#[and also just hit everyone with the reminder that missing numbers is a horror-tragedy between our tamer stuff n shitposting lol]

[themissingnumbers]

HOW IT FEELS TO DISAPPEAR: DESCENT

WARNINGS: Scopophobia, Disturbing Imagery, Blood. FIRST || PREV | NEXT [Take it with you.]

A strange feeling washes over you as you stare down at the Eevee. Those whispers in the back of your mind, demanding that you leave it behind. But looking into those wide, scared eyes... You swear, you can see them welling up with tears.

You don't have it in you to go without it.

You walk back across your room, grabbing your bag lazily hanging off your desk chair. Eevee eagerly follows after you, still trembling but starting to wag its tail- you figure it knows what you're doing. As soon as you open the bag up and kneel down, it jumps inside, quickly nestling up in the pillow and fuzzy blanket you've lined the bottom with- this had quickly become its favorite way to stay at your side, so you'd at least had enough sense to make it a bit more comfortable... It makes it impossible to close it in, but you haven't needed to hide it, and you figure that won't change- there's only one person you're deliberately hiding it from, anyways...

You sling the bag over your shoulder, ruffling a hand through the fur on Eevee's head. It purrs, rubbing against you.

With that, you're pretty sure you've got everything you need... You walk downstairs tiredly, only dully noticing how Miss Hazel isn't in the kitchen or living room like she'd usually be right now... Probably out on some errand, you think, as you continue on towards the front door and swing it open.

You're met face to face with a certain young man, his hand raised awkwardly, apparently going to knock just as you'd opened the door.

Blue Oak stares at you, almost dumbfounded at your impeccable timing.

"... Uh... Hey, Leaf- I'm, uh. I'm sorry to bother you," he starts, bringing his hand down to rub over his arms. "I was starting to... Worry, I- I hadn't- I haven't seen you since... And I was thinking, like, that's not like her, but I didn't want to....."

He trails off. Looks away. Blue was never the most open of books, and you watch with tired eyes as he searches for his words. He opens his mouth, shuts it- he looks you up and down, expression seeming to toe the line between confusion and concern as he processes the state you're in.

Discomfort, anxiety, awkwardness- you watch the tension shatter into a frozen, mortified horror as his gaze locks onto your bag.

Confusion briefly crosses your mind as to what could possibly illicit that reaction from him, but as Blue steps backwards, it hits you all at once:

Your bag is wide open. Eevee stares up at him, bristling and snarling at the boy.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, hurrying to try and explain yourself and that it really isn't aggressive, it's just scared, but Blue speaks before you can get a single word out:

"You need to get rid of that thing."

What?

"What?!" you exclaim, instantly echoing the whirl of confusion in your mind. "You can't- Blue, you're joking, right?"

You can already tell he's not joking. That's what confuses you the most. He's trembling as if he saw a ghost, all the color drained from his face and his fingernails practically tearing into the armbands he always wore.

A voice in the back of your mind chides; he's right, you know. You ignore it.

"Leaf- Leaf, please, you have to listen to me-" he stammers out, his unsteady voice dropping to a near whisper as he backs further away. "Please- that Eevee, it's- it's a-"

You move forward, wanting to soothe and listen to him in spite of your confusion.

When you step out of your front door, you are not in Palette Town.

Blue is gone. The afternoon sunshine is gone. The buildings outside your home are gone. The green grass and dirt pathways are gone.

You look behind you. Even your home is suddenly dark, and completely empty. As if it's been abandoned for years.

You look back to your surroundings, fear rising in your chest and stinging like bile.

A dense fog shrouds the area, blinding and suffocating. You can barely see your own two feet. You squint, trying to forcibly steady your breathing as you take a hesitant step forward.

... You nearly run face-first into a fence. You hold onto the wooden posts, trying to gather your wits and see what's going on. It's a tall fence, painted white... It's too tall to reasonably climb over- certainly not with the dew from the fog slicking it up, and while it has gaps big enough to see through, they're more than narrow enough to keep you or even Eevee from squeezing through.

Dully, you imagine the bars of a jail cell. You shiver.

Looking a bit closer, you can faintly make out trees on the outside. It seems like... The autumn leaves have come in. You watch the fuzzy shapes of leaves dancing through the air and onto the ground, one landing close enough for you to make out the dazzling red. It compliments the wilted, brown grass well, you think bitterly.

... That's all you're able to gather, though. You turn to your right, seeing that the fence seems to connect to the house that way...

