#eddie was smaller than i had expected; i hugged him and he was very thin omg

[mingyou]

just woke up and my voice is gone bc!!!! i screamed my heart out for svt but im so ready for the concert for tonight omg

[nancythebisexualslutwheeler]

Reddie + Pride

So Eddie was doing some research in the library about medication and placebos etc. Well he runs into minimal information about the AIDS crisis. (Fuck Regan.)

Anyway that launch’s into gay. Gay. Homosexual. And it makes sense. He didn’t know you could like boys. And there’s one boy he likes very much.

It’s his new thing. He learns so much. There’s this thing, called Pride, and it started as a riot and this year is the twentieth anniversary.

He wants to go. Desperately. And while he doesn’t want to tell his crush, he can’t think of anyone who will take a four hour train ride to Boston with him.

Which is why he’s standing on Richie’s doorstep with a pizza and bottle of Pepsi as a bargaining chip. He doesn’t even mention it until Richie is on his third slice, and it’s a commercial break.

It spills out easily. Because it’s Richie. And he loves Eddie. And perhaps not in the same way, but he does. Eddie’s hands are shaking and he’s eaten exactly two bites of one slice of pizza but by the time he’s done, Richie’s pushed his plate closer to him, the now cold pizza staring up at him.

Eddie takes that for a no and quickly picks a piece of pepperoni off of it and shoves it into his mouth, rubbing the tips of his fingers together, spreading the grease.

“Of course I’ll go. Now finish your half of the pizza before I eat it dickwad.”

“Rich- I-“

“And stop talking! You’re interrupting the show.”

Eddie smiles around his bite of pizza.

They never get to go. It happens. And there’s no time to talk about Stonewall or Pride or AIDS or their almost kiss.

They never mention any of those things again.

***

He looks good. Really, Richie barely remembered him, but the man standing in from is attractive.

“Hey man, what’s up?” He asks, pushing his glasses up his already sweaty nose.

To his surprise Eddie pulls him in to a hug. He’s shorter than Richie, smaller, like he always has been. It’s longer than his hug with the others, and as if 27 years haven’t passed, his feelings come rushing back.

He- he loves this boy. This man. He didn’t know back then, however he’d had a few long term girlfriends and now he knew what Love was.

And it washed over him like a wave and his toes curled inside his shoes and his nose tingled from cologne.

Then Eddie moves away. Eddie drinks scotch and Richie tries not to stare, as he downs his beer.

Everyone’s a bit tipsy and the complimentary peanuts and popcorn is running out. Bill makes the first move about leaving, and Ben follows suit. Bev is next. And Mike leaves next, nearly silently.

Eddie is still nursing a scotch which has to be mostly melted ice by this point. Richie, the last swing of beer. “I think I’ll get another,” Eddie says gesturing to his glass, “you want something?”

Richie shook his head, “Naw, I think I’ll head back to the hotel. It’s getting late.”

Eddie presses his lips together and nods once, “Okay, well-“

“Do you wanna join me? For a drink I mean?”

Eddie smiles slowly, “For a drink? Yeah.”

By the time Eddie gets to Richie’s room he’s changed. He’s in soft gray joggers and a white t-shirt that pulls a little at the neck. The hairs at the nape of his neck are a little damp and he smells like aftershave.

Richie wishes he would have thought about changing, but now it’s too late and he’s stuck in his jeans.

“Did you bring up the booze?” Eddie asks.

Richie swallows around his dry tongue, he hadn’t gotten there yet. He’s overwhelmed.

“Fuck, expect me to do everything? Even after all these years? Fuck you.”

Eddie laughs,

“What have I ever expected you to do?”

Richie hesitates.

“Nothing.”

It’s silent.

“Please don’t tell me you want scotch or something boring.”

Eddie twists his mouth to the side,

“Tequila?”

Richie chuckles,

“Trying to get drunk or something?”

“After the night we’ve had? Absolutely.”

He follows Richie down the stairs, moving nearly silently and they end up at the bar. Richie is flipping through bottles, looking at labels when he feels hot air on the back of his neck. Eddie is still smaller than him, but leaning into his personal space.

“You’ve become picky when it comes to booze?”

“No more picky than you’ve become with women.”

He can nearly hear Eddie freeze. He’s unsure whether to apologize or not. Whether to admit his own sexuality or not.

“Never made it to Pride you know? Left Derry. Left the boy I was in love with. Never let myself experiment in college. Never let my porn history stray too much. Married Myra. Now I’m here. With you. In fucking Derry of all places and everything is rushing back and I’m overwhelmed and I just have to say this before I get any more drunk but-“

Richie’s lips are against his. It’s different, kissing a man, it is. He smells like cologne and beer and sweat. His lips are a bit chapped and his scruffy cheeks press against Eddie’s, and his hands are gripping his shoulders. Eddie pulls away first, eyes wide, chest tight.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” Richie asks defensively.

Eddie smiles, lacing his hand in Richie’s hair and pulling him slightly closer,

“Can’t say I’ve ever lived up to that accusation,” he says, pulling Richie close to him.

If kissings meant to feel like this then Eddie’s been missing out his whole life. He suddenly hates Pennywise even more. For making him move out of this godforsaken town and lose his memories. Lose his love. His true love.

They’re laying in bed awhile later. They didn’t do anything but kiss, it’s too early for anything else. They’re both too scared for anything else. But they’re shirtless and Eddie’s got his head on Richie’s hairy chest and he traces over a scar on his stomach.

“So you know, Pride’s in a couple weeks. You could come to New York. I heard it’s pretty neat,” Richie says quietly. So quiet Eddie barely hears him.

“Are you asking me on a date dipshit?” Eddie asks with a grin.

“Suddenly I’m rescinding my over you little prick,” Richie says, long thin fingers sliding up to tickle him.

“Don’t!” Eddie cries. It’s unsure what he’s talking about, as he’s squirming away from the tickling, “Don’t! I want to go.”

“Okay. Well, give me a ring when you’re in town. No need to pay for a hotel.”

“Richie?” Eddie says softly, tilting his head so he can look up. He doesn’t have his glasses on and there’s wrinkles by his eyes. “I want to go with you. I want to go back to New York with you. To Pride with you. On a date with you.”

