Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Butch was on a mean streak. Had been for days. Henry wondered if it has something to do with Rena Davenport being out of town—taking care of her sick sister down in Florida. Butch hadn't had a good meal or a fuck since she'd left. Leaving Henry to deal with his father's more primal frustrations. Hungry and horny. Henry couldn't help the man with either. Not that he'd want to. Jesus christ. He didn’t even want to think about that!

Henry pulled a shirt over his head and hissed when the fabric brushed over fresh welts. Earlier, after soaking himself in a warm bath, he had spread a thin layer of ointment along each one of his lashings. The ointment had long since dried up and any pain relief the topical medicine had once provided had faded away. Now, the skin along his back felt tight, it throbbed and burned, making it difficult to move without the blinding memory of Butch's rage flashing across his mind.

His father had whipped him good first thing in the morning over the mess in the kitchen that had been mounting since that Rena bitch left. Not that she ever cleaned but she would push any mess on the countertops into the trashcan if only to make room for the tupperwares full of beans she regularly brought over for them to eat.

Henry had reluctantly cleaned the mess, painfully half-assing it after the thrashing he’d gotten. The beating had been so prolific, he'd considered escaping from the house once Butch let up. But, he knew better.

He’d ran away once a few years ago after a whuppin, it earned him a concussion that had him seeing funny for weeks. Needless to say, he’d learned his lesson that day.

Butch seemed to have calmed down since the morning. Henry could hear the TV going in the living room. He could picture the man downstairs sitting in his recliner with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, alternating between a drink and a drag like some clockwork thing.

He figured that if he was quiet enough, and if he kept his head down, he could get by and out the door without Butch so much as farting in his direction.

He resolved himself to just that as he pulled on his boots and headed downstairs. He had nowhere in particular to go and nothing to do but anywhere was better than staying cooped up in the tar-paper shack they called a house.

Quietly, Henry padded through the kitchen and out into the living room, stalling only when Butch came into sight.

There was an old, black and white sitcom blaring on the television that had Butch busting up between sips of his beer. Henry eyed Butch then the front door then Butch again. Quickly, he made a beeline for the door.

“Where do you think yer goin’?” Butch asked abruptly, his gruff voice stopping Henry in his tracks.

Henry froze, his hand hovering over the knob of the front door. He had almost made it. Slowly, he turned on the heels of his boots in Butch’s direction, his eyes glued to the floor. His arms settled at his sides as his hands nervously balled into fists. He had to think quick or he'd never get out.

Belch and Victor were busy today. Belch had gotten himself some pussy ass summer job and Vic had some shitty family daytrip he was on or whatever. Henry could say he was meeting them in town but Butch would question why they weren’t picking him up as they usually did. He didn’t want the third degree, not now. Not after the morning he’d had. He just wanted out!

“Hockstetter,” Henry murmured finally, heart pounding in his throat. “I’m going over to the Hockstetter’s.”

Butch glared at him before bringing his cigarette to his lips to take a long drag. Henry knew his father wasn't as familiar with Patrick as he was with his other two friends. Though, he did know Mr and Mrs Hockstetter and their tragic family history. They were decent people according to Officer Bowers. Their sole surviving son was a different story, however. But, when grouped with the likes of Belch, Victor, and Henry, Patrick typically flew under the radar of most adults, Butch included.

After a beat, Butch exhaled and so did Henry, the tension in the air shifting just a little as his father tapped some of the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray Henry had made him for Father’s Day back in the fifth grade.

“I want yer ass back in this house before dark, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied, quietly.

He breathed another sigh of relief and swallowed down the lump in his throat, thankful that his father seemed content. Still, he waited around for a brief second in case Butch asked for another beer before he left. He hated when he did that. Yet, Henry ever dutiful, would fetch it for him without protest.

See, when there wasn't a woman in the house, Henry was the woman of the house. It had begun after his mother left them and had ebbed when Rena's presence steadily became more common. Regardless if he was a terrible cook and a horrible housekeeper, in the absence of a female in the Bowers household, Henry was relagated all of the domestic duties.

Eventually, Butch dismissed him with a reproachful look, and as Henry cautiously stepped out onto the front porch, he was met with the clutter that surrounded the entrance of their home.

Old broken furniture and trash lined either side of the porch, dozens of boxes filled with old crap were stacked on whatever little surface area there was, and rusty gardening tools were haphazardly posted up against the railing directly across from the door. Amongst the mess, and rather out of place, were a few brand new cans of white paint.

It was a summer task that Butch had assigned to him after the last day of school. Before the summer was up, Henry was to clean out not only the front porch but the back porch as well and give both a fresh coat of paint.

Butch's little plans for restoration were laughable considering the state of decay both porches were in. Slapping a layer of paint over them would be like polishing a turd. In any case, he hadn't started in on either. He'd enlist the help of Belch and Victor before he'd lift a finger. Perhaps he'd even make Patrick help, if he was feeling charitable.

It was past noon by the time Henry set out for town, walking alongside the road thinking his own thoughts, the sun high and blazing overhead. Though, he hadn't become so lost in his mind that he didn't hear something or rather someone quickly approaching behind him. The sound was distinct enough for him to recognize it before whipping his head over his shoulder to take a look.

A black boy on a bike sped past him, the basket at the front of bike filled to the brim with wrapped packages. It was Mike Hanlon.

Without hesitation, Henry bent to the ground scrambling to gather whatever rocks he could get his hands on, a slew of hateful slurs spewing from his mouth. Once his hands were full, he took aim, pitching the rocks at Mike until one finally struck the boy.

Mike writhed atop his bike as the rock caught the small of his back. The distant yelp the boy let out as he continued to speed away was music to Henry's ears.

“That's right! Keep pedalin' or there'll be more where that came from! Keep pedalin' right outta Derry, boy!” Henry yelled, feeling leagues better than he had before.

As Mike disappeared into the distance, Henry set his thoughts on him for the rest of the walk into town. He dreamed up different things he might do if Mike happened to pass him by again, each scheme more rotten than the last. He wondered briefly if Butch would like to hear about his little bullseye when he got back home and if that would please the man enough to finally let up on him after such a hellish stretch.

Henry's musings waned as he walked up to the Hockstetter's house, noticing that the driveway was empty of any vehicles. It was fine if Mr and Mrs Hockstetter were out but if Patrick wasn't home, he'd just made a trip into town for nothing and that would piss him off. He'd have to rip the fuckface a new one if he had gone and made plans without telling him first.

He stalked up the porch steps and aggressively knocked on the door with the side of his fist, listening intently for any signs of life on the other side. A few seconds ticked by, causing Henry to grow impatient. He peeked into the house through the narrow windows that flanked the door and saw no one, no movement, and heard no sound.

“Patrick, you creep, I swear to fuckin' God if you're not home I'll—.”

The front door slowly swung open, preemptively cutting off Henry's threat. Not a moment later, Patrick stepped into view, a rather apathetic expression on his face until his eyes landed on Henry standing before him. His face morphed then, it twisted in a way that unsettled even Henry, the taller boy's livery lips curling upward into an off putting grin.

“Hey,” Henry said hesitantly, before shouldering his way inside.

“S’up.” He heard Patrick emphatically reply as he passed him by.

He and Patrick hadn't been friends long. In truth, he'd always found the guy odd—and that was being generous. He’d heard the rumors about him; heard how he killed bugs and animals for fun and had probably killed his baby brother Avery, too. Henry didn't know about all that but he had seen the guy grope girls during class a few times and heard whispers that he'd probably diddle younger kids, too, if given the chance. Still, he was someone to hang out with whenever Belch and Vic were busy being pussies.That was enough for Henry—at least, for today.

“Whatcha got goin' on?” Henry asked, turning toward Patrick, inadvertently noticing the zipper and fly of the taller boy's jeans were undone.

“Watchin' movies,” Patrick replied and Henry's eyes shot up to meet the other's.

Henry knew all about Patrick's movies. It was, in part, one of the reasons he'd let the freakazoid into his gang. See, Patrick had an epic porn collection and he wasn't shy about sharing his treasures. He even frequently bragged about his connection at the local video store—some seedy guy who got him whatever his heart desired for a semi-decent price, of course.

The first tapes he'd so gleefully shown the gang were typical enough; blonde bimbos with long legs and huge tits getting fucked in every position imaginable by some over-muscled douchebag with a huge cock and balls to match. He had some classics, like Deep Throat or whatever but most were never the pinnacle of jerk-off cinema. Still, tits bouncing on a screen was entertainment enough for the gang. When the initial excitement wore off, the guys ragged on the terrible story lines and cheesy dialogue. Eventually, after they got bored with what Patrick had to offer, he drew them back in with the prospect of content that was a little more hardcore. Whatever that meant.

The scenarios changed from your run-of-the-mill plumber giving his eager, yet naive customer a good piping to masked men kidnapping school girls to have their way with in back-alleys or heavily wooded areas. Those tapes piqued their morbid curiosity for a bit. Belch wasn't too privy to them but movie night at Patrick's house still served as something to do in the toilet of a town they lived in. When the theme of accosting women lost its appeal, Patrick brought in something else, much to his delight and to the dismay of them all.

Belch, Victor, and Henry could only stomach one of those tapes. Patrick had called it a mixtape, a compilation of video clips, each one nastier than the last. The clips included violent fetish porn, real gore, and animal cruelty of all kinds. Belch had begged Patrick to turn it off more than once. Victor looked green by the end of it. Henry had scoffed and called the two babyfags for pissing and moaning over a videotape. He would, of course, never admit seeing what he saw on screen bothered him. He'd simply say, it was boring and if anyone dare question him about it, he'd punch them so fuckin' hard in the mouth they'd be pickin' their teeth outta their shit for askin'!

In any case, they silently, unanimously stopped hanging at Patrick's house after that. Still, he orbited their group, making himself useful to Henry thus unintentionally becoming a staple among them.

Patrick flicked his head toward the stairs and started for the second floor.

“Parents are gone all day,” he said, as he sauntered up the steps.

“Cool,” Henry replied, following the taller boy up to his room.

Patrick's room had always given him the creeps. It had a completely different feel from the rest of the house which by all accounts was your typical middle-class home decorated by, Henry assumed, a housewife who cared. Firstly, Patrick's room happened to be directly across from Avery's room. Avery Hockstetter, who had never made it out of infancy due to crib-death, still took up space in the house. Patrick had shown the gang the inside of the room once with strange relish. The room appeared frozen in time. As it had been on the day of Avery's death, so it remained. It felt like passing by an open tomb, a cold draft carrying over from it into Patrick's living space. Lastly, while Patrick's dwelling had all the marker's of a normal teenage boy's room somehow it felt more like a creature's den. It was type of space that upon entering, the hair on the back of your neck might stand on end and something deep inside of you would signal that perhaps if you backed out slowly you might escape with all your innards still neatly tucked in their appropriate crevices.

However, Henry, accustomed to living in the hellhole that was the Bowers household, imprudently ambled into the room behind the taller boy, hopping onto Patrick's unmade bed and kicking his boots up onto the mattress. He gently reclined his back against the headboard, careful of his lashings, and watched as Patrick settled at the foot of the bed, facing the small TV set in front of him.

The scene on the TV screen had been paused on the image of a naked young woman, her arms and legs tied to the posts of the bed she was lying on. She was blindfolded but she was not gagged. Patrick hit play on the VCR and the woman began to writhe immediately, her panicked cries blaring through the TV speakers. A man dressed in all black then stepped into frame, a balaclava covering his face. Slowly, he began to remove the belt he had on. He wrapped his hand around the buckle before drawing back his arm and bringing it down against the woman's crotch.

The woman cried out, her scream piercing the relative silence of the room she was being held in. As her screams dwindled into whimpers, she was whipped again, this time across her belly. Her scream was guttural this time and Henry's own stomach tensed as if he'd been the one hit. He shifted uncomfortably along the bed, his eyes flitting back and forth between Patrick and the TV screen, the memory of the morning he'd had flickering in his mind.

The woman gasped and groaned, and was only given seconds of reprieve before the man brought his belt down over her breasts. She shrieked and began to beg. She begged for her life and pleaded to be set free. She swore she wouldn't tell anyone, if only the man would let her go.

The man dropped his belt, its buckle clanked against the floor and the woman jolted at the same time as Henry did. An insidious silence settled in, both in Patrick's room and in the low quality, home video type movie playing on the TV.

The masked man remained silent as Henry's heart began to painfully, thud in his ears. Then, not a second later, the man's hands moved to the front of his pants and he began to undress.