It's the opposite direction that seems to open up, making a narrow dirt path, fully enclosed by white wood.

A part of you wants to optimistically think that at least you're not trapped, but you... You don't know how much you really believe that. But no matter what you want to think, one thing is clear:

There's only one way to go.

You start walking.

... The path seems to stretch on, but you find yourself grateful that it's straightforward. With this awful fog, you'd only feel queasier about any unpredictability... And there's the little things- lazily running one hand along the wood keeps you on a straightforward path and the cool dew on your skin helps to keep you alert.

You think it's been more than a few minutes of walking, though. Maybe this strange place can read you, somehow, because just as you're starting to space out, you spot something in the distance-

A person...! You instantly perk up, recognizing some kind of human silhouette through the fog ahead. They seem to be sitting cross-legged on the ground, slumped back against the fence behind them, but you're sure of it- you're sure of it. Someone else is here!

You pick up the pace a bit, eager to have company, or answers, or anything. You ignore Eevee's whimpering as your approach the stranger.

... As you get closer, though, you start to understand its worry.

You begin to make out details on them as you close the gap between you and the stranger.

Or... Lack thereof.

This is not a human.

You slow to a stop in front of them. You can feel your legs shaking, that primal part of your mind screaming to run.

Its body seems to be that of an older man's- you think vaguely of those gamblers you fought outside of Vermilion City... That's where the traces of humanity seem to end, though. The ghastly man is vaguely see-through, he seems to have no mouth, and he's completely void of color, every last feature a stark and unnatural white.

He's like a ghost, you think to yourself. But you don't think he's noticed you... You start to back away to continue down the path, hoping to avoid whatever danger this thing might pose.

Too late, though. He suddenly opens his eyes.

Seems like you were wrong about one thing, you think as you feel your mouth run dry.

A crimson gaze bores into you, and you watch in horror as the place where his mouth should have been rips open- all so he can flash you an awful, bright red smile. Blood trickles from his lips and bulging eyes, as if it weren't truly parts of his face, but open wounds.

Your paralyzing terror only increases as he sneers at you, motioning to the trembling Eevee in your bag.

"HAH... REALLY? ALL IN FOR THAT LOST CAUSE... CAN'T YOU DO BETTER, GIRL?"

[sarkastically]

(Oh, hey, look, it’s some kinda weird IT fanfiction that’s a mesh of all the canon while still not completely following any of them. It’s pretty safe for work, but maybe full of spoilers. And angst because, um, IT. Anyway. It’s also kinda Richie/Eddie but only vaguely.)

When they're seven, it's following Stan from one end of the neighborhood to the other, chatting happily while he points excitedly from one tree to another, binoculars around his neck, bird book being passed back and forth between Eddie, Bill, and Stan because Richie isn't allowed to hold it. Richie isn't allowed to hold anything delicate, anything fragile, anything special. Richie is all big motions and running full tilt at every opportunity. Richie finds mud puddles on dry days. Richie's face is always dirty, his glasses are held together with tape, his clothes are always torn.

Richie isn't allowed to hold anything. Except for their hands when he gets too wild, when they remind him that he is a boy in a body and not the wind. Then it's their hands on his arms, shoulders, back. It's tight hugs even from Eddie and Stan who know they'll be covered in dirt when they let go. They hold him until he settles enough to come back to them instead of being whatever else he goes. When they ask he can never say. 

They stop asking.

When they're eleven, it's Richie dancing in the middle of the floor in Bill's garage, yelling at them to join him. It's Bill smiling while Stan rolls his eyes and Eddie just stares. It's Georgie who finally pushes past them to join Richie who lifts him high, spins him, gives him piggyback rides, dancing all the while.

Richie dances until Georgie is exhausted. Until he is exhausted.

They all pull their sleeping bags out onto the grass in Bill's backyard. It's not even night, but Richie whispers ghost stories that have them all laughing. When Bill takes over, they all shiver. Richie holds hands with Eddie, with Georgie, reaches for Stan all in turn, for comfort, for remembrance. They hold onto each other to remind themselves that they are safe, that it is just a story.

They doze off, Richie's hands still reached out for his connections.

When they're thirteen, the world ends and begins again. It's Bill drawing a line in the sand and practically dragging the rest of them across it because it's the right thing to do, for Derry if not necessarily them. It might go beyond that even. Might be better for the world, the universe, life itself, but while they are seven in number now, they are still only thirteen so it is hard to think beyond Derry, the bounds of their current world.