Richie swallows hard,

“What? You’ve had an epiphany in the last six hours?”

“I had an epiphany twenty seven years ago. I was just never allowed to act on it.”

“Is that so?”

Eddie pulls Richie down for a kiss,

“Let me act on it now.”

[slaveofimagination]

Stanley Uris Takes a Flight (STOZIER)

Rating: K+

Summary:

“Stanley… Uris… Urine…”, a third voice reached his ears “Stanley Urine. No, he won’t show up. The guy is a pussy”.

Gulping and embarrassed with the looks the woman was giving him, he forced himself a few steps, standing in front of a table with nearly empty bowls of food and beer bottles. Six pair of eyes on him. And as much as time had passed, he could tell who they were.

Mike Hanlon smiled so wide and bright that Stanley felt the calmness pumping through his veins. He eyed every single one of them and fought with the tears that would came once again.

Landing his eyes on a bespectacled man with a hideous shirt, he bit the inside of his cheek, finally finding the voice he lost the day before after Mike’s call.

“Beep beep, Richie”.

Status: In-Progress (2/4)

______________________

Chapter Two: Stanley Uris finds his token

They begged Mike to stay, and he did.

Gathered in Bill’s room (it had to be Bill’s room), they all sat together, still dazed by what they saw at the restaurant. Occasionally, they would hear steps on the hallway from the other hotel guests, and all of them would look at the door, almost expecting to see something else. While Mike lectured them about his years alone in Derry, Stanley scrolled down Patricia’s messages, feeling empty of energy to answer back to her.

 It was when Eddie left to the bathroom, looking very upset and trying his best to not scream at his phone (“it’s goddamn Myra, hold on”) earning a stupid pussy joke by Richie, that the atmosphere became a little lighter.

“It’s weird to imagine Eddie going through sexual intercourse”.

“Why on earth are you thinking about it, Rich?” Bev rolled her eyes and tried to smile, but Stan could see how tired she was.

“His wife looks like his mom,” he pointed out, and Ben chuckled “You saw her picture and how little he is, it’s weird”.

“You thinking about Eddie’s sex life is stranger,” she pointed out, leaning against the bed frame “But I need to say it would be weird to imagine you being married instead”.

“Are you not?”, Stan turned to him, voice low and head dizzy. The headache was nearly there.

“Of course I’m not,” Richie grimaced, laughing a little “Not in the mood to chain myself into someone for the whole eternity. I’m a free bird,” he winked to Bev, fixing his glasses “But are you?”.

“What?”.

“Married, Staniel”.

“Yes”.

“I knew it. The perfect American boy, with his perfect american wife living in their cozy house with white fences eating their kosher food”.

“Patricia hates houses, we live in an apartment,” he pointed, detached.

“How’s Patricia?” Bill asked him, seconds before Richie opened his mouth. Beverly was looking at him, intently.

“Hm, she’s alright”.

“I hope she’s smaller than Eddie’s girl”.

“Beep Beep, Richie”.

“For how long have you guys been married?”, Beverly asked him with a tender smile and Stan looked right into her eyes. Some bits of his childhood memories came back to him as he remembered how Bev’s wrists were occasionally black and purple, like right now, and as much as they all knew what was happening, she always had a gentle attitude towards them, laid back and ready to listen to their shit or just talk to them. Like what she was doing right now with him, like she knew how fucking scared he was.

“Eight years,” his fingers ran absentmindedly on his pants “We met at uni, we shared a class”.

“Which one?”

“Statistics,” he glanced at Ben and he was smiling “Everyone else was terrible with numbers, so I decided to do my stuff with her…”.

“All your stuff, right, Staniel?” Richie winked at him.

“Shut up, Richie,” he elbowed Richie’s arm, rolling his eyes. Bill and Ben laughed at them.

“I was pointing out facts”.

“Like the fact that you don’t have a partner and have to jerk off alone?”, Stanley mumbled, annoyed, and it felt so familiar “Be careful with your joints, old man”.

“Who said i’m jerking off al-”

“Beep fucking beep, Richie,” Beverly threw a pillow at him and Stan caught himself almost smiling “Do you guys have any kids…?”

“Hm,” he frowned, slightly uncomfortable. His marriage to Patricia rarely ended up in any fights, but the closest they got to arguing and hurting each other’s feelings were during the moments in which she mentioned having kids. Not that Stanley was exactly opposing the possibility of being a father, but he was calmer with no kids around. Not just because they would make a mess of their house and routine, he wasn’t that petty… The fact was that he felt safe having no kids. For years he quite didn’t understand the root of that foreign feeling, but being back in Derry was making things more clear “No… No yet,” he swallowed “We tried a couple of years ago, but… you know… And we didn’t do anything recently to try again”.

“Like no sex? Celibate?”.

Stanley glared at Richie, who raised his hands and smiled.

“What? How many kids do you have spread across the country?”.

“For who do you take me for, Staniel? An irresponsible womanizer?”

“I don’t have any kids either,” Bill interrupted their bickering. Stan noticed the wrinkles around his eyes while Bill was staring at some random spot on the floor “I can’t have them”.

“Me neither”.

Stanley looked from Bill to Beverly, frowning.

“Does Eddie…”.

“No”.

“Hm,” he glanced at the shining wooden floor, at Ben’s brown boots near his leather shoes. It was all quiet, except for Eddie’s mumbles in the bathroom. He sounded nervous, even angry, “It’s him, right?”.

“We don’t know,” Mike had his eyes on him “But it makes sense”.

“I’m relieved, if you guys want the truth,” Richie was playing with his own fingers, avoiding their gazes. His brow was furrowed and he looked mildly angry “If it’s him. I’m glad to not have my own children if he’s around. I think we’re already fucked enough to lose one of our kids to this bitch…”.

“Right….”.

Stanley searched for Bill’s eyes and thought he was glad too. Neither of them had any siblings and only Bill knew what it was like losing Georgie. The thought of Bill having to face a similar thing, but with his own kid was enough to set Stan’s nerves on fire. He saw the way Ben was looking at Bill and there it was too. They would fight for Bill, they would fight Pennywise once again for Bill. The six of them would give their very lives for Bill. It was in Ben’s eyes. In Richie’s too. In his own, in every one of them.