Henry tore his eyes away from the TV and set them against Patrick's back, noticing the boy's hunched over posture and his hands out of sight but obviously moving in his lap. Henry's mouth pulled into a thin, grim line and he felt the sudden acrid rise of bile at the back of his throat. The atmosphere of Patrick's room had shifted for the worse and the stale smell of Patrick's den turned into a putrid stench. Sounds continued to rise from the small TV set; cries, whimpers, grunting and pleas. Even the sound of his blood rushing loudly through his ears could not drown them out.

Henry shot up off Patrick's bed and hurried out of the room, stalking down the staircase and making his way to the kitchen. His mouth felt dry and a lump had lodged itself in his throat. He felt both sick and thirsty at the same time. He marched directly toward the refrigerator and yanked open its door, pulling out the half-gallon of milk he saw sitting on the top shelf.

Shakily, he twisted off the cap and chugged a few heaping gulps directly from the jug as he posted himself up against the kitchen counter, hissing as the Formica edge pressed against his raw back.

The lump in his throat went down with difficulty but he managed to pass it none the less. His nerves seemed to settle a little. However, the feeling was short-lived once he heard Patrick clomping down the steps.

Patrick ambled into the kitchen not long after, a creepy-looking grin on his face. Henry glared at him as the other boy found the audacity to post up alongside him. He had settled too close for comfort but Henry chose to ignore the lack of space between them. Instead, Henry turned away and trained his eyes on the kitchen window to his right.

“What's up?” Patrick asked, after a beat.

“Nothing—bored,” Henry spat, indignantly.

Henry stared out the window at nothing in particular. Thinking and listening more than anything else. Which he did quite a lot. He listened for the sound of his father’s police cruiser pulling up their driveway. The sound of his key sliding into the front door lock. The slow drag of his boots against the floorboards of their house. The pop of his knuckles before he tightened his hand into a fist. He knew well the crack of his father's belt. How it sounded against his skin when it ripped through his flesh. He listened, tirelessly, and thought of ways to make it stop.

Didn't that woman know that begging did nothing?

“Wanna do something fun?” Patrick asked.

Henry's ears perked up and gooseflesh rose along his skin as Patrick's breath somehow ghosted along his neck.

How fuckin' close is he? He thought, disgusted.

Henry whipped his head to his left, toward Patrick, and saw the other boy’s shitty grinning face again. However, his expression appeared a little more manic now because, well, because…

Henry slowly lowered his eyes below Patrick's waist. Patrick had his dick out, his left hand casually wrapped around it, stroking the soft length of his shaft and Henry froze.

He felt the familiar spikes of anxiety rise up within him, clawing into his chest. It was accompanied by swell of disgust churning his stomach. However, neither emotion spurred him to move from where he stood. He remained stuck in place like a fly caught in a spider's web, resigned to its fate.

After a moment, Patrick dropped his length, still flaccid and dangling over the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts. He moved to stand in front of Henry, his hands working quickly to undo Henry's pants.

Later, far away from Patrick Hockstetter’s kitchen and in the relatively safe corner of Bip and Bop's pen. Henry will wonder why he allowed Patrick to do it.

Allowed.

As if completely hypnotized, Henry watched as Patrick's deft hands undid the button and zipper of his jeans, seeing but not entirely processing. When Henry finally did move, jolted out of his stupor only momentarily, he released the Hockstetter’s half-gallon of milk; the white liquid spilling out onto the vinyl flooring. Patrick had delicately worked his cock out of his briefs and had wrapped a hand around its base.

Languidly, he began to stroke Henry's length along with his own. It didn't take much for Henry's cock to get painfully hard, embarrassingly quick. Despite his body's reaction, Henry recognized that it didn't feel good. In fact, it felt terribly, terribly wrong but he couldn't seem to do anything about it.

Patrick shuffled closer to Henry and Patrick (now fully erect) pressed his length against the other boy's, rubbing their cocks together before spitting in his palm and taking both in his large hand. Henry stiffened up, the edge of the counter jutting further into his lower back, the stinging pain of his lashings ripping throughout his body.

Patrick towered over him, leaning in close. “I can put it in my mouth,” he whispered against his ear. “I don't mind.”

Suddenly, Henry found that his hands could move! And his mind finally screamed—Deck him! Fucking deck him, Bowers! However, the most he managed to accomplish was grasping the belt loops of Patrick's pants. He curled his fingers inside the loops on either side of Patrick's hips and held him steady, keeping the taller boy from slinking down onto the floor.

If Patrick sank to his knees and took his cock in his mouth, he'd go crazy.

Patrick, of course, misinterpreted his actions. He giggled in Henry’s ear and sighed.

“You like it,” he said, his voice as calm and even as his breathing. “Want me to fuck you?”

Henry's level of panic rose inexorably. However, instead of fighting Patrick off, he felt himself sink further inward, incapable of meaningful thought or action. His wide eyes, transfixed on the kitchen window again, caught the reflection of the sun; it blinded him until he forced his eyes shut.

Patrick didn't fuck him. Instead, the taller boy shoved his hand down the backside of Henry's pants and forced his middle finger up his ass, dry and without warning.

Henry's eyes shot open, whimpering at the searing pain the bolted up his spine. He clenched around the intrusion and arched forward involuntarily, causing his body to press against the other boy. Another misinterpreted action that only served to encourage Patrick as he continued to stroke both their lengths and deliberately probe Henry's asshole for his own sick pleasure.

In spite of himself, Henry could feel the familiar approach of climax. After all, he'd brought himself to orgasm dozens of times before on his own. Though, he'd never felt so detached from the sensation as he did now. Still, it ripped through him like a lightning strike, sudden and disorienting. He shot most of his load into Patrick's hand, as stray spurts of his cum striped both their shirts. Patrick finished not a moment later, catching his jizz in the same hand he held Henry's.

Patrick, distracted by their combined mess, finally let off of Henry, a gratified smile on his face.

Henry peeled himself away from the counter and shuffled to the other side of the kitchen, nearly slipping on the spilled milk on the floor as he tucked himself into his briefs and fastened his jeans.

He felt a sudden clarity come over him, like a fog had cleared from his mind. The orgasm that had wracked through him not moments before had ebbed quickly and he only felt the sharp barbs of anger jutting from his chest.

“You fuckin' homo faggot!” He spat, venomously. “If you tell anyone—.”

“You liked it,” Patrick said placidly, captivated by the mixture of cum pooled in his palm.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Henry shouted, searching his mind for something anything as leverage against Patrick Hockstetter. Henry set his jaw. “If you say anything, I'll tell people about your little movies and where you get them. I know that shit ain't fake and I think people will be real interested on how they get made.”

Patrick finally turned to look at Henry, apathetic expression now set along his pallid face.

“Understood?” Henry asked, restlessly.

Patrick's response did not come quickly and Henry's patience was wearing thin the longer he stood in the Hockstetter house, his body screaming, the fabric that made up his sanity slowly unraveling.

“Loud and clear,” Patrick said finally, his obstinate tone making Henry incredibly uneasy.

“If I see you around again, I'll kill you,” Henry replied, even and deliberate. “I'll fuckin' kill you,” he repeated, as he backed out of the kitchen and into the living room before finally turning and exiting the house.

On the walk home, which felt as unreal as everything that had happened before it, Henry stared up at the barely visible moon set against the pale blue backdrop of the sky and heard sounds. Unintelligible sounds. Gargles, like the sound of someone drowning very, very far away from him.

Closer to him, however, he heard something else. A familiar sound that perhaps he'd heard earlier in the day. The sound of a bike speeding past him again. Henry dropped his eyes from the sky and set them ahead of him. He recognized Mike Hanlon, the basket of his bike now empty. Instead of continuing on, Mike seemed to slow and cautiously look of his shoulder at the boy who had earlier hurled rocks at him.

Henry staggered on, toward the Bowers' homestead uncharacteristically uncaring of Mike's presence.

If there was a flicker of concern in Mike Hanlon's eyes it went unnoticed by Henry.

Chapter Text

You liked it.

You liked it.

You liked it.

“No! I didn't fucking like it!” Henry Bowers screamed at the top of his lungs, startling his two large pigs, Bip and Bop. They scurried around their pen, their beady black eyes studying him warily.

“Stupid pigs. Wasn't talkin' to you,” he grumbled, quieter now as his thoughts had likewise settled following his outburst.

Henry, who had hobbled onto the Bowers property, had further hobbled into the pig pen to hide away. That had been hours ago.

He sat in their mess, legs drawn up to his chest, his head buried against the tops of his knees. He sat there, the day replaying in his mind, unwanted and difficult to shake. The sun had set and the inky night sky had bled overhead, the moon along with it.

Bip, the female pig, carefully trotted over to Henry. She snorted at him as she nosed at his shoulder. He stared at her, looking into the pools of black that looked back at him.

“What do you want?”

Her nose twitched thoughtfully before a sudden beam of light passed over her face and Henry's, startling her away toward her mate, Bop. Henry looked out toward the driveway, watching his father's police cruiser pull in.

Earlier, Butch had left the house in plain clothes which meant he was probably off to the store for something or other. Sure enough, as he climbed out of his cruiser, he fixed a case of beer under his arm.

It was dark and Henry was supposed to be in the house by now. Reluctantly, he stood up from the pigmess he'd been sitting in and started for the house, reaching the front porch at the same time as Butch.

“What're you up to?” Butch asked gruffly, giving his son a once over as Henry approached him.

“Feeding the pigs,” he lied.

“Yeah, you smell like pigshit,” he replied, as Henry passed him by up the porch steps. The disgust in Butch's voice was palpable. It made Henry tense as he navigated the narrow pathway up to the front door. He knew he smelled. He reeked of pigmess, his own sweat, and traces of his spunk that had spurted onto his shirt from earlier. He stank of Patrick Hockstetter, of what he had done to him—.

No.

No, that isn't possible.

Was it?

Butch followed closely behind him into the house. Henry could feel his father's eyes boring holes into the back of him.

He'll know.

He'll find out.

He'll kill me.

Silently, Henry padded through the living room, heading in the direction of the stairs.

“Hey!” Butch bellowed as he slammed the front door behind him, startling the boy. “Get yer ass in the kitchen. I haven't had dinner.”

Henry stopped in his tracks and carefully turned around, heart pounding in his throat. “Dad,” he said, cautiously. “I'm dirty.”

“I can see that but I said,” Butch stressed, his eyes wide and intent. “I haven't had dinner. So, why don'tcha throw on an apron, wash yer hands, and make me something to eat.”

Henry hung his head, keeping his eyes on the floor as he shuffled into the kitchen, a low thrumming pain radiating from his back to his asshole with every move. He'd been able to set the pain aside on his walk home, now with frightening sharpness he felt every bit of it and he felt he might go insane having to carry on as he was. Still, he stepped up to the sink and scrubbed his arms and hands. He felt no cleaner afterward but he reached for the apron hanging on a peg along the kitchen wall and slipped it on.

The apron, a light shade of pink, had belonged to his mother. She'd worn it almost daily while tending to her duties as a homemaker. She'd been wearing it the day before she left for good. Old flecks of blood still stained the front of it. It no longer held her scent.

Henry made Butch fried Spam sandwiches and set his plate on the dinner tray next to his recliner along with a cold beer. Butch tore his eyes away from the TV and set his eyes on his son. Henry kept his head down.

“Not gonna eat?” Butch asked; whether he really cared or not, was another story.

“Not hungry.” Henry replied, quietly.

“Suit yerself,” he said, grinning wildly as he eyed the apron he'd suggested his son put on. “Look at you! Dressed in pussypink like a good little housewife! Son, I'd say you were soft if you didn't take a beatin' so well!”

This set his father off into a fit of laughter.

Henry clenched his jaw and held his tongue. He knew when to cut his losses.

Once Butch settled, he was dismissed from his father's presence. He hung his mother's apron back on the peg on the wall in the kitchen after curbing the urge to rip it to shreds and slowly ascended the stairs. With every step up, he felt like he might tear in two. The pain was not enough to make him cry, though a shaky whimper or two betrayed his resolve. He even nearly bit his tongue to spite himself. Once at the top of the stairs, he shuffled into his room, quietly closing the door behind him. He made for his restroom where he drew himself a hot bath for the second time that day.

He stripped naked once the water in the tub reached an acceptable temperature and level. He studied the state of his clothes on the floor, feeling his chest tighten at the sight of his underwear stained with spots of blood, and kicked them into the corner of the bathroom with the rest of his dirty clothes.

