okay and present enough to relax each of his wound-tight muscles one by one, starting from his neck down to his toes. He takes a final grounding breath, before he sags into the couch and turns to face Mike, a hand reaching up to shyly tug at his shirt collar.
Mike – Mike is looking at him, not just a glance or like he’s trying to figure something out, but looking. His eyes have warmed as they softly gaze over his body, taking in the way Bill has curled in on himself not unlike a hermit, and Bill can make out hints of mirth dancing in his eyes. It causes a rush of heat to crawl up Bill’s neck and cheeks, and he clears his throat as he averts his eyes.
“Uhm, thanks for the uh—” Bill gestures loosely at the mug still resting between Mike’s fingers and cradled to his chest. Mike startles slightly, almost as if a trance has been broken, and offers the mug to Bill, who accepts it with a crooked smile.
“Tea. Chamomile,” Mike supplies.
“For the tea. And for… for wuh-wuh-waiting. I know I’m—I’m not being the b…best huh-host right now, I’m sorry.”
Bill watches as Mike settles fully into the couch, humming in response. Mike allows his back to sink into the plush cushions as he turns himself sideways to face Bill, chin resting easily in his palm. His feet are tucked under himself, and he reaches up to play with the tassels of the throw blanket Audra’d insisted they buy for the couch years ago.
Mike levels him with a soft, yet sharp stare, prompting Bill to duck his head and gulp down a mouthful of his tea. It’s—good, not surprisingly, but Bill’s drink menu lately has consisted of too much alcohol and not enough water, so the sweet, earthy notes he picks up are enough for his stomach to swim happily.
“Bill,”
Bill looks up, peeks over the rim of his cup, sensing Mike’s going to ask him a question he really doesn’t want to answer. It reminds him that Mike isn’t here in his LA mansion just to have fun and visit Bill, isn’t here to gossip and giggle like back when they were kids, he’s here because Bill is halfway to running himself to wreck.
“Bill,” Mike repeats, hand sliding across the sofa as if to reach for Bill’s own, just stopping short of Bill’s fingers. “How are you?”
And Bill knows, he knows this isn’t Mike’s way of greeting him, of making shitty small talk to ease him into the conversation. This is Mike asking permission to dig, crawl, shovel his way into Bill’s soul, his mind, to make a little vacuum in his heart to slowly begin mending and fixing.
Nervous laugher bubbles from Bill’s chest, and he quickly sets the mug down as he feels bile slowly rise up his throat to rub anxiously at his neck with his palms. He can feel himself shutting down, shutting away the bad memories and feelings and hurt, shoving back up his faulty mask to pretend he’s alright just so he doesn’t have to relive his nightmares.
But he knows, recognizes he can’t hide anymore. He’s not even sure if what he’s been doing counts as hiding really – he’s sure all his friends are acutely aware of his deteriorating mental health, but have enough sense not to press him about it. All his friends except Mike.
Mike’s always been different, has always known when to push and when to leave Bill be, when to give him space and when to stay close to him, knees knocking, fingertips leaving lingering touches, lips shushing Bill’s desperate cries, or just knowing when to be there.
Mike is pushing, and Bill knows he needs to let him in. Knows he needs to allow Mike to help, else he ends up spiraling further than he has, and doing something he’ll regret. So, he fights against the urge to run upstairs and hide, forces himself to drag in a few rugged breaths, hands clasped tightly around each other as they pin his knees against his chest.
“I think we both know the answer to that, Mm-Mikey,” Bill breathes, a humourless laugh escaping his lips. Mike shifts next to him, hand having retracted into his lap as he turns to fully face Bill.
“I want to hear you say it, Bill.”
It’s something, something in his voice, something in his gaze, something, that cracks Bill like a glowstick. His hands raise to his face and his legs slide off the couch and onto the floor, a choked sob bubbling in his chest. He’s laughing, crying and laughing, hot tears gently tickling his cheeks as they slide down and gather at the corner of his lips. He feels the comforting warmth of Mike’s hand rub soothing circles into his back, and Bill swears he breaks further.
“I’m—” he breaks away to cough, clear his throat, dislodge the phlegm that’s leaving his words wet and sticky, and Mike reaches to place the still warm mug back into his palms, to ground him, keep him tethered.