The bathroom door opened and Eddie was red, his lips pursued in a thin line. He glanced at them, not saying a word. Stan noticed how he looked at Bill, who was staring at his own hands, lost in thought, unaware of how his childhood friends were looking at him. Eddie’s eyes even scanned Stanley briefly, like he was sensing his eyes on him, and then looked at Bill again.

They were back, they were most definitely back.

It would start all over again.

------

The next morning, he left the room before the others. They had all slept there, sharing Bill’s bed and the wooden cold floor. They hadn’t minded it. Stanley couldn’t remember when he’d drifted to sleep. It had felt like one of those moments as a kid when you sleep away from your bed and wake up on your mattress like it was magic.

When he’d opened his eyes, the sky still a little dark outside, he’d wondered why he wasn’t on his bedroom near Patricia.

They were all sleeping and Richie was snoring. He sat on the floor, taking a look at Eddie’s curled up figure next to him. Ben and Richie were sound asleep near the bathroom door, while Bill was slumped over an armchair, neck resting in a weird position. Beverly and Mike were sharing the bed. He squinted his eyes, the only source of lightning being the orange glow from a lamppost at the street. He tried to see if they were all breathing.

Stan hesitated before standing up, trying to dodge from Eddie’s body. Closing the buttons of his cardigan, he stepped outside the room. The sensation of fear over an imminent undesired surprise left him feeling nauseated. Still, he walked through the corridor, noticing that some of the hotel guests were already awake. At the end of the corridor, a huge window allowed him to see a few cars already going through Kansas street, and the back of the public library.

He sat on the floor, near the window. There was a sparrow in the three almost in front of him. Stan smiled weakly at him. He wondered if Patricia was already awake and if he should call her, as he didn’t trust his voice enough. What would he say? That Mike had cancer? Or maybe a silly lu?

Hugging his knees, Stanley thought of how he had felt after Mike’s call. About what he had thought to do.

He shivered.

------

His nose was dripping snot and his sleeves were dirty.

Stanley felt stupid, scared and so dirty. His slacks were scrapped right above his knees and all about him screamed disorder. He was walking around the town in which he was born, covered in dirt, crying like a child. A messy child wiping his nose with his sleeves. Stanley Uris being disgusting. He felt an urge to run away, back to Atlanta. Patricia had the habit of folding his handkerchiefs.

When he stepped inside the small motel, Beverly and Ben were sat on the staircase, mumbling inaudible things to each other. When they noticed his presence they stood straight and Ben frowned at him when he saw Stan’s face. He immediately held back his tears, glancing away.

“Stanley?”

Stan just moved his head to the sides. Please, don’t.

“Darling, what happened?”, Beverly tried to approach him, but he stepped back, shaking hands hidden inside his pockets.

“Stan,” Ben touched his shoulder and Stan flinched “What happened?” he asked with the familiar and gentle tone Ben always had. Stan could sense how uneasy Beverly was and that alone was enough to set up his own anxiety. But Ben was patient, gesturing almost imperceptible to Beverly to just wait. Ben was soothing “Have you seen something?” his voice was careful and calm “If you had, don’t worry now. You’re here with us, right?” Ben glanced at Beverly again “I saw something too, Bev as well… I know you’re scared, we were, we are scared too… But he couldn’t reach us, he couldn’t reach you… he can’t reach you”.

“Ben…”.

“I know it seems real, Stan…”.

“It is, Ben. It is real…”.

“It may be. But here, right now, is real too. And you’re here with us. And if he comes for you in here, he’ll come for us too. You’re not alone, Stanley”.

“Dear, have you found your token?” Beverly tried to hide her anxiety, Stan could sense it. For a second he was mad at her, the shower cap feeling heavy on his pocket. But Ben’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently and Stan felt shame.

“Yes, I did…”.

“Good…” she smiled and he tried to do the same, but his facial muscles were tense “We’re waiting for Bill and Rich-”.

Richie wasn’t walking, he was marching, nearly running through the small hall. His facial expression was contorted into one of utter pain. He walked past the three of them, his heavy boots making loud noises as he climbed the wooden staircase.

“Richie?” Stanley mumbled, but he knew Richie couldn’t hear him. Instead, he heard when Ben called him, voice much more steady and firm.

“I’m leaving”.

Stanley looked from Richie’s back to Beverly muttering a shocked ‘what?’. Ben’s warm touch on his shoulder ceased as he stepped toward the stairs, looking at Beverly and Stan with a reassuringly look.

“I’ll talk to him”.

They didn’t have time to say anything and Ben was already climbing the stairs, two steps at a time. Both of them kept looking at the direction in which Ben disappeared, and Stan felt Beverly moving towards him, shyly. Raising her hand, she touched his curls and moved some strands of hair away from his eyes. Stan couldn’t help but notice the purple bruise on her wrist. If she noticed him looking she didn’t shy away. Stan felt his cheeks getting warm.

“What’s yours?,” she asked in barely a whisper and he frowned “The token”.

He bit the inside of his cheek. For some unknown reason, it sounded like she was asking him for a piece of very intimate information, one that would leave him highly uncomfortable. He fumbled with the thoughts that he didn’t know who that woman was, he barely got to meet her. Her piercing blue eyes were familiar, the shining fiery hair as well… She had facial traits that reminded him of someone, but she wasn’t the same person. He wasn’t acquainted with this woman dressed in good tailored clothes with expensive earrings.

His Beverly Marsh had a chain with her house’s key around her neck. And she dressed like one of them. He laughed to himself and she frowned. He felt like crying again. That thing kept them apart for nearly three decades. Not only physically apart, but mentally as well. He gritted his teeth before touching the shower cap inside his pockets, taking it off and handing to her.

Beverly touched it with such care that Stan almost laughed, almost telling her that it wouldn’t disintegrate just because of her light touch. Her fingers were so lanky and bony. When she smiled at him the tears blurred his vision.