It was a chore getting into the tub but he managed it nonetheless. He let himself soak for as long as he could, thinking the entirety of the time.

Patrick Hockstetter was not afraid of him. That much was clear. Wasn't afraid of the prospect of getting his ass kicked, either. But maybe he could understand that if he slighted Henry that his comfortable little fucked up life would be over!

Henry tried to convince himself that if Hockstetter knew what was good for him, he'd keep his mouth shut and keep out of Henry's way from now on. Then no one would ever know.

No one.

No one.

No one.

Once the water he was submerged in went freezing cold, he pulled the stopper and let the water flow down the drain pipe before he got onto his feet and wrapped a towel around his waist.The most he could manage before feeling the call of his bed was drying himself off and pulling on an old pair of sweatpants. He didn't even brush his teeth or shut off the light.

He curled onto his side off his sources of pain after attempting to stretch out on his shitty, old mattress, while he waited for some semblance of drowsiness which never came. The adrenaline coursing through his body was too high and the thought of eventually turning out the light caused him great panic. He looked on, out the window aside his bed, focused on the night. He no longer heard sounds and he believed that was a good thing.

Eventually, darkness gave way to soft morning light. He hadn't slept a wink but he felt calm—safe—at least. Of course, that was until his father's thudding footsteps came marching up to his door.

Without preamble, the door to his bedroom swung open and Butch banged on the frame with the side of his fist.

“Didn't I give ya something to do this summer, boy? Get up and get to it before I put a boot up yer ass!”

Henry tensed in bed and stirred so that his father could see he was already awake. Slowly, he sat up, his back to Butch. He could see his father's reflection in the mirror atop his dresser. He was dressed in his police uniform, adjusting his duty belt along his waist.

“Start with the back porch. I miss sittin' out there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Victor Criss heard his phone ring around eight forty-five in the morning, too fucking early in his opinion, but groggily he reached for the landline sitting on his nightstand.

“Hello?” He rasped into the mouthpiece, voice sleep-heavy, mouth cotton-dry.

“Hey, come over.”

The voice that came through the receiver was unmistakable. Its hardness jolted Victor out from underneath the warm comfort of his duvet.

“Hank,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Who cares what time it is? Get up, get dressed, and get your ass over here. Need your help with chores. Belch's, too. So call him up after you get off the phone with me. Got it?”

Victor slouched against his headboard, hesitant to reply hastily. Helping Henry with chores was a shit way to start off the summer. Why couldn't they set off firecrackers or shoot bottles? Hell, why couldn't the guys come over to his place instead and help him put the finishing touches on the dirt bike he'd been working on for the better part of a year?

Static crackled over the line. He could hear Henry's breathing and could sense his impatience as the seconds ticked by.

“Should we pick up Hockstetter, too?” Victor asked. After all, the more help they had, the faster the chores would get done.

“No,” Henry said curtly and abruptly hung up the phone.

Belch picked up Victor about twenty minutes after Henry's phone call.

“Man, I do not fuck with crazy people,” Belch said, pulling out of the Criss' driveway. “You know that.”

“Yup.” Victor did know that. Shared the sentiment, as well.

However, there was no helping who Henry's father was and while, yes, under normal circumstances they would've avoided the Bowers' place if they knew Butch was around, their leader beckoned and like loyal soldiers, onward they marched.

“So, you think his dad will be there? Man, if his dad is there—what're we gonna do?”

“Keep our heads down and get shit done,” Victor replied, plainly. What else could they do? Butch was certifiably insane on good days and downright unsupportable on bad days. No use crying about it, Hank certainly didn't and he had it worse than either of them. Victor was sure of that even if they'd all taken their fair share of licks over the years from Bowers senior. No pun intended, but Henry had them beat in that department, not that he knew that they knew about that.

“Did Henry say what chores we were gonna be doin'?” Belch asked, his nervous chattering testing Victor's patience.

“You know, Hank. He ain't exactly the best with details. Whatever it is, hopefully it doesn't take all day.”

“We should've picked up Hockstetter, too. Did he say why he didn't want him to come?”

Victor shook his head. “Fuck if I know. Hockstetter's weird anyway.”

“So, what if this does take all day?”

“Dunno. Was kinda hopin' to go out with Tracy tonight. She's been kinda flaky with me lately.”

Belch's nervousness ebbed, a grin spreading along his face.

“Has she let you hit it yet?” He asked.

Victor tried to stifle the smile on his face. He and Tracy Signorelli had been dating for a few weeks and while their relationship had no official title, she had, at the very least, let him get to third base on multiple occasions. Thusly, a home run did not seem too far into his future. However, there was a couple of pesky obstacles in his way.

“Workin' on it,” Victor replied, confidently.

As far as he knew, he was the only one in the gang with a romantic prospect at the moment and it had happened by chance. He wasn't even looking to date anyone. He had been perfectly content on his own, pining away in his heart and mind over someone he knew to be completely unattainable. Tracy just so happened to show interest in him, so he went with it. What's a horny, teenage boy to do?

“Her friend's cute. What's her name? Charlene? Charlotte?” Belch asked.

“Charlotte.”

“Yeah, she's real cute,” Belch repeated. “You think you can talk Henry into going out tonight?”

Who did Belch think he was? Talk Henry into going out tonight? Victor scoffed.

Victor Criss had been trying to diffuse the ticking time bomb that was Henry Bowers since the first fuckin' grade. He hadn't quite mastered it yet but if he was lucky he might be able to persuade ole Hank into a thing or two and convince him it was his idea all along.

His stomach fluttered at the thought of persuading Henry into anything, but as always, he dismissed the feeling. Wasn't much he could do about his thoughts regarding Henry. Aside from distracting himself with another partner. Hence Tracy.

“I can try,” he said with less confidence than he'd spoken with before.

The Bowers homestead came into view up the road and they soon pulled all the way up into the driveway, Butch's police cruiser nowhere to be found.

They spotted Henry right away walking around out back toward the rear porch as the Trans Am came to smooth stop. Belch killed the engine and they both climbed out of the car.

“Bout time you two got here,” Henry said, clearly in a mood.

The boys shared a wary glance and followed their leader to the back of the house. Whatever it was they were gonna do, Henry seemed serious about it. He was wearing an old pair of overalls, a yellowing white T-shirt underneath, and his brown leather work boots. He only wore that type of get-up if there was hard labor to be done and so the prospect of hanging out with the fairer sex later in the evening seemed highly improbable. That aside, Victor noticed immediately that something seemed off with Henry.

The back of the Bowers house was nicely shaded, a large tree had grown alongside it and its branches hung overhead the back porch. The grass back there hadn't been cut in while, though. It made opening the porch's screen door difficult, but after a few good heaving yanks from Hank the Tank, and door came open and stayed that way.

“Everything okay, Henry?” Victor asked, carefully.

Henry turned to him, a scowl contorting his face. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” Victor replied, valuing his well-being over probing for whatever it was that was bothering the other boy at the moment. Not that he didn't care, he did. He cared a lot actually! But, Henry was delicate. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but you had to ease into whatever it was you wanted to coax out of him lest he bite your head off.

Belch and Victor looked past Henry, at the knee wall back porch, noticing it was near stacked to its ceiling with boxes and trash bags filled with God knows what.

This must be the chore, Victor lamented.

“Dad wants me to clean out this pigsty and give it a fresh coat of paint. So, whatever's trash we'll dump it in the burn pit and whatever's not trash we'll store it in the shed over there.”

Henry pointed past the boys, at the dilapidated shed approximately forty yards behind them, placing the Bowers' homemade burn pit about twenty yards farther than that.

Christ.

Victor and Belch side-eyed each other and reluctantly stepped forward into the mess.

Things were awkwardly silent at first, Henry's mood greatly dictating the atmosphere. However, eventually, their leader spoke: “So, how was your little family vacation yesterday, Vic?” He asked, venomously. “Have fun with mommy and daddy?”

Victor tensed, his grip tightening around either trash bag he had in his hands. He knew Henry wasn't really asking, he knew he was pissed.

“And how about you, Belch? How was work? Make a bunch of money?”

Again, the boys shared a worried glance as a beat of silenced passed them by.

“No.”

“It was alright.”

They replied simultaneously.

Henry scoffed.

“What'd you do yesterday?” Victor asked, merely curious, after returning from dumping the trash bags into the pit.

“Nothing—stayed home all day.”

It wouldn't be a stretch to think Henry was pissed over having to stay home all day with nothing to do while Belch and Victor were occupied. Still, there was Hockstetter he could've hung out with. Though, there seemed to be some sudden contention there that hadn't been explained just yet. Maybe it had to do with Butch, which seemed like the most likely culprit. Butch had been on Henry's case extra lately. What with his woman being gone and all.

“We really gotta move all this shit outta here then paint the whole thing?” Belch asked after a while, having already made a few trips to the shed and the burn pit.

“Yes,” Henry replied.

Belch shot daggers at Victor while Henry's back was turned.

“That'll take a while,” Victor said carefully, plotting Belch's death if Henry decided to rearrange his face.

“No shit.”

“Tracy kinda wanted to go out tonight,” Victor continued, speaking even more cautiously than he had before.

Henry stopped his work and turned to him slowly. “You still talkin’ to that bitch?”

“Yeah. We're sort of dating, I guess.” For some reason this hurt to admit specifically to Henry, who had never been interested in the progression of Victor and Tracy's relationship, so to speak. Still, Victor studied his reaction closely. Henry's expression remained rather neutral, aside from the faint flicker of something he couldn't quite decipher in his eyes.

“Have ya fucked her yet?” Henry asked, brusquely.

“He's workin' on it, he says,” Belch chimed, wry grin on his face.

Henry's brow furrowed. “What's that even mean?”

Victor shrugged. “She's pretty intent on saving herself for marriage. So, I've been trying to talk her into assfucking.”

After a sharing a fleeting glance, both Belch and Henry burst into laughter.

And Victor was glad for it even if it was at his expense. Henry finally loosening up was a pleasure to see.

“What the fuck?!” Belch exclaimed.

“What? My cousin said that's what ya gotta do with religious girls,” Victor explained.

“Fuck 'em in the ass?” Belch asked, skeptically.

“Yeah, so they think they're still virgins or whatever.”

“So, you just shove your dick in their ass like you would their pussy?”

“Cousin said you gotta prep 'em first.”

“Like spread their ass cheeks?”

“No—well, yeah—but not just that.”

“Finger their buttholes,” Henry said dryly, his back turned toward them again, no longer seeming terribly interested in the conversation.

“Yeah, basically.”

“Ain't no way!” Belch exclaimed, shaking his head. “That's gross. Shit comes outta there.”

“I don't know,” Victor shrugged. “My cousin said it feels good.”

“He get fucked in the ass a lot?” Henry deadpanned, turning to face them once more.

This time, Belch and Victor burst into laughter, the latter's petering out sooner than the former's. Victor noticed Henry's eyes again, something in them thoughtful; brewing.

“So, this Tracy bitch,” Henry continued. “She got any girlfriends? A girl cousin or something?”

“I guess so, why?”

Henry gawked at Victor, looking upset that they apparently were not on the same wavelength. “Set something up!” He ordered, gesturing at himself.

Belch beamed. “Yeah, for me, too!”

“Okay,” Victor said, smiling uneasily, feeling his stomach drop just a little. “What about Patrick?”

“Fuck that faggot!” Spat Henry. “It'll be too crowded in the car with us and the chicks, anyway.”

They worked well into the afternoon, taking short breaks here and there but plowing ahead like fiends to get the job done. They managed to empty out the sizeable back porch. Beneath the mess, they'd found Butch's old rocking chair. The sight of which made Victor shudder.

He recalled when they were kids (back when Mrs Bowers was still around) Butch used to sit out on the back porch drinking, a Japanese sword laying unsheathed across his lap. The sword had belonged to Butch's father who had fought in World War II and had thusly passed the souvenir down the family line after Butch had served a tour in Vietnam. He remembered believing Butch would slice someone open with that sword one day and an old child-like dread filled his belly before he forced himself to think something else.

Along with Butch's rocker, they cleared off the hanging porch swing that was still somehow suspended from the ceiling even after being subjected to the weight of so much junk. Fonder memories came with that. Victor wondered if Henry remembered when they would sit out on it while Mrs Bowers cut slices of watermelon for them to share.

He glanced at Henry, who was testing the swing's durability, noticing the sullen yet weary look in his eyes. It was not the only thing amiss with him.

