#also this isnt very good and it didnt feel right in the bulletpoint theme

[cryingbilldenbrough]

*whispers* I heard this is the place so go to talk about sad Bill Denbrough? So: I wish more people talked about how Depressed Bill is. Like even before IT/after he forgets, he's been bullied all his life for something he can't control (stuttering), he's grieving for his brother, he's dealing with guilt over Georgie s death, he's dealing with neglect from his parents/them subtly blaming him.. .. why do we not talk about this more?! I cry. More fics and headcanons need to address this ya feel

1. LMAO where did u hear that? i mean you’re right but god i cannot believe my reputation precedes me so much? 

2. ok u wanna talk sad bill denbrough? let’s talk sad bill denbrough!

bill turns 18 on a snowy day in december. 

it’s cold in his dorm room, dusty and hazy with morning light. there’s frost on the windowpane, slanting the light into fractal pieces and bill sits up to brush his finger through the ice. it burns a little, in comparison to skin that’s been bundled up under bill’s three blankets for the entirety of the night, but bill has always loved the cold. 

bill sits up in bed and stretches, shivering and watching his breath waft out of his mouth in a fog. he leans over flicks on the heat, rubbing his hands together.

there’s no fanfare. his roommate must have stayed over at his girlfriend’s house last night because his bed is mussed but empty. there’s no note, no text telling bill he’s coming back later. it’s saturday morning and bill is spending another birthday alone. 

it’s certainly not the first. bill remembers hazily spending a lot of his birthdays on his own, but he can’t quite remember why. was it because his parents were out of town? hmm, that must have been it. there’s no other explanation. 

he finally climbs out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom to jump in the shower. he turns the water as hot as it’ll go but it’s still too cold. the pipes groan and the water pressure is shitty and bill longs for the days when he could take hour-long showers. 

well. it’s less longing and more a want to be back on schedule. because somehow bill remembers taking long showers at least once a week when he lived back home, turning on the water hot enough to steam the entire room in moments and sitting down in the corner of the tub and letting it beat down over him. he doesn’t know how long he used to stay in there, letting the water turn his skin an angry red, but he can almost feel the needling water mixing in with salty tears. he remembers opening his mouth wide and swallowing the burning water from the faucet, hoping to fill himself up, to let the heat enter his body and warm his insides and fill all his nooks and crannies that felt gaping and open. 

bill’s suddenly blinking back tears, assaulted by a sadness he doesn’t understand. 

they’re only there for a moment and then the lukewarm water is washing them away, down the drain. bill finishes his shower with a lingering pain in his chest, a lump in his throat that wont go away no matter how hard he swallows. 

his mom doesn’t call. 

it’s not like bill really expected her to, but he’s disappointed nonetheless. he thinks it maybe would have been nice to hear her voice for the first time in a few months and he’s pretty sure she didn’t forget today was his birthday because it’s his Golden Birthday, turning 18 on the 18th. 

the phone doesn’t ring. it sits on his roommate’s desk and stays silent as bill dresses and brushes his teeth and makes a quick breakfast. 

he tries to linger on getting ready, to convince himself he’s doing anything other than just waiting for his parents to call, but it’s all a lie. it’s nearing noon when bill sighs and gives up, giving the beige rotary phone one last lingering glance before he leaves, locking the door to his cold room behind him. 

he decides to spend the rest of the day in the library. 

the stacks are warm, familiar and bursting with the heavy scent of paper and ink, and bill pulls up a seat at one of the study tables to write. 

the building is empty today, quiet and peaceful on a saturday afternoon. bill climbs up to the second floor, to a balcony that overlooks the entire library. sunlight filters in through large high-up windows and bill borrows a pen from the front desk and cracks open his notebook to work on his latest short story. the balcony is full of students and adults alike, each caught up in their lives, and bill lets their quiet sounds of work soothe him into his own. 