“Stan the man…” she mumbled, eyes equally watery “Thanks for taking care of us…”.

He hugged her like he never did as a kid. She didn’t seem to mind his dirty clothes.

Eddie Kaspbrak almost sprinted into the place and while looking at him Stan thought that he himself was pretty clean compared to Eddie. With a harsh hand move, Eddie signalled that he didn’t want to speak, that he would murder them if they tried to stop him on his tracks. He caught Ben during half the way through the second floor and Ben exchanged a glance with Stan and Beverly, sharing their thoughts that try to talk with an angry and dirty Eddie Kaspbrak wasn’t the smartest idea.

“Richie?” Beverly mumbled as Ben approached them “What happened to him?”.

“He’s just scared… I convinced him to stay”.

“Good…,” she turned to Stan, a motherly look in her eyes “Why don’t you go upstairs and change your clothes, dear? Maybe take a shower? You’ll feel better…”.

Stan felt himself blushing from his ears to his toes. He didn’t have a suitcase and he was probably stinking. He felt too embarrassed to tell that to them, mostly to ask Ben if he had spare clothes. Ben was taller and his pants wouldn’t fit well, but he needed to change. He thought about Richie, who was also taller but was Richie and nodded, heading to the second floor.

He held tight on the handrail, hyper-aware of any movement or sound. From a few doors to his left side it was possible to hear Eddie screaming (apparently to himself) and Stan briefly considered checking on him. He walked past Eddie’s door, turning right in a corridor and reaching Richie’s. He knocked it lightly, but Richie didn’t answer. Stan knocked more two times, now a little harder. Frowning, he touched the door handle, ready to apologize for doing something so impolite. When he looked into the room there was no Richie.

The idea of being inside a room alone wasn’t pleasing and Stan considered going back to Bev and Ben, telling them that he had no clothes, blushing as Ben would probably offer one of his own. A ruffling of the curtains left his blood cold. He was about to run away when Richie’s tall and clumsy figure stepped into his eyesight.

“Rich?”.

“What the fuck?”, Richie almost knocked out his own glasses, jumping in surprise “What the fuck are you doing in my room, Stanl- wait, what’s wrong?” he took on his shaggy appearance and Stan avoided his gaze “Are you okay?”.

“How could I?” he sneered, fingers brushing the door handle “We’re in Derry”.

“Yeah. That’s why we should go”.

“What do you mean?”.

“The obvious,” Richie rolled his eyes “I’m leaving,” he pointed out the small balcony behind thick curtains “Bag is down there. Tried to make a rope with the bedsheets, but I guess I’m too heavy. At least my things are already out, so I can run past those two morons down there without them bothering me”, he explained, agitated “C’mon, go grab yours.  I’ll call Eddie. Can you hear him from here? Maybe he’s light enough to actually use the rope. You can either go in my car or his”, he took a long glance at Stan and smiled mockingly “Maybe mine. Eddie would never allow you inside of his car when you’re looking this gross”.

Stan kept staring at him, not moving an inch. His brains were slow and he was frowning at Richie.

“What? Do you need a formal invitation, Staniel?”.

“What do you mean?”.

“Is this the only thing you can say now?,” Richie ran his hands through his greasy locks “We don’t have much time. Do you really think we’re able to fool Bill? We need to get the hell out of here before he arrives. We can say we need to get some air, Ben and Bev would never guess we’re actually leaving. Go grab your suitcase, I’ll talk to Eddie”.

“Why?”.

“Why what, Stanley?” Richie was clearly upset “Do you want to talk to Eddie instead? I’ll gladly pick your things while you face the tiny monster, it’s up to you to choose”.

“I don’t have any”.

“Any what?”.

“Stuff”.

“Excuse me?”.

“A suitcase,” he looked at Richie and he felt so stupid… Like a child talking to a demanding and judgemental parent “Clothes. I don’t have clothes. Or a towel…”.

Richie’s brows were knitted together while he stared down at Stanley. He kept silent for a moment, opening his mouth a few times before closing it. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“Were you robbed?”.

“No”.

“So you just came here all your way from Atlanta without a spare pair of socks? With nothing?”.

“Yes… These are my working clothes,” Stan gestured to himself “Or were. The pants are pretty ruined”.

Richie uneasiness seemed to grow and his eyes were wide.

“Why did you do that? What the fuck, Stanley?”.

“I didn’t want to come…” his eyes were on Richie’s and he felt so tired “I, uh, I went to work. And then I ran away and took a plane,” he shrugged “And I’m here”.

Richie waited for him to say something else, but as he didn’t, he took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed deeply,  thinking. He finally looked back at Stan, scratching his stubble.

“Shit, man,” his voice was barely a whisper “Shit, Stanley. You could’ve told me that before, now my things are down there and you need a shirt and pants. You’re too short to wear my pants, but still…” the flow of his words was fast and Stan kept rooted in his place “You didn’t bring a suitcase… You. All of all people… This is such a Richie thing to do, yet you did it. This is so fucked up!”.

“Yeah, guess it is”.

“Maybe… Maybe Eds has something that fits you, I mean, you’re not that short… You can wear one of his pants. Are your knees cut?”.

“No,” Stan glanced at the torn fabric on his pants, from the middle of his thigh to his knees “It’s fine…. Well, I didn’t take a look…”.

“Eddie probably has a first aid kit too”.

“Yeah, probably”.

“C’mon, let’s go talk to him, I’ll explain everything and how you’re a sloppy bitch. We don’t have much time”.

“We can’t leave,” and he moved, blocking Richie’s way with his own body, despite being a few inches shorter “We can’t leave them, Richie”.

“Look at you,” and he placed his large hands on Stan’s shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. Stan thought that Richie looked really old “You’re shaking, Stanley,” and he was “You’re scared shit. I’m scared shit. And I don’t want to go look for that fucking clown again”.

“Me neither,” he tried to steady his voice, not missing the way Richie’s hands lightly squeezed his shoulders “But we have too. That thing killed Georgie, remember?”.

“I know pretty damn well what he did, Stanley. But we can’t bring Georgie back”.

“But we can st-...”.