Victor had been secretly studying him throughout the afternoon, as he often did, for reasons close to his heart. As Henry carried boxes and bags out of the porch, he noticed the boy's awkward gait. It wasn't exactly a limp but just an odd step, as if something was making it terribly uncomfortable for him to walk.

A ball of fury burned in the pit of Victor's stomach. He hated Butch with a fiery passion. He wished Henry could've gone to live with his aunt and cousin in town after his mother ran off but unlike Victor, Henry had an affinity for his father. One Victor would never understand.

Once the work of clearing out the back porch was done, they decided it to call it a day. The job of painting could be put off for tomorrow. Henry believed Butch would be satisfied with the current progress and Victor desperately hoped he was right.

The boys then freshened themselves up for their evening plans. While Henry changed out of his work clothes, Victor called Tracy and asked her out. She agreed and even promised to bring along Charlotte for Belch and her cousin for Henry.

Butch arrived home from work before the boys had a chance to leave. Henry took the time to show his father the progress they'd made. At a distance, Butch didn't exactly look thrilled but he didn't look angry either. Though, at one point, he gripped Henry's left wrist and slowly pulled him close. Butch hovered in front of his son's face, muttering something as Henry nodded. Victor tensed in the back seat of Trans Am and only tore his eyes away from Henry when he noticed Belch eyeing him in the rear view mirror.

“Everything okay, Henry?” Victor asked when Henry climbed into the passenger seat of the car, rubbing the wrist he often wrapped with a bandana.

Henry rolled his eyes. “Yes. That fatfuck just wants us to start painting the back porch tomorrow. No excuses.”

“I have to babysit my niece tomorrow,” Belch mumbled under his breath.

Henry glared daggers into the side of his face.

“I can help you,” Victor offered, against his better judgement. He didn't even know if Butch would be around or at work but it pained him to see Henry in the thick of it. Who knew? Maybe they could get shit done quickly and they could check out the carnival set up at Bassey Park.

“Thanks,” Henry replied, sparring Victor an innocuous glance in the rear view mirror.

And with that, they set out for town, stopping first at Dairy Queen to eat. Belch ordered crispy tacos while Victor bought himself and Henry cheeseburgers and (because he was low on cash and no other reason) an ice cream cone for the both of them to share.

By the time they picked up Tracy and the other girls, the sun was just below the horizon, and the night ahead was looking good. However, his good friend Hank, who had demanded their little outing in the first place with hardly any manipulation from him at all, looked rather jittery in the reflection of the rear view mirror.

Henry's heart was hammering in his chest when the Trans Am slowed to a stop in front of the Signorelli bitch's house, the girls already waiting around out front. He got out of the passenger side and folded the seat forward.

“Hey, Tracy,” Victor said from the backseat.

“Hey,” Tracy replied with a smile, her nasally voice instantly irritating Henry. He hadn't met her before but he wasn't exactly impressed with her now that he had.

Tracy grabbed the tallest girl of the group at her left and introduced her as Charlie. Belch, like the dumbass he was, craned clumsily across the car's center console to greet her. Next in line to be presented was the shortest girl of the trio at Tracy's right. Presumably, Henry's date for the night. “Henry, this is my baby cousin Deanna.”

“Hi, Henry.” The girl said, glancing up at him shyly.

Henry looked her up and down. She was okay looking, dressed decently in a tank top and skirt. Not ugly but not exactly gorgeous. She didn't have tits, hips, or legs though. He supposed that didn't matter, as long as she had a mouth and a pussy. That would get the job done.

“Hey,” he replied, plainly. “Get in.”

“Deanna can sit on Henry's lap for the ride,” Tracy said quickly, pushing the small girl at him as she and Charlie climbed into the backseat.

Henry glowered at Deanna before fixing the passenger's seat back upright. He slid in and waited for the girl to follow suit.

Thankfully, she wasn't a fat chick. She fit perfectly along his lap, her legs not taking up much space in the footwell.

Discreetly, Henry popped two sticks of Juicy Fruit gum into his mouth on the ride over to the baseball field behind Tracker Brothers trucking. He'd forgotten to brush his teeth and didn't want to be a complete grossout.

Once at the field, the boys parted ways with their respective dates. Victor and Tracy remained in the backseat of the Trans Am while Belch led Charlie toward the outfield fence. Henry walked with Deanna alongside of the car.

“How old are you?” He asked, curious due to her small stature.

“Gonna be fourteen in November,” she said, hopping onto the side of the trunk.

He stared at her blankly. A fuckin' thirteen year old...

“Is that okay?” She asked, noticing his prolonged silence.

“S'fine. Whatever.”

Deanna smiled and spread her legs as she inched toward the edge of the trunk. Henry dropped his eyes and caught a glimpse of the light, pink panties she was wearing before mechanically shuffling forward to settle between her thighs. She hung her arms around his shoulders and pulled him a little closer to her. Nervously, he swallowed the gum in his mouth, it went down like a hard lump, and he felt no better prepared than he had a moment before.

Despite being nearly nose to nose with Deanna, Henry flicked his eyes to the action in the backseat of the Trans Am. Victor and Tracy were already swapping spit as the bleached-blond slowly worked off her denim jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Belch and Charlie walking hand in hand along the outfield fence. What a gentleman, he thought miserably.

There were no reservations as to why they were all on the baseball field. Henry was thankful for that, at least. Still, he found it difficult to get started.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” Deanna asked, abruptly.

“Yeah, just, fuckin' hold on,” Henry grumbled, pulling his eyes back to her.

He eased in, his eyes focused on her thin, glossed lips and pressed his mouth to hers. Eventually, she moved her lips shyly and he followed suit, his inexperience annoyingly fraying his nerves. The sticky, sweet taste of her lip gloss intermingled with the gum flavor still heavy on his tongue. He tried to calm himself. He tried to focus. He tried to enjoy himself, but his body and mind wouldn't cooperate.

What if she can tell?

What if she can tell that...that...

The sudden intrusive thought exploded in his mind and the subsequent debris went flying throughout his consciousness, causing him to panic.

Henry's eyes widened. Thankfully, Deanna had hers tightly shut, so she couldn't see that his gaze had wandered back to the backseat; back to Victor and Tracy, deep in the throes of tonsil hockey. He studied the way the pair moved, paying careful attention to Victor's mouth and the slow drag of his tongue over Tracy's. He watched as the pair drew closer to each other with Tracy almost straddling Victor's lap. Victor's arms were moving, his hands likely searching for purchase underneath Tracy's dress, between her legs.

The low thrum of Henry's blood made him feel warm and excited. Finally, his anxieties gave way and his body responded as he felt it should.

Deanna had pressed herself firmly against him and his cock, now semi-erect, twitched in interest as he finally took initiative and thrust against her.

The girl squeaked and pulled away, instantly irritating Henry as he'd just gotten into the groove of things.

“What? What's wrong?” He groused.

She dropped her hands and eyes to the button of his jeans, toying with the thick denim surrounding it.

“This hurts,” she said, coyly.

Moving quickly, Henry unfastened his pants and shoved them down a little. Again, Deanna pressed herself against him and he could feel her warm cunt through the fabric of his briefs. He was fully erect now.

He returned his mouth to hers and this time, eagerly shoved his tongue in between her parted lips.

See! He wasn't a queer like that sissyfaggot Hockstetter!

She moaned against his mouth and moved against him, his hands grasping her hips tightly to shift her into the best position each time she rocked forward.

Henry found the friction mind-blowing even moreso when he realized how moist Deanna had become from just grinding against him. He took this to mean she wanted him. She wanted it. So, his hands quickly dipped beneath her skirt.

“What're you doing?” She asked, breaking their kiss and attempting to scoot away from him.

“Let me put it in,” he rasped, running his hands up her thighs and hooking his fingers over the elastic of her underwear.

“Huh?”

“My dick,” he clarified, attempting to yank her panties down.

“No!” She replied defiantly, fighting to keep her underwear in place.

“Whaddya mean no?! I want to do it and you're soakin' fuckin' wet for me, sweetheart! So, just let me fuckin' do it!”

“I said no!” Deanna exclaimed and kicked out her leg.

Fortunately, Henry was quick and jumped back before her leg could do serious damage. Still, she managed to just barely clip his nutsack. That was enough to make him jolt and topple forward onto the trunk of Belch's car while the bitch hopped off and away from the vehicle. With the wind knocked out of him, Henry could do little but curse the girl carefully backing away from him.

Meanwhile, inside the Trans Am, Tracy's shrill voice rang out through the night as she burst out of the passenger side.

“I said stop touchin' me!” She yelled.

Henry, supporting himself against the side of the car, the pain very slowly subsiding, watched Victor scramble out after her.

“Why are you being such a cunt all of a sudden?!”

“Fuck you, Criss!” Tracy flipped the boy the bird and grabbed for her cousin. “C'mon Deanna, we're getting out of here and away from these fuckin' losers. Charlie, are you comin'?"

Belch's girl, the only female present that looked apologetic, ran over from the fence. She mumbled a soft 'sorry' over her shoulder at Belch and followed her girlfriends.

The boys, now all gathered around the Trans Am, watched the girls hurry off the baseball field and disappear in the direction of Tracy's house.

“What the fuck just happened?” Belch whined, leaning over the driver's side roof, eyeing both Victor and Henry on the other side of the car.

"I don't know! She was being a total prude!” Victor said, red in the face. The bleached-blond looked over at Henry, who had barely regained the strength to stand up straight, albeit cradling his crotch all the while. “What happened to you?”

“That cunt kicked me in the nuts.”

“Sorry,” Victor said softly, eyeing Henry apologetically out of the corner of his eye.

Belch watched them both curiously as a silence settled amongst the trio.

“Guess a circle-jerk is outta the question then,” he joked after a while, awkwardly adjusting himself over his jeans.

Chapter Text

That night when Victor got home he argued with Tracy over the phone for hours, secrets and revelations coming to light before the witching hour reached its peak.

He was so done with Tracy Signorelli and the thought of that oddly relieved him. He figured he could remain a virgin for a little while longer.

However, after their heated phone call, Victor found he couldn't sleep and so he crept through the house and into the garage and got to work on his motorbike. It would run by morning.

Meanwhile, just outside of Derry, where the sprawling farm lands went on for miles into the next town over, Henry Bowers lay awake again. Thinking his own thoughts under the safe, yellow light pouring down from the fixture above his bed, deciding he'd leave it on for a second night in a row.

If tonight proved anything, it proved he wasn't a queer but he still felt defective somehow. As defective as the little shits he often ranked on. He wanted to lay the blame solely on Patrick Hockstetter, who he swore if he saw again, he'd cut from gullet to groin and feed the cocksucker's innards to his pigs and hang his skin up along the Bowers property line with a sign that read 'CONSEQUENCES OF FUCKIN' WITH HENRY BOWERS!!!'. Although, after the night he'd had, he wasn't so sure this was all Patrick's doing. Maybe there was some internal thing that caused him infinite difficulty. Something in his blood, in his DNA.

He could sense his father somewhere in the house. Drinkin' a beer. Smokin' a cigarette. Scratchin' the stubble of his chin before adjustin' his unfastened, uniform pants along his gut, his belt always within arms reach.

Henry tensed as he lay on his side, the pain from his back and asshole mostly a thing of the past. Every so often, however, he felt a dull ache radiate from his balls to his belly.

That fuckin' whore, he thought. If only she would've let me fuck her, I wouldn't be questioning...

Questioning, what?

Nothing! Wasn't questioning anything!

“Ack!”

Henry twitched under the covers of his bed, certain that he'd heard a choking noise. His eyes darted wildly around the room, and while the lighting was shitty, he could still see everything very clearly.

The noise had sounded so close.

His eyes settled across the room, on his bathroom. He'd left the light on in there, as well. Maybe his father was in his own bathroom hawkin' up a loogie into his sink and the noise had traveled. Through the walls, through the pipes. God knows that happened often enough, especially when Rena Davenport was around. He'd heard the sounds of Rena and his father fucking many a time, squashing their disgusting bodies together like there was no one else in the house that could be possibly be put off by their indecency.

Suddenly, Henry heard the sound of water running and bubbling, but only for a second. What he believed to be water, anyway...Eventually, the noises ceased and he was left with only the familiar, haunting sounds produced by the old Bowers house.