They're thirteen and Eddie falls through a floor, Richie tugs his arm into place without anyone even questioning how he knows what to do. Those of them that were there remember Richie scaling a tree quick and then tumbling out, the weird angle his arm took, the way he fixed it, himself. At ten. Those who were not there just seem to know, the way that they all just know each other without anyone having to say anything.

They all have something. Richie is contact, communication even if he doesn't always know what to do. His hands on Eddie's arms will never hurt him. Richie puts him back together in the way that he knows how, and it's quick and probably ill-advised, but it's what he has to offer.

It's Stan weeping in the dark of the sewers, terrified while they clutch him. It's his shrill voice denying them, that they aren't his friends. It's something in the bricks and mortar between them shaking while they reach for him, hands and words and souls, to calm, to comfort. And it's Richie moved to tears himself by the admonition that he could ever not care about one of them, that he could ever look the other way.

He cares so much he rends in two. He cares so much he pretends not to so he won't drown. It's dangerous to care in Derry.

It's after everything, standing in a circle, blood falling onto the ground, hands clenched that the crowbar starts to pry them apart. And it's Richie who, in the months following, reaches out hands to hold, to clasp, to stay. They all need each other.

At sixteen, there are fewer of them. There are too few of them, and memories are strange things, full of holes like Swiss cheese, just another danger of living in Derry. Richie smiles like cigarettes and wine coolers and weed, but he still clings to everyone near him. Sometimes he calls the numbers they got before the ones who left forgot them. Richie, and Mike, and Eddie sitting in a tense circle in Richie’s room while he dials, one after another. They have learned that you do not stop Richie when he is trying to make contact. They have learned that you simply touch him afterward and bring him home because he drifts, he gets away from himself the way he used to do when he was very small.

It’s calls that connect but voices that never do. It’s Richie pacing his room, brushing things off his desk and his dresser, ranting, hands in his hair, tugging, tugging like if he pulls hard enough he can get all the memories back, his own and the ones for the others, too. Mike says that this is just the way it is in Derry, with Derry. It’s difficult to remember.

Richie cries so hard it scares Eddie who holds his hand, who remembers a day when they were young and Richie danced with Georgie on his back. 

It’s a sewer in the dark where Richie cried because Stan accused them of not loving him. It’s how flat Richie’s eyes get when he calls Stan, and the boy no longer knows him, no longer knows that Richie loves him, that they all love him, that they are all incomplete together. It’s the way that Bev will scoff when she answers and mutter “perv” when it takes Richie too long to try and say something, such that only his breathing echoes across the line. It’s Ben. Who never answers at all because they must have the number wrong but Richie still calls every time. And it’s Bill. Who doesn’t stutter and is always polite. But who doesn’t know them. 

Bill who started it all.

At sixteen and a half, Richie is moving away. Finally, finally he says in the middle of his room while Mike folds his arms across his chest and looks forlorn, and Eddie looks annoyed and on the edge of breaking. It’s Richie playing music too loud but no one yelling at him because this is the last moment that Richie will be Richie. They all know you change outside of Derry, you lose something. Eddie does not remind them how sometimes they would lose Richie inside of Derry, lose Richie to himself, to wherever his mind would take him. 

A turtle, Richie had said once, and Mike had agreed with him. But Eddie couldn’t breathe the smoke so Eddie never saw.

Richie’s hands are in their shirts when they try to say goodbye, clinging, clenching, singing along with the records, words that will stick in Eddie’s mind. Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, oh? It’s all three of them with arms wound around each other, crying, until Mike pries Richie’s hands away, until Mike leads Eddie out of the house, Richie’s voice loud and shrill. Eddie remembers Richie screaming his name when they were thirteen, when he hurt his arm. He doesn’t remember how.

It’s a long stretch of years without anything but success. Lonely, alone, adult success. Empty places in hearts that they can’t even recognize because how do you miss something you never knew was there in the first place. There are snatches that drift across the divide, ways in which their souls seem to be trying to reconnect without their bodies knowing.

Ben and Stan wear suits from the Bev Marsh line for men. Bill’s horror stories feature a penchant for childhood friendships that are strong, the power of friendship itself and how it can best evil. Several of his main characters have names that echo those of the friends he has forgotten, but they are common names; it is so easy to write off circumstances. Eddie, who typically listens to only classical, will pause on radio stations playing the hits of the 80s and smile. Richie clutches at his hair like he is in pain and shrieks to release the strange nervous tension that builds on him, but he prefers the company of people who can calm him. He touches them constantly. He touches people like they can hold him down and keep him grounded.