“Stop him from hurting more children?” Richie cut him half sentence and his voice had a mocking tone that made Stan shiver with a bit of anger “Who the fuck are you impersonating now? Bill?”.

“We made an oath”.

“An oath you were ready to break, right?” Richie stepped back, taking his hands away from Stanley “You didn’t want to come”.

“I didn’t”.

“And you came in the last minute”.

“I’m here nonetheless”.

Richie sneered, crossing his arms on his chest. He kept looking at Stanley for an uncomfortable amount of time, tilting his head.

“What kind of character are you trying to portray to me?”.

“What?” Stan frowned, hating the tone on Richie’s voice.

“You’re not a brave person, Stanley,” he mumbled and Stan flinched “You were the first one to run away when we got to Neibolt that time when Eddie and Ben got hurt, remember? You could’ve gone to the Olympics with those cycling skills. You didn’t even check if Eddie was okay, if Ben was okay,” Richie’s voice was harsh and Stan avoided his gaze “You were the only one who had to be convinced to enter that fucking place a second time…”.

“I was also the only one of us he almost killed…,” he replied back before Richie even finished his sentence, hating how his throat felt dry, voice barely a mumble.

“Yeah, I know that. You had better luck than Georgie,” and with that Stan’s eyes snapped back to Richie, wide and utterly shocked. Richie’s own eyes were dark “I’m a grown man, Stanley. You as well. Why do we have to risk our lives to be part of Bill’s revenge?”.

Stan was speechless. When he was a kid he himself thought the same as Richie said right now. He was scared and sad at Bill, it was Bill’s fault...But then the memory of Georgie… He couldn’t help but think that while he was bird watching or playing around… Georgie was dead. At night, while he was sleeping under his comfy bed sheets Geogie’s flesh was rotting under Derry.

And there was Judith… And the marks he still had on his face. Stanley Uris wasn’t a brave man at all. But Richie was. The thought on itself was infuriating. He was the weak link on the chain, not Richie. He couldn’t be part of the chain without him there.

“You want to leave…,” Stan mumbled, looking into Richie’s eyes, feeling the tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. He saw how Richie’s face expression changed, from disgust to concern. When Richie tried to step near him, Stan stepped back “Funny, uh? Who’s the pussy now, Richie?”.

The look of pain and shame that crossed Richie’s face was enough to make Stan clench his fists.

“Hey,” Richie licked his lips, a little pale “Listen to me”.

“Don’t you fucking dare”.

“I know what you heard,” he tried again to get closer and this time Stan didn’t move “And I’m sorry for that”.

“If you don’t shut up I’ll punch you,” Stan gritted his teeth, his vision getting blurry. He never touched anyone in a violent way, but he was more than ready to beat the fuck out of Richie. He was shaking again, but due to anger.

“Stan…”.

“I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking nose, you asshole!” and the tears were dripping from his chin.

“Why…”.

“Here,” he harshly grabbed Richie’s hand, placing it at the left side of his face “Can you feel this shit?” Stanley was mildly scared with how his voice sounded so strained, but he couldn’t stop “Can you? I couldn’t for the past twenty-seven years, and now I’m here almost yelling to you and my face hurts, Richard!”

“Stanley, listen…”.

“No, you listen,” he breathed heavily, scanning Richie’s face, his calloused fingers still touching Stan’s scars “Don’t let this city ruin who you are. Don’t act like Mrs Kaspbrak or Bev’s dad. Do you remember what this town did to the adults when we were younger?” Richie was silent, listening to him intently “Whatever he showed you… He’ll do it again,” he watched as Richie’s eyes left his own “Like he’ll do it again with me. So, please, Richie, please… I don’t want to go through all of this all alone”.

Richie stepped back, turning away from Stan. He could see Richie’s tense shoulders under the black jacket he was wearing. He watched as Richie brought both of his hands to his hair, almost pulling at it. Stan felt like shit.

“Do you want to know what he showed me?” Richie barely mumbled, turning to face Stan with pain in his face “Do you?”.

Beverly’s high pitched scream left both of them paralyzed.

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Thank you so much @sparklingspice for proofreading <3

Uploading stories on Tumblr is SO WEIRD. Not in the mood to write the gigantic notes I’m used with on AO3...

External links to this work: AO3 | FF.net

Tumblr Archive [click here] (this page is where I’ll add the links for the other posts with the remaining chapters)

[interste-ll-ar]

Boys of Summer Chapter 1

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak expects that summer camp will be a fun, educational experience. He does not expect to meet the best friends he’s ever had, and to get in trouble while doing it. 

In which Richie is a prankster, and Eddie somehow ends up joining him.

Words: 1884

Pairing: Reddie, minor/background Stenbrough, minor/background Benverly

A/N: hi guys this is chapter one of my camp fic!! i know its a bit slow, but I promise it will get better!!! im really excited about this one ive had this idea in my head for a long time so I hope you like it!!

part 2

Eddie Kaspbrak had only known the town of Derry, Maine his entire life. He’d never been more than an hour away from home, and only then it was because his mom had insisted that his usual doctor was wrong, so she’d taken him to see another one (and another, and another).

So it was a wonder he’d managed to convince her to let him go to sleep away camp for an entire summer.

From the beginning of July to the middle of August, Eddie was going to stay at Nashoba North, two hours away from Derry—and his mother. He couldn’t have been more excited if he tried.

The entire two hour car ride over, his mother lectured him: about safety, about the dangers of the woods, about making sure he wore sunscreen and took his inhaler with him everywhere and had his watch set so he could take his meds. She asked him no less than 6 times if he was sure he wanted to do this, if he wanted her to turn back now.

“Mom,” he said, “I want this. I want to do this. I don’t want to turn back.”

“I just want you to be sure, Eddie Bear. I can’t be there to take care of you. Maybe I should stick around in case you change your mind.”

“No, mom, I’m not going to change my mind. Don’t embarrass me in front of the whole camp by staying later than all the other parents.”

He was in a bad mood by the time they reached the campground, but as soon as he stepped out of the car to see the hustle and bustle of other campers arriving and counselors leading them to their cabins, his mood soared. Looking at the excited faces around him, he wondered who among them would end up being close friends. Briefly, he wondered if any of them were his bunk mate.