He brought his hands to his face and rubbed his tired eyes, feeling the heavy weight of fatigue on his mind and body but the inability to simply shut off. He allowed his rough hands to slide down to the pendant hanging on the plain, silver chain around his neck. He toyed with the thing, tracing the etchings on its face before bringing it to his lips. He pressed the pendant against his mouth and kept it there.

His mother had left it for him before running off. As a child, he'd flung it across his room when he found it laying on his nightstand. After a few days of it laying on the floor and a few good wallops from Butch that left him crying for momma, he picked it up and hung around his neck. He'd only learned earlier this year that the pendant depicted Saint Michael. Ironically enough, it had been Mrs Hockstetter who had imparted this piece of information upon him when he'd first met Patrick's parents. She'd go on to tell him that this particular archangel was a symbol of justice and protector against harm.

What a joke.

He rubbed the pendant against his lips a little while longer, soothing the anxieties that made his skin feel like insects were crawling underneath it. Still, his mind felt like sludge. He supposed that was to be expected as he steadily approached forty-eight hours with no sleep. Perhaps that was why his mind kept wandering back to the humiliation he'd suffered earlier in the night.

What could he have done differently? Should've he started off like Belch? Holding hands? That was pussyshit! A real man just took what he wanted. Just like...like...

He hadn't wanted to hold Deanna's hand, anyway! He had barely felt like kissing her. He'd just wanted to...to...get the job done! To prove...

To prove what, Bowers?

Nothing! He had nothing to prove to anyone!

Aggressively, Henry rubbed the side of his head. Maybe if he had started off like Victor—swapping spit and groping at that annoying cunt—and what did Vic see in that irritating bitch, anyway?

Victor had been dating her for weeks, trying to get into her pants, and for what? The bitch had just ended up spazzing on him. All the time he'd spent away from the guys, from Henry specifically, all for nothing!

Henry felt a sudden wave of anger, it blanketed him in warmth while a strange flutter ghosted along his belly. He moved his arms to his stomach and held himself.

In any case, watching the pair in the backseat of Belch's Trans Am had been educational, so to speak. He could've mimicked it, if he had wanted to. Watching Victor kiss. Watching him move. Watching his hands touch a bitch who clearly didn't deserve to be treated so gently! It was different than watching those pornos Hockstetter had shown them. Watching the pair made him feel...watching Victor made him feel...

What?

Henry smacked his head with the side of his fist, the light feeling moving along his stomach only intensifying. What he really felt like doing was a sinking a screwdriver into the side of his head and picking out his brains! Then he wouldn't be thinking weird thoughts, feeling weird things!

He tossed and turned for the remainder of the night, going back and forth in his head, deliberately dancing around the more unpleasant things that had happened recently.

Ultimately, around daybreak, he decided to trudge out of bed before Butch could 'wake him'. In fact, his old man was still snoring away in his recliner by the time Henry was dressed and out the door to feed the pigs.

The morning was cool but not cold and the sun was just peeking over the horizon as he walked over to the enclosure where Bip and Bop were impatiently waiting for what Henry lovingly referred to as their slop. It was nothing more than a mixture of mostly table scraps and a bit of actual pig feed. He dumped a bucket full into their trough and watched them fight over their favorite pieces before the skin-crawling feeling of being watched tore his eyes away.

Henry glanced around him and saw no one and nothing out of the ordinary. Hesitantly, he looked up at the sky, the inky night slowly fading, giving way to a gradient of orange, pink, and purple. The moon was still lingering above, silvery pale and ghostly. He stared at the near transparent sphere for longer than he would've liked, almost bewitched.

“Ack!”

Henry jerked where he stood, the bucket in his hand smacking against his leg. He tore his eyes away from the sky and looked around wildly. He'd certainly heard it that time! A cough, a choke—something lodged in someone's throat!

With his heart thudding in his chest, he looked back at the house, and found Butch stumbling out onto the front porch in nothing but his sleep pants, scratching at his gut as he stretched and yawned. Butch cleared his throat and spat onto the porch deck before retreating back into the house.

Henry's wild heart slowly settled. He wasn't going insane, it had only been his father. That's all. He drew in a long, steady breath and exhaled before turning back to Bip and Bop. He watched them a little while longer, until their bellies were full and there was nothing left in their trough to fight over. The pigs moved about each other in their pen, accustomed to each other's company. Every now and then they snorted at each other, intentionally communicating in their own pig way. They sometimes snorted at Henry and stared at him almost thoughtfully, sometimes he snorted back.

As Henry began the walk back to the house, in the distance he could hear what sounded like a fast approaching motorbike. It was a rare sound in his neck of the woods, as mostly old trucks and tractors lumbered up and down their way. His eyes shot out, toward the road and caught sight of a bleached-blond mop whipping in the wind.

Victor Criss drove all the way up the Bowers driveway, only slowing as he neared Henry, who was standing at the head of the pig pen. He came to a full stop in front of the other boy, a lop-sided grin pulling up along his face as he killed the engine of his '84 Yamaha XT600.

“Finally got her fixed up, huh,” Henry said, smiling and eyeing the bike underneath him.

“Yeah, only took me a year and all my fuckin' money,” Victor replied, dismounting his bike. He pushed the Yamaha toward the back of the house and parked it under the tree there. “She's tough,” he said proudly, glancing at Henry over his shoulder.

“Tough enough, Vic,” Henry replied, shit-eating grin on his face. “Until ya get a real bike.”

Victor rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He walked back to Henry, glaring uneasily at Butch's cruiser out of the corner of his eye as he passed it.

“You're here early,” Henry commented.

“Had nothing better to do than help your sorry ass,” he quipped, staring into Henry's startling blue eyes which were slightly blood shot. “So, are we paintin' or what?”

Henry shook his head, walking toward the front porch and up its steps. “First we gotta scrape off all the old paint that's chippin'. Sand it down a little. Then we'll have a decent base to prime over then we'll paint.”

Victor sighed, heavy and deep, letting the crisp morning air fill his lungs. It sounded like a lot of work and he was running on no sleep but as he watched Henry, the other boy making his way across the front porch, setting aside the pigs' slop bucket only to pick up a can of primer, he couldn't help but feel a sudden burst of energy.

He supposed this unexpected burst of vitality had more to do with his secret infatuation with Hank than any real desire to work. To work for Butch Bowers no less! Either way, he hopped up the porch steps, navigating the cluttered narrow space until he reached Henry, grabbing the can of primer from his hands.

“I'll carry this around back.” Offered Victor. “You can grab whatever else we need.”

Henry nodded and began to rifle through the junk, random garbage falling all around him.

“Be careful,” Victor said before walking off, eyeing the rusty line-up of old gardening tools, the heads of which were upright and almost directly in front of the front door. A shovel, a leaf rake, a bow rake, a garden hoe, all past their prime and ready for the Bowers' burn pit. Unless, there was still good use for them.

Victor walked around back, to the back porch, opening the screen door only to find a new mess. Apparently, even without a fresh coat of paint, Butch had still been able to sit out just fine the night before as evidenced by the small radio sitting on the deck and the rows of empty beer bottles lined up alongside his rocker. Victor set down the can of primer and began to pluck up the bottles, sure there was a metal trash can near by where they could be dumped, the gang having used it as target practice many a time.

He'd gathered two arm fulls of bottles by the time Henry came around and gracelessly opened the screen door for him with the toe of his boot, as his own hands were completely occupied. As they passed each other, Henry motioned towards the metal trash can to Victor's left. The boy tossed the heap of bottles into the can, causing many of them shatter as they hit the metal bottom.

Victor mused Butch must have more beer than blood in his veins at this point given the amount he had seemingly drunk last night. It was a downright disgrace in Victor's mind who, over the years, had noticed that Henry would go without just so his father could daily wet his whistle to his heart's content. Whether it was food, clothes, or a little bit of spending cash, Hank had way of very little due to Butch's habit. This only fueled Victor's contempt of the man. However, when he returned to back porch, the door connecting the kitchen and porch swung open to reveal none other than Bowers senior himself, Victor did and said nothing. He only kept very still, like a small, scared animal.

Butch stood in the doorway, dressed in his police uniform, aviator sunglasses sitting on his face, looking and smelling very much hungover.

The man scratched his stubbly chin and appeared to inspect both boys from behind the dark lenses of his shades. Victor could feel the man's eyes raking over him, that disparaging glare causing his hair to stand on end.

After a beat, Butch cleared his throat and Victor very nearly leapt out of his skin. “Startin' early,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “That's good. Maybe I'll have my porches done by end of summer. No more eyesores book-ending my house.”

Butch ambled onto the porch and passed between the two boys, who stood frozen in place, their gaze fixed on the deck beneath them. “I'm off to work now. I'll be home by four at the latest.” He said this at Henry—sounding more like warning than anything else—before walking out and around to his cruiser.

“The whole goddamn house is an eyesore,” Henry grumbled under his breath once Butch was out of earshot.

Victor grinned at the other boy, relaxing once Butch was settled in his cruiser. Thankfully, not long after, the man pulled out of the driveway and they were finally alone.

Henry, loaded with an armful of paint brushes, sanding blocks, and scrapers, spread them out along the porch swing. Finally, he retrieved a paint roller attached to an extension pole from under his arm and propped it in the corner of the porch.

“Alright, I'll take the left side and you take the right,” he ordered, picking up one of the scrapers he'd just set down.

Victor quickly followed Henry's lead, picking up a scraper of his own, as they split to opposite ends of the porch. After a beat, Victor heard the familiar sound of a soft dial click, followed by static, then eventually the low crackle of a station slowly coming in clearly over the small radio's speakers. A melodic guitar riff lead into James Hetfield's distinct voice and as 'One' played on, the pair officially got to work.

Hank appeared in a better mood today than the day before and for that, Victor was grateful. It also seemed that whatever was causing the other boy to walk funny yesterday had resolved. Still, Henry looked quite tired, dark circles weighing heavy under his reddened eyes. It made Victor wonder if the whole debacle with the girls last night had caused him to lose sleep. It had certainly kept Victor up, though for a much different reason, a reason he didn't exactly feel like talking about right then.

“Sure was a lot of shit we got rid of yesterday,” Victor said, merely trying to steer conversation in a direction he could tolerate while they worked.

“Most of it was my mom's,” Henry replied.

Victor felt a sudden pang of guilt wallop him square in the chest. He hadn't actually inspected much of the stuff they'd gotten rid of or stored away the day before. Regrettably, he'd found it too much of a hassle. “Shit, I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

Henry didn't sound particularly bothered, still Victor dropped the subject as he turned his attention to the old paint-chipped porch column in front of him. He scraped away at it in earnest, paint chips flaking off in droves without any resistance at all. He worked through his side of the porch fairly quickly before starting in with a sanding block. As they continued to work, both boys chatted about this, that, and the other while music blared in the background. Belch's misfortune of being on babysitting duty came up as both his mother and older sister had to work the entire day and evening.

“He might as well grow tits for as often as he has to take care of that damn baby,” Hank joked, before disappearing into the house.

Both boys had managed to scrape off all the chipped paint along the porch columns and knee-wall siding without damaging too much of the old wood the porch was made of. The sanding process had gone quicker but once that was done, they had another mess to clean.

When Henry returned, he had two brooms, one in each hand. One that appeared fairly new and another that looked downright ancient, like one of Salem's own witches had used it to get around back in the day. Henry handed the old one to Victor and they both got to sweeping their sides of the porch, ceiling included.

Victor swirled his broomstick overhead, entangling as many spiderwebs as he could in its bristles, dodging the cellar spiders that sometimes dove from their webbing like tiny paratroopers dropping over enemy lines.

Once the ceiling was dusted, they swept the deck. It was at this point where Victor's eyes started to wander. The conversation topics had begun to wane and the only noise between them was the low drone of rock music coming from Butch's small radio that could hardly keep his attention.

He slyly admired Henry out of the corner of his eye, watching how he moved; observing how his muscles worked and flexed and how the thin layer of sweat covering his brow and exposed arms made his skin glisten beautifully. After a moment, Victor began to feel light-headed, breathless even.

The Bowers' back porch was only half-enclosed by wood siding, the top portion was all wire mesh. The air flow was poor at best and the mid-morning heat was getting to him, not only that, but the mere sight of Hank was steadily doing him in; driving him insane with yearning that he had only ever been narrowly able to curb.

“What're you starin' at, fag?” Henry asked teasingly over his shoulder.

Victor blinked out of his daze and quickly ran a hand up over his face, wiping the sweat from his forehead up through his mop of platinum hair. “Heat's gettin' to me is all. You got ice in the freezer?”

Henry shrugged. “Probably.”