When they are forty, thrust back to Derry, thrust back with each other, thrust back into their memories, which rend and howl even louder than what Richie is capable of, Richie’s hands grip and hold them each in turn. They open and close restlessly, futilely when they find out about Stan. Eddie remembers, suddenly, sixteen and Richie on the phone sobbing because Stanley didn’t remember him. 

“Stan the man!” Richie had said and then a pause, a choked noise. “It’s Richie. Richie Tozier.” More silence. “From Derry.”

Richie hanging his head like someone had died. “Yeah. Trashmouth.” Pause. “Yeah. It’s a prank.” A sniffle. “Yeah. Surprise.”

The click of the receiver, the fall of tears.

In the here and now, Eddie curls a hand around the back of Richie’s neck when he looks down and spots a bit of ink. “Richie, what’s that?”

“What?” The almost tell-tale winding of gears in Richie’s head as he tries to get back to the present instead of drowning in the past. “A turtle.”

“Why?” Eddie doesn’t remember the turtle. He couldn’t manage the smoke. 

“Seemed right.” Richie takes a long, shuddering breath that sounds like it is full of tears to come. “Maybe it should have been a bird.” 

Eddie has no doubt that Richie will have a bird tattoo once this is all over. If they survive. If he remembers. 

“We could all get birds,” Bev’s voice is soft from where she is standing, bracketed by Ben and Bill. 

“He thought we didn’t love him,” Richie says as though it is the bigger tragedy of the universe, even greater than the monster they will have to face, walks away, and they do not follow.

Later that night it’s Richie’s knuckles at Eddie’s door, and Richie with round, wet eyes that are even larger without his glasses than anything Eddie could ever have imagined. The moon. Richie’s eyes are the moon. He holds a bottle of wine that is only half full, and he is swaying slightly, gently. Eddie only wants to take the bottle away and stroke his hair. With a hiccuping sigh, Richie reaches his fingers out to pluck at the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

“Don’t you want me, baby?” he sings, and his voice is nice like it always was even though it’s sad. 

Eddie thinks of Richie all those years ago. He remembers now. He remembers a little more each minute and all the crashing and resounding of things resurfacing has made it difficult for him to sleep. Every time he blinks, there’s something new. And they are not all bad. They are not all bad at all.

Like Richie at fifteen, sleepy with his hair tousled standing outside looking up at the moon, Eddie next to him, leaning into him, Richie’s arm around his shoulders, singing, “Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, oh?” Richie’s strange version of a love song. Eddie clicking his tongue and huffing but melting. Richie soft. Richie quiet. Richie free from all the insane energy coursing through his veins. Richie happy.

Richie.

“Don’t you want me oh?” Eddie sings back, and Richie smiles as big as he used to when he was young. 

Then it’s Richie’s arms tight around him, clinging everywhere he can, and Eddie murmuring his name over and over, trying to calm him, trying to collect him while Richie runs rampant, still young and hurt at heart like all of them. Still desperately afraid of losing connection.

The world ends again, this world, the Derry world. It chews them up and spits them out and leaves them worse for wear. It takes everything. Until they tear it apart and crawl up out of the dark. 

Richie will not leave him. He knows the danger, but he carries Eddie’s body out, back into the light. Eddie never liked the dark, he knows, he knew, he remembers. He cries. They all cry. Like broken, lost children even as they clench hands around each other, even as things start to break off and fade into nothing again. 

There is a moment in the mind of Richie Tozier that is untouchable, that is golden, that is pristine. There is a shrine in the back of his memory that kicks and starts and hums. It is blissful and it is pure and it is good. It never fades now, no matter how far he is from Derry, no matter the years.

This is what it looks like:

They are forever thirteen, arms looped around each other’s shoulders even Stan and Eddie who so rarely want to touch or be touched. They are a pile of happy, smiling children. And there is Georgie. Who has never been hurt. Who has never been killed. His arms intact to wrap around Richie’s neck as he gives him piggyback rides, both of them laughing, Richie dancing in a basement that is also a backyard. And there are trees and stars and music.

Don’t you want me, baby?

Everyone sings along. Eddie smiles. There is a turtle.

Don’t you want me, oh?