A counselor walked up to his mom and asked her for his name so she could sign him in. She told them he would be in cabin 7 with seven other boys his age and two counselors who would lead his group in their daily activities.

The counselor helped him grab his trunk and his bags and led the two of them to his cabin.

“You’ll be on this bunk,” she said, setting his stuff on the lower bed of a bunk in the middle of the room. He looked around the cabin with curiosity. It was much smaller than he’d imagined, and about as run down as he’d thought.

The bunks ran parallel to the walls, pressed up as close as possible to give them some walking room in the middle. The counselors had single beds at the end of each row of bunks so there was one in charge of either side in case things got too rowdy. Neither counselor was currently present; Eddie assumed they were off attending to their beginning-of-camp duties.

There was only one other boy present in his cabin so far. He had been quiet, unpacking his bed things in a fairly tedious manner. The boy’s father (Eddie presumed) was sternly debriefing him about what he was supposed to do: “Don’t forget to call once a week, Bill, I know where the phone is on the campgrounds and I know you have access to it whenever you want, so you have no reason not to check in with us. You should also write George a few letters because it would make him happy. Make sure you wash behind your ears in the shower.”

The boy—Bill, Eddie guessed—listened and nodded along to his father’s rambling, murmuring responses too quiet to be heard every once in a while. Eddie wondered if this boy was always this quiet.

At his own bunk, his mother fussed over every single aspect of the cabin and his arrangements. “Oh, Eddie Bear, look at the state of this place. There’s a spiderweb in the corner over there. The floors are so dirty I can’t even tell what color the wood used to be. You are never to be barefoot in this place, you hear me? Not to mention the shower house—ugh, I haven’t even been in there yet, I can’t imagine how many bacteria are on that floor—“

“Ma, you aren’t going to go into the shower house. They’re divided by gender. You can’t go into the boys shower house.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m sure no ones in there showering now, it’s the beginning of camp.”

“Mom. No,” Eddie pleaded, “Don’t do that, please. I’ll wear my shower shoes, I promise.”

“Okay, fine.” She put her hands up in defeat. “If you promise to wear your shower shoes. And use a new towel every time you shower. Make sure you wash your towels every time they do laundry. Did we write your name on your towels?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Mrs. Kaspbrak continued to fuss over his belongings, making sure to wrap a mattress bag around his thin bed and tucking his sheets in extra tight. As she busied herself with her tasks, he sorted through his fanny pack to make sure he had everything he’d need for the day. Inhaler, check. Daily pills container, check. Band-aids, check.

He was searching around for his antibiotic cream when the door opened again, and in walked a boy his age with light, curly hair. Despite the fact that it was the first day of camp, he wasn’t smiling. He was followed by who Eddie could only assume was his father, a man who kept his hand firmly planted on the boy’s shoulder. He led him to the same bunk that Bill and his father were standing at and the boys did an elaborate handshake before hugging. Their fathers shook hands.

Eddie’s heart dropped. It figured that all the boys here would know each other already. They’d probably been going to camp together for years. He had a sudden intense feeling that he would make no new friends this summer, that everyone would see the neat freak hypochondriac and decide to stay far away. In his head, he saw a dozen faceless boys having fun at the lake while he sat on the beach and watched. He imagined everyone sitting at lunch sharing jokes and laughing together as he sat on his own to the side.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He should’ve seen it coming. It’s not like going to summer camp changed who he was as a person. He was still just the same panicky, annoying—

“Is this your f-first year here?”

Eddie spun around when he heard the voice behind him. Bill and his friend had snuck up on him while he was deep in his reverie. “Yeah, it is.”

“I’m B-B-Bill, and this is Stan. We’ve been coming here f-for years. What’s your name?”

“I’m Eddie.” He stuck his hand out to shake, and Bill and Stan looked at each other before each shaking his hand in turn.

“We’d be happy to show you around, if you’d like,” Stan said cheerily, and Eddie nodded quickly.

Suddenly, the screen door to their cabin was once more thrown open, and a whirlwind of a boy made his way into the cabin.

Eddie could immediately tell something was very different about this boy. He had dark curly hair and thick glasses, and he held his head down as he walked—stormed, really—into the cabin. The counselor led him over to his bunk—

—which happened to be right above Eddie’s.

He tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t just staring at his new bunk mate, sitting down as he and his parents made their way over to him.

“Hi, I’m Eddie,” Eddie said, holding his hand out to his bunkmate, “I’m your bunkmate.” The boy looked at him for a moment, eyes large and dark behind his glasses, then turned back to the bunk, climbing the ladder with his duffel bag over his shoulder.

“Richard, this nice young man is talking to you,” the woman standing next to their beds said, “be polite. Say hello.”

“Hello,” the boy—Richard, apparently—spat back, not looking up from where he dug through his bag. He produced a single pillow without a case on it and threw it down on his bed, quickly followed by a single off-white sheet. His mother sighed and shook her head, but seemingly didn’t want to push the issue further.

After Richard climbed down from his bunk, his parents shared a look before speaking. “We’ll see you at the end of the summer. And,” His father sighed, “please, please, try not to get in trouble this time.” With that, they walked out the door without so much as a backwards glance at their son.

Next to him, Sonya clucked her tongue and shook her head. Eddie knew how much she despised any parents she perceived to not care as much as she did about their children. “It’s a shame. I tell you, Eddie, some people just don’t care enough.” She lowered her voice before adding, “I would stay away from that boy if I were you. He doesn’t seem stable. It’s the bad parenting. And that pillow probably has diseases in it.”

A shiver ran down his back, and he nodded, looking down at his hands in his lap. His mother wrapped her arms protectively around him, and he tried very hard not to feel like she was sucking the life out of him in the process.

His mom stayed with him, practically glued to his side, until the opening bonfire that evening. As Eddie predicted, she was the last parent remaining, even though he’d asked her not to do that. He sat beside Bill and Stan on their cabin’s log in front of the fire. He noticed that his bunkmate was at the end of the row, almost isolated from the others. He had his head in his hand the whole ceremony, and he didn’t participate at all.