Victor set aside the broom and stepped into the Bowers house, into the kitchen, and made for the drying rack alongside the kitchen sink where there was a row of drinking glasses. He plucked one off the rack and walked over to the refrigerator where he pulled open the freezer door. A wave of cool air rushed him as he reached in for the ice cube tray, working loose a few cubes into the glass.

He wasn't too good for plain old tap water. However, the sight of Hank workin' like he was, working up a sweat while in a relatively good mood, had Victor overheating to say the least. Henry had teased him but that did little to dwindle his attraction.

Victor filled his glass with tap water at the kitchen sink. The ice cubes clinked and cracked as they sank to the bottom. After waiting just a moment for the water to chill, he downed its entire contents in one go and pressed the cold glass to his forehead, attempting to cool himself down. He could probably blame his reddened face on the work they'd been doing but if his body decided to betray him further, if he popped a boner in front of Henry Bowers, he would die of embarrassment if Hank didn't kill him first.

Steadily, he drew in a breath and then exhaled. Still, he felt worked up, so worked up in fact, that his mind wouldn't veer off of Henry. It'd been a while since his infatuation felt so intense. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he no longer had Tracy to later work out his sexual frustrations on if he wanted to. He could jerk-off when he got home, Henry had certainly given him enough prime material, but who knew when he'd be back in the private comfort of his bedroom left to his own devices. He figured he could make the most of his time with Hank for now, and that's when an idea struck him.

It was not one of his best. In fact, it was downright shameful as most of his stunts with regard to Henry were. Still, Victor quickly refilled the glass in his hand with tap water and rushed back out to the porch. Henry had just finished sweeping a pile of dirt, paint chips, and other debris out the screen door.

Victor tapped him on the back and when Henry whipped his head over his shoulder to look at him, he offered the boy the cold glass of water he'd refilled. Henry gladly took it, eagerly chugging its contents, causing little rivulets of water to stream down the corners of his mouth as he tilted his head all the way back to finish it off. Immediately after, he brought the perspiring glass to his face and iced down his heated forehead and his flushed cheeks.

Henry handed the glass back to Victor. “Thanks,” he said, but not before bringing the bottom of his shirt up to wipe the sweat and water from his face, flashing Victor a nice view of his abs.

Victor tried to not let his eyes linger, but he couldn't deter the urge to gawk at the bit of exposed skin Henry had blessed him with. Though, he quickly tore his eyes away once the other boy dropped the hem of his shirt and got back to sweeping.

Victor walked back into the house, more than a little worked up. He stopped in front of the kitchen sink and held the empty glass up to his face, staring at the spot where Henry had placed his mouth. The imprint of the other boy's lips were distinct and before he could curve his odd impulses, Victor gave in to the compulsion to lick the part of the rim from where Henry had drunk. He felt his entire body pulse, as he dragged his tongue along the glass. He tasted nothing in particular but that did not disappoint him. He supposed it was the closest to a kiss from Hank he would probably ever get and it thrilled him all the same.

An impish grin spread across his face. It was promptly wiped off as the back door swung open suddenly. Victor startled, nearly dropping the glass onto the sink as Henry entered the house.

“Early lunch break—I'm starving,” he said, none the wiser of Victor's exploits.

Victor, still too frazzled to speak, only nodded before finally setting the glass down in the sink.

He watched Henry raid the pantry and fridge for provisions. It would be ham sandwiches for them, sandwiches they would practically inhale. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, silent through the first sandwich or two; Victor coming down from his earlier heat.

“Didja ever figure out what your bitch's problem was last night?” Henry asked abruptly through a bite of his food, sounding genuinely curious. Of course he would be, Victor thought, though he'd figured the other boy simply would not care enough of the details of the lover's spat that had played out the night before to ask.

“Uh, yeah,” he responded, trying to sound unbothered as he popped a potato chip into his mouth. He usually did a pretty good job looking unbothered but when it came to vocally getting that across, he struggled.

“Well?” Henry prodded.

Victor dropped his eyes to the table in between them, feeling his face go red. He shifted around in his seat uncomfortably, accidentally knocking one of his boot's against Henry's under the table. “She cheated on me,” he said plainly, after a beat. He was over it! Honest, he was! In the scheme of his love life, Tracy had never been a major player aside from trying to get laid. While her deception had hurt slightly, it was more so who Tracy had cheated on him with, that really bothered him.

“What a fuckin' cunt, man!” Henry exclaimed, after washing down his sandwich with a sip off brand soda. “Chicks these days are all whores! Who's the guy? We should kick his ass.”

Victor grinned, meeting Henry's eyes. He knew Henry was always itching to pummel someone, his declaration shouldn't have made him feel special, but it did. He felt giddy, though the prospect of having to tell Henry who he'd been cheated on with, dampened all those positive emotions.

“It's embarrassing,” Victor replied. Tracy had confessed after much begging and once he'd heard who she had given herself to, he wished he could unhear it.

“Whaddya mean?”

Victor tapped his fingertips atop the table nervously. He knew Henry, knew he'd wrangle the information out of him one way or other if he didn't outright confess what Tracy had admitted to him.

“She, uh, fucked her cousin at her family reunion,” Victor vomited out, before reaching for his soda to chug a few gulps. He swallowed down a hard lump that had lodged itself in the back of his throat out of anxiety and didn't dare make eye contact with the boy across from him until something anything gave.

He could sense Henry's eyes on him for a few torturous seconds before Henry burst out into a bray of laughter. Victor's gaze shot up to the other boy's face. He was laughing so hard, Victor could see tears beading up at the corners of his eyes. It became contagious, Henry's amusement with Victor's misfortune, even Victor eventually had to laugh. It certainly hadn't been funny hearing it at three in the morning from Tracy's vindictive mouth, but it was funny now. Still, Victor cleared his throat and feigned seriousness.

“Shut up,” he spat at the other boy, playfully kicking his foot under the table. “You tried to fuck a seventh grader last night.”

“You're fuckin' tragic, Vic,” Henry said, finally settling.

“Yeah, yeah.” He knew he was tragic—tragically queer and in love with his best friend, but he wasn't about to whine about it. “Don't tell anyone.”

Henry grinned, coyly. “Oh, I'm telling everyone. The whole school. The whole town. My dad. Nah, fuck my dad. I ain't tellin' him shit.”

“Whatever,” Victor replied, leaning forward onto the kitchen table. “So, after this. What we got going on?”

“Ain't got shit going on,” Henry replied grimly, reclining back in his chair.

“Wanna go to Bassey Park? There's a carnival.”

Victor watched Henry's eyes widen and light up. The sight made a flower of warmth bloom in Victor's chest. Though, that excitement quickly faded from the other boy's face.

“Ain't got any cash.”

“S'fine. Rebuilding my Yamaha didn't actually leave me completely broke.”

“I'm not a fuckin' charity case, Vic.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “I meant I got enough for the concession stand. We're gonna have to filch tickets off some little shits if we wanna go on any rides.”

Henry grinned. “Fine by me.”

And because Victor was curious. “Want me to ask Hockstetter if he wants to go, too?”

“No,” Henry said curtly before quickly getting to his feet to clear the table.

“Hank, can I ask you something?” He said, slowly rising up from his chair.

“What?”

“What is it with you and Hockstetter lately?”

“Nothing—the guy is fuckin' weird and I don't want him hangin' around anymore. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Victor smiled, internally. “Got it.”

“Now, let's go finish this shit.”

Victor wasn't so eager to get back to work. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. As the day dragged on, he was running on nothing more than fumes but, still, he persisted. In hopes that, if they got done priming the porch before Butch got home, maybe they could sneak away without having to tell him their plans. So, they worked quickly on the porch that, thankfully, didn't have much area to cover.

Once they were finally done, with terribly sore muscles and dog-tired, Victor let himself collapse on the porch swing while Henry stepped outside to piss. The sandwiches he'd inhaled earlier did little to give him any lasting energy. At this point, he felt the only thing that could possibly perk him up was a nap. He propped his elbow on the swing's armrest and let his head rest in his work-calloused palm. He thought about the concept of a nap, even thought about asking Henry if he could stretch out on his couch for a few winks, but as his eyes grew heavier, he found it hard to move at all. He let his mind wander between sleep and consciousness, musing over Henry.

He remembered when he'd pierced Henry's ear one weekend a few years ago. The repercussions of that, monumental. Henry came to school the following Monday with the fading remnants of two black eyes that Butch had surely imparted on him. Neither Belch nor himself commented on it. Peter Gordon may have said something smart and received a swift punch to the gut, surely placing him en route to exit their little gang. Rich kids didn't get punched by trash like Henry Bowers.

Queer! Sissy! Faggot!

All words that had surely slipped from Butch's mouth often around that time. As far as Victor knew, Henry did and said nothing. He never took the earring out of his ear, either.

He recalled a memory earlier than the one before, when Henry had gotten so scared once while his parents were fighting that he'd reached out and grabbed Victor's hand. They must've been around eight years old at the time.

He'd squeezed Victor's hand so tight and hadn't let go until Butch stormed out of the house. Bowers senior's cruiser had pulled out of the drive way like a bat out of hell, leaving Hank's momma sobbing in the kitchen.

Butch didn't come home that night so Victor got to stay over. He'd slept in Henry's bed, pressed against Henry's back. He remembered waking up the next morning, his arm wrapped around Henry's chest, Henry's hand holding Victor's hand against his heart, its slow even beat thudding against his palm. He'd felt awful sorry for Henry then but also felt something else, something that he recognized now as love.

He had fallen in love with Henry Bowers, the mean, dirty little boy that everyone dismissed as a lost cause due to his behaviors and actions. They didn't know he was like that because of what was going on at home or maybe they did know and didn't care. Either way, Victor decided long ago he wouldn't dismiss him because he knew Henry was just as delicate as anyone else and if nobody handled him with care. Victor would.

Lost in his reverie, eyes heavy and resting shut, Victor felt a hard flick against the shell of left ear. He jolted, his eyes flying wide open and confused. Quickly, he settled as his vision focused on Hank at his side.

“Tired, sleeping beauty?” Henry teased, as he sat down next to Victor on the porch swing.

“Something like that,” Victor replied, shutting his eyes again as a weary smile strung along his face.

“Me too—haven't slept,” Henry said softly, so softly that Victor could hardly believe the tone had been produced by Henry Bowers himself. It was not only that, that Victor could hardly believe, it was what happened next that very nearly sent him over the edge of his worldly comprehension.

The porch swing underneath him swayed slightly and he felt Henry's presence grow closer, much closer.

Hank had stretched out along the porch swing, his legs hung over the opposite arm rest, his head laying in Victor's lap.

Slowly, Victor opened his eyes and peered down at the boy making himself comfortable atop his legs, afraid to move too suddenly lest he spook him. Henry's eyes were shut (thankfully, as Victor probably looked completely gobsmacked) and his arms were crossed over his chest.

Victor's hand, stuck underneath Henry's back, twitched nervously. “Why haven't you slept?” He asked carefully, genuinely curious, as he gingerly slid his pinned hand free.

Henry's eyes opened and he shrugged, inadvertently causing Victor's fingers to graze the side of his neck. Where Victor could gain an inch, he'd take a mile. He took this rare opportunity to lightly stroke a strand of the boy's sweat, damp hair.

“Hair's gettin' long,” he commented.

Henry peered up at him, small smile on his lips. “Yeah, you need to cut it again.”

That he did.

Victor had learned to fix cars and motor bikes from his father. What he knew about cutting hair came from his mother. She happened to be a local hairdresser with a small salon of her own. She had taught Victor to manage his own hair fairly early in life, though she still did his bleaching. When his friends became aware of his little skill, they came to him for their hair-trimming needs. He happily obliged Belch, and of course Henry, but he refused to touch Hockstetter with a ten-foot pole.

He continued to test his luck, carefully caressing the strand of Henry's hair he'd trapped beneath his fingertips. Henry had closed his eyes again, his breathing steady and even. He looked as handsome as ever, calm and relaxed as he was, his face unmarred by anger or stress. Very soon, Victor felt the throes of exhaustion again. His eyes grew heavier and heavier despite how desperately he wanted to continue looking on at the boy on his lap. Eventually, his mind and body relented and he gave in to the sleep he so desperately needed.

He did not know exactly how much time had passed when he felt Henry twitch violently against him. Henry who had somehow manage to curl onto his side and press his face in Victor's abdomen scrambled upright on the porch swing as Victor blearily regained his senses.