“I’m suh-so tired, Mikey, fuck – I’m so tired. Everything ruh-ruh-re—mminds me of them, I can’t even do my uh-own fucking laundry. Audra left me, my friends are d…dead, and if I hah-hadn’t been so… so stupid back when we wuh…were kids, none of this—”
“Hey, hey. Bill—”
Mike scoots himself impossibly closer to Bill’s shaking frame, large hand moving to rest against his nape to soothe him. “Bill. None of that is true, especially not about Eddie and Stan. Do you really think you could’ve made Eddie wade in shitty water all summer if he didn’t want to? Or make Stan hang around us if he thought we were being stupid? We all love you, Bill, and anything we could’ve done to ease your pain we would.”
Bill dips his head, pressing the mug against his chest as it heaves, thick, round tears dripping from his eyes and staining his expensive couch. He hears Mike, sees him, but he can’t understand. If it weren’t for him and his naïve hope that he’d somehow find Georgie in the fucking sewers weeks after he’d disappeared, the damn clown might’ve chosen other victims. Might not have cursed them to die if not defeat him in twenty-seven years. Might not have fucking taken—
“Okay, okay, Bill? You have to—hey, Bill. You need to breathe, okay? Let me—”
The warmth of the mug is taken from Bill’s grasps, and he whines at the loss. His hands are tremoring badly, lungs taking in too much air, too fast, and his head begins to feel too light for his body. He feels someone – Mike – cradle his head into his chest, exaggerating his breaths in an attempt to get Bill to follow suit.
Bill drags in a few stuttered breaths, hands fisted into the soft pullover Mike is wearing. He doesn’t like this feeling, of not being able to breathe. It reminds him too much of down deep deep under the bottom of the Neibolt house, of thick, putrid air, of the stench of Eddie’s blood.
“They’re dead,” Bill cries, sure he’s getting tears and strings of saliva all over Mike’s clothes, but all Mike does is pull him closer, almost settling him in his lap, as he whispers a pained I know into his greying scalp. Bill tries to shove himself away against Mike’s hold, tries to separate so he can speak, and Mike shifts to push the hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead.
“I’m sss-so ss-suh-sorry, Mikey—I duh-didn’t muh…mean for thhh…this tuh-to—fuck, I cah-can’t speak—”
“Hey, no,” Mike chides, patting Bill’s nape to get his attention. “I’m listening, it’s okay. I hear you.”
Bill’s chest hiccups with another sob, and he internally wishes for this all to end, for his tears to stop so he can stop sobbing on his best friend like a baby.
“I-I didn’t muh-muh…mean for this to-to hah-happen. I mean—God, Ben—and, and, a-and Bev, and— Richie, he must feel luh-like shit,”
Mike hums in disapproval, shaking his head and swiping gently under Bill’s eye. “Richie’s okay, Bill. If you’d gone to dinner with us last month, you would have seen. He’s getting back to his old self, annoying asshole and all. He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, okay? None of us do. It wasn’t your fault. We all just want our Big Bill back, so we can be The Losers again. ‘Always stick together’, right?”
Bill allows himself to laugh wetly, nodding jerkily under Mike’s palms. He’s still not sure he has the right to call himself completely blameless, but he’s willing to try if his friends forgive him. He tips his forehead back into Mike’s chest, ignoring the large, wet stain on his pullover, and wraps his arms around Mike’s waist, feeling Mike do the same.
“I’m gonna help you, Bill. I’m right here. Always.”
Bill allows himself to believe, if only for a minute, that Mike will help. Allows himself to think back to the bags Mike had brought with him, to the extra bedroom right next to the master, to Mike cooking him breakfast every morning. Allows himself to hold on to the little hope that, with Mike, he could get better, could return to himself, could maybe even finish his own laundry.
And here, settled in Mike’s strong arms, Bill can’t say he’s better – no, that will take months, years maybe. But he can say he feels safe. The ever present weight on his shoulders has finally been lifted some, allowing him just enough space to take in a breath. He’s still tired, he’s still guilt-ridden, he’s still sad, mad, unsettled. But for the first time in months, Bill can say his world isn’t quiet.