Eddie knew his mom was overbearing, and he knew she was often wrong, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was right about one thing: he should stay away from Richard.

Following the bonfire, he went over to his mom to say goodbye. The sun was already beginning to set, and she had long outstayed her welcome.

“You’ll call me everyday, right?” she begged, holding his chin in her hand, “And you’ll write to me once a week?”

“I’ll try,” he managed to get out, face squished in her hand. She gathered him to her, holding him tightly. He hugged her back fiercely. As much as she bugged him and nagged and fussed over him, he would miss her. It would be the longest he’d ever gone without seeing her, and he knew it was taxing her even more than she let on.

“Be good,” she murmured as she pulled back, cupping his cheek and moving away. As he watched her retreating figure fade into the growing darkness, he felt an enormous feeling he’d never felt before; it was heavy and light at the same time, his stomach dragging downwards as his heart soared.

He’d miss her.

But god, if he wasn’t ready to have the best summer of his life.

[windienine]

Snow Much For That!

@the-wanderer-willow was my match for the @ds-secret-santa, requesting a Willowson fic! Pardon the timing on this, it was originally supposed to be a 1500-word oneshot that expanded into this monster of a story. Regardless, I hope that it is enjoyable. Thank-you very much!

   A wooden cane banged on the edge of the old brewery building, and a long evening shadow cast its way down the alleyway, upon a sea of dark eyes, sooty cheeks, and tattered hats.

   “Get outta here! Damned kids… don’t you hooligans know how late it is? On Christmas Eve, no less! Pickpockets, the lot of you!”

  A chorus of tiny giggles erupted, a few metal cannikins being clinked by one another between the children, coins within chiming noisily. Some were sitting on or leaning against trash cans, another three cozied up on an old bench to stay warm, and most of them were just crouched on the ground, a little peeved that their game of jacks had been interrupted. None of them looked like they had any intention of moving from their spot, but a few of the smaller ones grouped up closer to their older friends.

  “Do any of you lot of bumpkins even speak English?” the man growled, stamping a foot on the ground. “You’re disturbing the peace. I’d have half a mind to call a policeman from down the lane and get you all locked up for the night! Why, I really ought to…”

  “Do it, then,” one young boy piped up. “Nobody ought to listen to some geezer raving on about us. After all, it is Christmas. If you were really in the spirit, you’d be the one lining our pockets!”

  More hoots and hollers sounded, with at least one “Hear, hear!” from an older child. There was plenty more noisemaking, up until somebody bunched up and threw one single snowball. It whizzed through the air, striking the man square in the jaw. The alley went completely quiet, the group of children looking on in shock. One could only hear the whistling of the cold wind down the alley. As the man started to go red, everybody once again broke out in laughter.

  “That’s what you get!”

  “Late Chanukkah gift from us all!”

  “¡Feliz Navidad!”

  “Nice aim, Eddie!”

  They grew louder and louder, and the man gritted his teeth and wiped the flecks of snow off his face. He drew back his cane, pulling the nearest child by the wrist. The boy screamed and tried to yank his hand away, but just as it seemed as things were about to take a turn for the violent, he stopped. A young teen with long, curly pigtails had given him a good kick in the back of the shin, pulling his arm back and forcing him to stumble backwards.

  “Willow!” the other boy called out.

  “Get out of here,” she said softly. “I can take care of this.”

  She was bit taller than all of the other children, but she was far and away the sootiest and the scruffiest, her dark gray eyes staring daggers into him as the larger man looked back. The man was about to turn onto her and strike in much the same manner. She only smirked, holding tightly onto a lift-arm lighter with a floral pattern to it, along with a small bottle full of clear fluid.

  “Now, hold it right there! Sir, I’m guessing—heh—I mean, I’m guessing you might wanna take a look at that fancy coat of yours,” Willow started, barely able to keep her laughter contained. “It burns pretty well!’

  The scent of burning furs filled the narrow alley, as the man looked back and realized that the back of his rather luxurious coat had caught fire. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed such and immediately began trying to pat it out, barking out swear after swear as he started running about wildly, going nowhere in particular. The flames only leapt higher up his back as he panicked, leading him to start shouting even more incoherently.

  “Fire marshal! Somebody alert the fire marshal! Fetch water, a fire extinguisher, something, anything!” he bellowed, before leaping into a large pile of snow, rolling about frantically and finally managing to extinguish the flames.

  Meanwhile, as he had left the scene, the remaining children had scattered and regrouped some ways away, inside an abandoned old house. Amongst dreary, moldy rubble, they were all gathered around Willow, praising her and hugging her and still giving little hoots and encouragements.

  “Willow, was that really okay? Are we going to get into trouble?” asked one.

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “But, only if he can find us. That guy didn’t look all that bright, but we should stay on the move.”

  “He looked kind of bright to me, burning like that!” quipped a different girl.

  “Heh, good one!” Willow giggled. “Say, Andrew, are you hurt?”

  “Nope! It’s just a little scraped up from his gross nails.”

  “Still, let me take a look- I think I’ve got bandages in my scout pack! They feel a little gross, too, but I promise they’re nowhere near as gross as that!”

  “Aww, no…” he muttered, wincing as Willow moved to dab clean and wrap the scratch, diligently as ever.

  Another older teen looked on from near the door. “Really, Willow,” he chided. “You could have gotten badly hurt! That was reckless of you!”

  Willow only laughed again, leaning back against an old staircase with her hands behind her head. “Reckless could be my middle name, at this point! I’m not gonna just stare like a caught rabbit while my friends get beaten by some fossil out there!”

  “… Don’t you think he had a point, though?” he asked, looking distressed. “About nobody wanting us around and all. Christmas comes, year after year, and we’re stuck with nothing. It’s all one big, fat reminder of how stuck we are. I’m lucky if I get a bar of chocolate.”

  “Eh,” said Willow, shrugging. “I don’t know. Christmas doesn’t mean much to me, any longer. For the most part, it’s only freaks like you guys that keep my attention around this time of year. It’s all just cold and wet and miserable, otherwise.”