The boys shared a furtive glance as they separated along the swing, Victor on his side and Henry on the far opposite, the sound of Butch's cruiser pulling up the drive way, heavy in their ears.

Victor's heart was pounding wildly in his chest, if Henry's hearing hadn't been as good as it was they could've been caught in a precarious position. It didn't mean nothin', he tried to convince himself as it was better than clinging to the possibility that it had meant something. Something more than two very tired friends accidentally falling asleep together.

The cruiser rumbled to a stop and fell silent. He could hear the driver's side door creak open and then slam shut. Both boys smoothed the front of their clothes down, as Butch's silhouette crossed along the porch's screening. Neither boy had the courage to fully lift his head once the man reached the screen door and pulled it open.

Butch strolled into the porch in much of the same fashion he had exited that morning. However, this time he had a case of beer neatly tucked under one of his arms. His sunglasses were sitting along his face again, he inspected the boys and then the porch.

“Got some work done I see,” he said, flatly.

Victor could not tell if Butch was pleased or not. He discreetly glanced at Henry out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction. Henry's head was bowed, he looked as flustered as Victor felt.

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied and added, cautiously lifting his eyes to his father: “We painted on a layer of primer. It takes about a day to dry so by end of day tomorrow this porch will be finished.”

“I know that,” Butch said, scornfully. The man then moved to make his way inside, but to Victor's surprise, Henry called after his father.

“Uh, dad,” the boy managed to squeak out. “Would it be okay if I go out tonight? We wanted to check out the carnival at Bassey Park.”

Butch turned back around to face the pair of them. He glanced at Victor, hardly regarding him at all, which in the scheme of things seemed more like a blessing. Henry, however, garnered and held his father's full attention, his imposition as well.

He sauntered right back over to his son and hovered in front of his face. The stretch of silence was short, but it felt like an eternity with the likes of Butch Bowers making you feel like shit beneath his heels.

After a while, Butch spoke. “Nell's working the carnival tonight. He'll tell me if he catches you fuckin' around.”

“I know,” Henry replied, timidly.

“I want you back in this house no later than ten o' clock. Ya understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

With this, Butch Bowers retreated into the house, leaving behind the heavy air of his intimidation and abuse.

Chapter Text

Patrick Hockstetter stood along the sidewalk outside of Super Video, Derry's local video rental store, and watched as Victor Criss and Henry Bowers sped by on a motorbike—Bowers himself riding bitch, his hands clinging to Criss' sides like his life depended on it.

The dark-haired boy considered this interesting sight as he entered the rental store, pensively shuffling around the videotapes in his hands, before ultimately slipping them into the store's return slot. The clerk behind the register regarded Patrick with a nod and a grin. They knew each other, very well in fact, and it was this acquaintance that had served Patrick the most lately. Aside from Henry, of course, though he supposed the progression of that particular relationship was now on indefinite hiatus.

Again, he reflected on Victor and Henry cruising up the street, possibly heading in the direction of Victor's house as he strolled down the aisle of the store in the direction of the back wall where the horror section was located.

It was not lost on him that he had broken The Rules and was now suffering the consequences of social exile as he had not heard from Henry nor the the other two recently. He supposed could've curbed his impulses that day, but why should he have had to? Henry was no more real than the videotapes he rented, the films he watched, the mixtapes he'd been introduced to by the very clerk manning the fine video rental establishment he was currently perusing. Henry had claimed the mixtapes were real and that he would tell and warned that people would be very interested in such things. But, what did he know about it? He was not a god—though he fancied himself a commander in his day to day life—Henry Bowers was no more than a plaything. A plaything for his policeman father and a plaything for Patrick when it suited him. However, watching Henry sitting on the back of Victor's bike, touching Victor like he was, well, that made Patrick feel something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Patrick stopped in front of the back wall of the store, his eyes scanning the rows of shelves before him, slowly raking over the alphabetized tapes. He swayed and hummed as he considered the selection available to him.

After a while, he ultimately plucked Hellraiser and The Return of the Living Dead off the shelf because he believed that comedic nihilism and the disgustingly erotic should always be paired together. He also felt that the films might placate his appetites for the time being as Henry's threats repeated in his mind. He carefully tucked the tapes under his arm before finally strolling back up the aisle, lost in thought.

It had always been painfully obvious to Patrick (perhaps to Belch and Victor too, though those two seemed to dully acquiesce to the fact) that Henry Bowers was damaged goods. Patrick had deduced this not solely by way of the physical abuse Henry sustained at the hands of his crazy father, but by another way, too. He could simply smell it on him, had picked up on it the day he first laid eyes on him in summer school the year before. It was due to this that he had hoped Henry could be malleable into something usable.

Oh, well.

At least, he had gotten some use out of him and he couldn't be convinced that Henry didn't enjoy it, too. As evidenced by the ferocity of his erection and the quantity of semen he spilled upon climax. And, in spite of Henry's threats and the happenings thereafter, Patrick considered that day semi-enjoyable. He had gotten off and he'd gotten Henry off and he had been left alone to his own devices fairly quickly afterward, marveling at the mixture of their cum in his hand. He had thought of preserving it somehow like in a jar, using it sparingly how and when he pleased, but his impulses won out again and he brought that beautiful mixture of cum to his mouth and lapped it out of his palm like a parched dog. It was bitter—so bitter—worse than his mother's over-salted cooking. Still, consuming it brought him great pleasure and an understanding that he and Henry would always share this particular thing.

On his way to the register, Patrick heard a trio of familiar voices that gently tugged him from his thoughts. He languidly dragged his eyes over the tops of the aisles flanking him and caught sight of the fat kid, the slut, and the trashmouth. A devious smile strung along Patrick's face as he rounded the Fantasy aisle, to sneak up behind the unsuspecting group.

He stood behind the trio, behind the girl, more specifically and spied on their pathetic video selection.

“If you're into actual cinema, you should check out Cannibal Holocaust,” Patrick said into Beverly's ear as he crossed the boundary of her personal space, startling her nearly out of her skin.

Gleefully, he watched her jolt where she stood, before she turned on her heels to face him. A horrified look flashed across her face for an instance though she quickly composed herself once she saw who had snuck up behind her. Her lips spread into a thin, grim line as she eyed him cautiously.

He studied her features, analyzing the look in her eye as she stared at him head on. She was fierce but he could very well see the speckles of fear in her gaze, in her every move. She had a scent to her, too. It was not so different from Henry's. He peered at her face a moment longer before dropping his eyes to her frame, leering at the fading, yellow-green bruises peppered along her arms. They disappeared up into the sleeves of her blouse and for a brief second, he wished he could he press his fingers into the center of those undoubtedly sensitive contusions.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” An irritating voice chimed, breaking him from his fantasy. “Why not throw in Faces of Death and Red Asphalt, too. That last one should be educational, if anyone is curious what the inside of a human head looks like.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Ben muttered sternly, elbowing the four-eyed freak who couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

“Makin' fun of my suggestion, twerp?” Patrick spat, tearing his eyes away from Beverly as he slinked toward the younger boy, towering over him as he stared him down.

“No. No, not all,” Richie replied sardonically, adjusting the comically large glasses along his face while avoiding eye contact with the older boy.

“Thanks for the suggestion, but I think we're good,” Beverly replied dryly, angling herself between Patrick and the four-eyed chickenshit.

She was brave, he could give her that. Another type of man might've taken offense at the rebuff, but Patrick felt a sick little thrill at her obstinance. Stubbornness always made them that much sweeter to break.

“Well, I know you're good, sweetheart,” he said with relish, licking his lips, and inching slightly closer to her. “Lose these two dingle-berries and you'll be even better.” He wagged a finger between the fat kid and the trashmouth and cut her one of his fatal smiles as he tried to charm her.

Patrick continued to track the fear in her eyes, so much so, that he was completely unaware of the look of disgust that had spread across her face.

“We should take this tape up to the front,” Ben said, breaking Patrick's intense focus on Beverly.

Patrick shot him a venomous glare, but the butterball held firm; he faced the older boy head on. Although, in spite of the unyielding expression on his doughy face, Patrick could tell there was fear there, too. He watched the boy gingerly push a copy of The NeverEnding Story into Beverly's hand, his meaty paw unabashedly stealing whatever physical contact he could from the girl.

Patrick grinned and eyed them all, continuing to make himself as imposing as he possibly could. Eventually, they meekly maneuvered around him before scurrying off to the checkout counter. He sauntered after them not a beat later, crowding behind them in line.

Periodically, he flicked his eyes between the trio and his dear friend, Bobby, behind register. The two acquaintances passed silent acknowledgment between each other as the group rented their videotape and then promptly hurried out the door. The pair stared lasciviously at the younger teens until they eventually disappeared down the street.

Patrick set his tapes on the counter, sliding them over to Bobby. In response, Bobby placed an unmarked VHS in front of the boy and lightly tapped his fingers on its case. Patrick knew what that meant.

Something new!

His interest was piqued instantaneously as his eyes passed over the mysterious tape. Its contents unknown, but promising, always promising. A big smile developed along Patrick's face. He felt his entire body pulse, even his mouth drew forth saliva as he flicked his tongue over his lips like a hungry dog licking its chops.

“Got something right up your alley,” Bobby singsonged, as he rang up Patrick's tapes. “Go on,” he said, in an infuriatingly enabling voice. “Take it.”

Patrick's fingers twitched, he very nearly raised his hands up from his sides and snatched the tape from the counter top, but that voice. That aggravating, threatening voice.

If you say anything, I'll tell people about your little movies and where you get them. I know that shit ain't fake and I think people will be real interested on how they get made.

Patrick set his jaw and recalled how after that day, he had to move his special collection of tapes somewhere other than his room. His regular pornos could stand to be left behind. He figured if his parents found those, at worst his mother would attempt to send him off to some summer Bible camp while his father would feign disappointment before ultimately confiscating the tapes for himself.

However, Patrick's other tapes, if those were found and viewed by mommy and daddy, well he supposed they'd have him shipped straight to the loony bin. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200!

“Not today,” he said to Bobby, as he pushed the unmarked tape back across the counter, his fingers lingering on its plain black case. With great effort, he ripped his hand away from it and after he did, his skin burned and his knuckles ached. Patrick grit his teeth. “Can I use your phone?” He asked, glancing at Bobby only to be met with a rather displeased glare.

Bobby snatched the tape back and shoved it beneath counter as he bagged Patrick's rentals. “Suit yourself,” he spat, grabbing the store's landline and slamming it down on the counter.

Patrick picked up the handset and held it to his ear as he dialed Belch's number. His mind wandered back to Victor and Henry, feeling his chest tighten and his stomach turn. Yes, he'd felt this feeling before—old and frightening—back when he'd been convinced he'd been replaced and his routine had been thrown into disarray much like it had been now. He'd taken care of it then, he'd simply have to take care of it again.

Henry Bowers was simple and Patrick had concluded that Henry would no more tell about the tapes if Patrick kept his own mouth shut about the hand he'd given him. However, that feeling, that jealous feeling—like barbed wire wrapped around his insides. Seeing Henry holding Victor's sides like Henry had held his sides—well he couldn't tolerate that. He and Henry had shared something sacred, after all. He'd made Henry his, marked him up and everything, and he'd wouldn't let Victor encroach on what he now considered his territory.

The ringback tone droned in his ear as he came to the understanding that a much different approach would have to be taken with this situation, a far more conniving approach. This was because if he was caught breaking The Rules again, especially in the way he'd broken them before when he was a mere child, well, the consequences would be far more life-altering than he could stand to imagine. Fortunately, he was clever, far more clever than anyone gave him credit for. He'd simply have to find a sly way to work himself back in Henry's life without triggering the boy into committing homicide.

Finally, the ringback tone in his ear ceased and the indelicate fumbling of Belch answering the phone sounded through the receiver.

“Hello, Huggins residence?”

Patrick grinned. “Hey, Reggie. Whatcha doin'?”

He heard the other boy sigh, static crackling crisply over the line. “Uh, babysitting my niece.”

“Oh, not hangin' with Victor and Henry?”

“Nope. Like I said, I'm on kid duty.”

“Can I come over and keep ya company?”

“I'm kinda busy.”

“Aw c'mon. Bet she's drivin' ya crazy. Kids love me you know.”