he gets lost in the writing, letting the world around him fade to dull muted tones as he crafts characters and plots and by the time he drifts back to reality the sun has set behind the windows and shrouded the library in flickering fluorescent light. he cracks his knuckles and then his neck and dares to take a peek around at the other patrons.

it’s down to just him and one other boy, a kid with sandy blonde hair who’s tucked in at a desk in the corner. his head is bent over the desk, writing lazily on a set of blueprints and bill wants to get closer, to get involved in the other student’s work but that would be rude and bill doesn’t even know where the thought comes from. 

he’s just about to pack it in, to deem this another saturday wasted and spent alone in his own head when a loud crash from downstairs startles him. he snaps his head up, looking over the side of the balcony down to find the source of the sound. out of the corner of his eye he sees the boy in the corner look to, getting up out of his desk chair in a flash to survey.

the downstairs is quiet. from where bill’s sitting he can see there’s nobody at the front desk, no friendly librarian sitting on a cushy chair and checking in books. 

in fact, the entire building seems empty. it’s a ghost town other than him and the boy in the corner and there’s this uneasy feeling in bill’s stomach, a jolt of fear that feels familiar and damning and so so right at the same time. it’s a rush of adrenaline and memory of the taste of copper in his mouth. 

bill turns to look at the boy and there’s something familiar in his eyes too, a recollection of some sort that bill doesn’t quite get. 

there’s another crash from downstairs, almost like the sound of glass breaking, and bill’s out of his seat now. he walks with purpose towards the edge of the balcony, grabbing hold of the banister with white-knuckle fingers. the other boy is close behind, coming up on bill’s right side to peer over the side. bill feels distantly that it’s right to have this boy at his side, that it’s good and familiar to turn his head and see someone at his shoulder, awaiting command. 

it’s a strange feeling and bill shakes it off. 

he’s just about to ask the boy what he thinks about going downstairs when another sound rings out.

it’s different this time. 

because bill swears he hears a balloon pop. 

it’s an impossible sound, but unmistakable. it’s startling and unexplainable and for some reason fucking terrifying. bill can feel his hands shaking and there’s a trembling on his tongue, the feeling of a silent stutter working its way to the front of his mouth and there’s this split second when bill remembers. 

the clown and the sewers and georgie and his friends and their power and his internal compass is going wild, pointing in all these different directions and bill is disoriented and dizzy and faint and the fluorescent lights seem to be flickering and there’s a draft at the back of his neck that makes all the hair on his skin stand up on end. 

he blinks and the moment is over. the boy at his back is a stranger and the librarian is back sitting behind her desk. bill can see her now, knitting needles in her hands as she hums absentmindedly and when bill tries to recall the sight of the empty chair a moment ago, he comes up empty. it’s like he climbed out of his seat in alarm for no reason. like he imagined the last ten minutes. 

he turns and the boy at his back is gone, retreating down the stairs with heavy bootfalls and bill watches him go with a melancholy kind of feeling, like he missed something. 

bill packs up his stuff, feeling a little ill, and walks home in the cold, feet freezing in his worn boots. 

his roommate is still gone when he gets home, bed made now as if he’s come back in the middle of the day just to make his bed and remind bill how alone he is. 

bill heats up dinner and reads a book and tries not to think about calling home, about dialing his parents’ number and being sent to voicemail and having to stutter out an explanation for his call past the lump in his throat. 

he turns to the bookshelf and grabs down his picture of georgie, the last thing bill has kept from home. it’s old and dusty and the picture is frayed a little in the corner but it’s georgie and bill can’t bring himself to throw it away. he always gets a little teary when he looks at it, a little sad over his brother who was taken too soon in some way that bill cant honestly remember tonight, and this night is no exception. bill runs his fingers over his brother’s gap-toothed smiling face and lets the tears run down his cheeks

“happy birthday, bill,” he whispers to himself, broken and stutter-free and somber. there’s no response, no echo to his spoken pain, and bill falls asleep with tears drying on his cheeks and his brother’s picture sitting on his bedside table. 

send me prompts/headcanons/requests!