Belch furrowed his brow as he balanced Rebecca, his niece, on his left hip while holding the phone to his right ear. The toddler, at a whole eighteen months this month, reached for the telephone cord determined to either rip from the body of the phone or the handset. Belch clicked his tongue at her and slid Becca down his side, gently placing her on the floor. He knew it was a bad idea before he did it, but it was either that or risk a damaged phone cord, and the latter would result in Belch's mom possibly walloping in the head when she got home. Becca whined immediately and pulled at her uncle's pant legs, weakly attempting to pull herself up. He sighed again.

He didn't exactly like Patrick's tone but he found himself having a difficult time saying no despite wanting to, especially with Becca now full on wailing at his legs. There was also that other thing.

There was something going on with Patrick and Henry, he just didn't know what. Lately, their leader had just not wanted the other boy around. However, he hadn't mentioned anything about hanging with Patrick on their own time. Though, he hadn't said it was okay, either. In any case, of one thing Belch was certain, Henry was a moody person. He had grown accustomed to his idiosyncrasies over the years, but he wasn't a mind reader.

Becca was growing fussier by the second. Eventually, she wandered away from him, crying after deciding her uncle was horrible for not picking her up again. She had grown frustrated with his presence alone.

Perhaps, some company couldn't hurt even if that company happened to be Patrick Hockstetter. Additionally, if he did invite Patrick over then maybe he could get to the bottom of whatever had caused Henry to fracture him from the group.

Static trickled over the line. He could hear Patrick's breathing, calm and even, over the phone. He could hear Becca getting into the kitchen cabinets underneath the sink.

“Sure, come over,” Belch rushed out before quickly hanging up.

He jogged into the kitchen and scooped Becca into his arms before she could get her hands on the jug of bleach his ma kept under there. The toddler yelped and flailed in his arms as she smacked his chest, all while making a poor attempt at his name.

“Retch! Retch! Retch!” Becca babbled, as her sticky little hands moved to snatch his baseball cap off his head.

“If my momma and your momma found out you almost got into the bleach they'd play hacky sack with my nuts,” he grumbled at her, angling her away from his cap while adjusting her tiny body against his as she tried to wriggle out of his hold.

Becca was getting to be a bit much for him to handle now that she could get around so easily and so quickly. She was getting physically stronger, too. He shook his head at her inexhaustible, willful energy and held her tighter as he lifted his eyes to the small kitchen window above the sink and caught sight of the mailman sticking a slew of letters into their mailbox. He remembered his sister mentioning before she'd left for work that she was expecting something from the Social Security office and that he better make sure he brought it into the house and sort it away for her or he could forget about getting paid for babysitting.

Even with his summer job of delivering the Weekly Shopper, he was still strapped for cash most days. Who knew maintaining a car that your entire friend group relied on for transportation would cost so much!

Belch rushed outside, Becca in his arms, and made his way to the mailbox. Upon opening the box, he retrieved the small stack of letters inside, the toddler on his hip quickly pulling them out of his hands. He let her hold them as he shut the box, keeping a keen eye on her little mitts, making sure they didn't begin to rip any of them up. He stood along the sidewalk in front of his house for a beat before flitting his eyes from his niece to a slowly approaching pair up the way. He squinted to get a better look, but he was sure he was looking at the Jew kid and the black boy that the gang regularly ranked on.

A grin curled along one corner of his mouth as a devious plot popped into his mind. He quickly jogged up the walkway, up onto the front porch, and plopped Becca down on the deck. He left her holding the stack of mail as he ran back down the porch steps around to the left side of the house where the exterior faucet was located. The garden hose was already connected, all Belch had to do was twist the faucet handle to open the valve completely and water soon poured out from the nozzle.

Stan and Mike continued to walk down the sidewalk none the wiser, lost in conversation with each other. Belch noticed that the pair was carrying around some rather fragile items, extremely susceptible to water damage. The flamer had a book in his delicate fagboy hands while the home-schooled freak had a camera hanging from a strap down around his chest.

With a sneer, Belch snatched up the water hose. He then partially occluded the nozzle, causing the water to shoot out at a higher pressure. Finally, he hunkered down near the bushes that lined his house and patiently waited for the pair to come within spraying distance. Thankfully, it wasn't a long wait, as not a minute later, both boys unwittingly passed in front of him. Belch promptly took aim, shooting a torrent of water directly at them, dousing them completely.

He gleefully watched as the two boys startled at the onslaught and turned inward toward each other, trying to protect one another from the spray. They peeked at him over their shoulders sporadically, wide-eyed and confused, as he slowly closed in on them.

“You fuckin' sissies stay outta my side of town!” Belch shouted, a cackle of laughter following.

Stan and Mike quickly rushed off, back in the direction they came, as Belch continued his barrage until they were completely out of sight.

“Little shits,” he muttered as he dropped the hose and made for the spigot to shut off the valve. Pleased as punch at his little stunt, he made his way back to the front porch, back to where he'd left Becca, all while drying his wet hands on his pant legs.

Luckily, the toddler was still sitting in the same spot he'd left her in. However, she'd taken to chewing on the letters left in her charge, an entire corner of the stack shoved into her mouth.

“Becca!” He exclaimed, reaching out to scoop her up, his hand then rushing to pull the letters from her tiny maw.

He ripped the stack of mail out of her vice-like grip and saw that the edges of a few of the envelopes were missing. He whipped his head back to his niece and the very next second the small girl began to chew furiously once she gleaned what would happen next.

Belch dropped the letters in his hand and reached out to pinch her cheeks between his fingers. “Spit it out! Spit it out! Spit it out!” He repeated desperately, shaking her little head as if that would magically make her open her mouth and spew whatever bits of paper she had in her mouth. Unsurprisingly, Becca stubbornly pushed at her uncle, remaining tight lipped through the jostling.

“You should stick your fingers in her mouth.” Came a voice from behind Belch, sudden and familiar.

Belch froze, Becca's little face in his mitt of a hand, and looked over his shoulder.

Patrick Hockstetter was standing on his porch steps staring at them, a pair of videotapes neatly tucked under his arm, his vacant eyes giving Belch the creeps. He'd completely forgotten he'd said he could come over.

“Y'know, to make sure you get all the paper out,” Patrick added plainly, as he continued up the steps to the deck.

Belch rose slowly, gathering up the letters, and Becca as well; the toddler went uncharacteristically still in his arms as she looked on at the strange teenage boy lingering in front of them.

“Uh, she should be fine,” Belch replied, eyeing Patrick cautiously before turning toward the entrance of his house to make his way inside while Becca discreetly spit out a small wad of paper out of his line of sight.

Once inside the house, he sat Becca down in the middle of the living room and pushed a few of her toys within her reach. He heard Patrick follow him in, heard the other boy softly shut the door behind him, heard the slow drag of his deep, red doc's echo throughout the house.

Belch looked at the letters in his hands, finally able to inspect the damage. By some miracle, the letters that Becca had bit and slobbered on were junk mail and the only letter that really mattered was dry and intact. He breathed a sigh of relief and set that particular letter down on the kitchen counter exactly where his sister had specified and finally turned his attention to Patrick.

Confused at first, Belch glanced around the kitchen. Patrick was no where to be found. He thought the other boy had followed him in, but as he walked back out into the living room, he found the teenager sitting in the middle of the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him with Becca sitting on his lap.

It took Belch a moment to react as he processed the sight. Patrick hunched over Becca's tiny body, his gangly arms drawn around her as he held a Zippo lighter in front of her mesmerized face; the lighter's flame dangerously within her reach. She raised her small hands up, her fingers twitching toward the flame, and Belch could see it before his eyes—tiny charred fingers, a blistered red palm, his sister caving his head in!

Belch lunged toward them, lumbering up to the pair and clasping his big hand over the Zippo. Its lid clacked shut, extinguishing the flame but pinching off some of the skin of his palm in the process. He hissed and immediately glowered at Patrick, whose expression was as cool as a cucumber like he'd done nothing wrong at all.

Exercising his famous ponderous patience, Belch cautiously moved Patrick's arms out of the way as he plucked Becca from his lap. Slowly, he lowered himself down and sat across from the other boy, setting his niece closely at his side. Again he handed her something age appropriate to play with as he returned his attention to Patrick, severely regretting having allowed him to come over in the first place.

“We were having fun,” Patrick teased.

“She's a baby,” Belch replied. “She could've burned herself.”

Patrick glanced at him and then at Becca, who was distracted by the complexities of her ring-stacker, his eyes lingering on the toddler for far longer than necessary. Belch didn't much appreciate the way Patrick was looking at her, either. He wasn't looking at her like a person would a child, but how one might study a bug; truly interested on how the bug worked and how the bug's innards might look like—feel like. His eyes were huge along his slack face, his gaze glimmered as Becca shuffled her rings around. If any of the rumors about Patrick Hockstetter were true, Belch didn't much feel like having him around his niece anymore.

“Um, maybe you should go. I forgot my ma is real particular about visitors and I don't wanna get in trouble.”

Patrick seemed to wither upon hearing these words. He dropped his eyes and toyed idly with the lighter still in his hand. “Seems like no one wants me around these days,” he stated, glumly.

Belch didn't respond right away, unsure of what to say exactly but curious nonetheless.

“That's not true,” he said after a while, his tone halfhearted at best. It wasn't a complete lie, someone somewhere must want Patrick around. Mrs Hockstetter, maybe? Just not the Bowers' Gang it seemed. Their gang's namesake sprang into his mind then. “By the way, did something happen between you and Henry?” He asked outright.

Patrick's eyes shot up and Belch thought he saw a flicker of something there, the look faded just as fast as it had appeared.

“I don't know,” he replied, solemnly. “Why did he say something?”

Belch's loyalties had been drawn in the sand long ago. Henry hadn't divulged a single thing, but even if he had he certainly wasn't gonna tell Patrick. “No,” he said. Still, curious over what might've happened and not entirely convinced that Patrick had no idea why Henry might be shunning him, he persisted. “Are you sure you didn't do anything to piss him off?”

Patrick appeared to feign an expression of intense thought, but ultimately he simply shook his head and shrugged. “Nope!” He said, his tone incongruent with the topic of conversation.

Again, Belch found himself doubting the boy in front of him. While, Henry Bowers was easy to anger, Belch had never known the boy to kick someone out of his gang for any reason much less for no reason. Actually, typically, members escorted themselves out, finding Henry's actions too extreme or his temper and the way he expressed that temper, intolerable.

There was more to the story, Belch was sure of it, but something told him he alone wasn't going to be able to crack Patrick.

“Well, maybe Henry is just in one of his moods. I remember once he didn't talk to me for a whole week 'cause I bested him in scat. He'll come around,” Belch said, trying to pepper optimism into his voice.

“I don't know about that, but I suppose if he doesn't come around, I'll just have to butter him up.”

Belch didn't very much like the sound of that. Firstly, there was no buttering up Henry Bowers. Once you were in the shits with him, you were done-zo. No amount of kissing ass was going to get you back onto his good side. Secondly, the only person he'd seen come close to buttering up Henry was Victor Criss and that fact floated awkwardly through Belch's mind before he returned his attention to Patrick. “How're ya gonna do that?”

“I guess I'll have to figure it out.”

Belch thought for a moment and perhaps landed on what he considered, his worst idea yet. “Me and Victor could always help,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Victor would sooner kick him in the nuts but, by his logic, if he was curious about what was really going on between Patrick and Henry, he could bet Victor was, too. They could tag-team Patrick for information and Victor could continue working his homo mojo on Henry. It sounded like a sure-fire plan, but it had spawned from the mind of Reginald Huggins, and at the end of the day, it was shaky at best.

“You'd do that?” Patrick asked, nearly beaming.

“Yeah—I mean, why not?”

Patrick's face morphed then, into a slow spreading leer, and that look sent chills running up Belch's spine. Goosebumps raised along his exposed arms and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. Only one other person had ever made him feel that way and that had been Butch Bowers. He supposed that meant Patrick Hockstetter was insane. It hadn't been anything he'd done up until then, though he had done some fairly disturbing things, but it was more so how he made the boy feel. Something was off about him, and even though it had been Belch who had suggested helping with Henry, he couldn't help but feel like he'd walked into a trap.

“Yeah, so, like I said my ma is real particular about visitors,” Belch said carefully, trying to shirk the eerie feeling that he felt. “Me, you, and Victor can get together later, but right now, ya gotta go.”

Patrick didn't wilt this time. His expression had simply shrunken into a sharp, little grin as he reached for his videotapes. He grabbed them both between his hands and suddenly whipped them up to his face, putting the cover of Hellraiser on full display.

“But I thought we could all watch a movie!” Patrick boomed, goofily.

Becca screamed.