  “Willow, you more than anyone else here… don’t you want to experience a real holiday, one of these years? With gifts, or a tree, or a family of your own?”

  That made her freeze up, just a bit. “I-I mean. I guess. If by some miracle the offer came about, it’s not like I’d turn it down or anything.”

  “But you might burn it down!”

  “You’re really keeping them coming tonight, Agnes! But, yeah, that’s all there is to it. I don’t really care for the holidays, one way or the other.”

  “Miss Willow strikes me as the kind of person who probably cares for the holidays more than anybody else,” he repeated to himself for the umpteenth time. “And I suppose there’s nothing that helps others with winter’s despair than a gift.”

  Winter in the Constant could be described in a multitude of ways, none of them pleasant. Certainly, one could call it uncompromising. A frigid north wind had struck the entirety of the island, dropping perceived temperatures far below zero. The heavy snowfall had been equally vexing, with even great beasts having difficulty slogging through areas that hadn’t been partially protected by forest. Even most plants had been virtually flash-frozen by wind and pelting, frozen rain; saplings, bushes, and even entire patches of grass and heather covered in a thin film of rime that made them appear akin to beautiful, bluish ice sculptures- they sparkled in the faint moonlight, but they would be of no use as kindling or supplies.

   A singular, golden glow illuminated a lone outcropping in the middle of the barren birch woods. All was quiet, aside from the bonfire’s steady crackling. That is, if one didn’t account for the crunching of snow-muted footsteps just a short way off, between the trees. A figure could be seen holding a dim lantern, barely keeping the darkness at bay.

   Wilson shuddered in the cold, the gas lantern creaking as he adjusted a small knob on the side. It hardly brightened at all, making slightly more audible, yet still soft, flickering buzz. Wondering just how much longer the light would hold, he decided to proceed on further, plodding onwards in spite of the wind and snowfall picking up. Procuring the materials he’d be needing for this gift would be nothing, if not difficult. He adjusted his hat over his ears once more- if he wasn’t careful, frostbite could hurt him just as badly as any monster.

  He came to an iced-over headstone jutting out from a thick mound of snow, rubbing away some of the frost with one hand, able to make out a vague, weathered “HERE LIES W--”. He sighed heavily, taking a cobbled-together shovel out of his pack. He began to dig down. His shovel moved the snow quickly enough, but the frozen earth below would be a completely different story.

  Willow stirred from a frightening dream, tossing over in the furry bedroll and shivering enough to shake the entire tent. As she blinked awake, she realized that she could barely feel her fingers- she tucked one hand back under the fluffy blanket, and with the other she reached into her threadbare pocket and pulled out her lighter. Flicking it open, she could suddenly see puffs of her own breath in front of her. As she moved it from side to side, checking the tent, she realized that she was completely alone in camp.

  Where was Wilson?

  She peeked her nose just outside. Sure enough, even with the snow obscuring her vision, she could hear no footsteps, nor the reassuring sound of somebody tinkering at the workbench or messing around with some bubbly solution or other. But… no, that wasn’t quite right. Something had to have happened.

   Pulling on a rabbit-fur cloak, she stepped out into the cold, immediately clearing away the snow with her own shovel and putting some fresh kindling into the fire pit, lighting it up. The new blaze revealed nothing- just a cold, empty camp, devoid of any other life. The snow was piling up quickly. She checked the icebox- no provisions had been taken. The tool chest, then? Well… no. Nothing had been touched.

  “Wilson!” she called aloud, but her call was swallowed up by the howling wind. This was troubling, to say the least of it. Generally, the pair would tell each other about expected midnight excursions into the woods. Having him up and vanish like this was cause for alarm.

  “Th-this isn’t funny! If… if y-you’re just outside camp or something, get back here! Y-you’re going to freeze your butt off out there!” What could be so important that he’d up and leave in the middle of the night? This was dangerous- he could get attacked by hounds, he could run out of lamp oil and end up lost or worse in the darkness, or even just succumb to the cold and wind up--… no! No, no. She couldn’t let herself get lost along that line of thought. She had to find him- after all, she had plenty of lights, she was healthy and warm enough (all things considered), and she had to hand it to herself- she was the more skilled fighter of the two.

  “Really? We’re gonna do this now? In the dead of night? In winter, no less…?” she muttered, grabbing for an extra torch, a pouch of food and kindling, and her spear, just in case things got a little hairy. The wind picked up, blowing snow into Willow’s face. She grimaced, shielding her brow with her forearm. Shutting the gate to camp behind her and latching it, she began trundling through the deep snow. She wasn’t about to let her best friend end up frozen out in this wasteland.

  Wilson was breathing heavily- his hands felt completely numb and his upper arms were simultaneously limp and sorely taut, like they’d catch fire if he put any more pressure on them. A pile of rock-hard dirt and a large cavity in the ground were all that were left where he had recovered his previously-hidden spoils. That, and a (probably) human skeleton. Wilson told himself that it certainly hadn’t looked at all like it was pointing at him accusingly, its finger cocked out of the earth to menace him. That would be ridiculous. The dead can’t accuse, they don’t have any brains! Much less point, lacking muscles, of course. That was fine. It would be fine!

  Dragging his shovel behind him, he believed had come quite far. He checked his map, and saw another black “X” scrawled in a location that should have been nearby. Looking around in the woods, it was hard to discern any landmarks, especially with everything covered in snow. Regardless, he could still guess at his location from the density of trees- this outcropping, as unfamiliar as it looked in this weather, was probably the same one he had drawn on here all those weeks ago. He looked behind him, noticing that the trail his shovel and footprints were leaving was swiftly being covered once again. That was a little bit disconcerting. A small, hastily-scrawled note was attached to the map:

- red gemstones - wood from the tree with a face (creepy, maybe save for last) - lots of rope ✓ - candles (blue and white, make blue dye at some point or another) ✓ - various festive things (e.g.- colored paper, hot meal for two, holly wreath for gate, even more candles) ✓ (sort of, close enough)

  He put a messy checkmark with a piece of charcoal next to the “gemstones” bullet, but he still had much work to do. Fortunately, this would be the last very difficult thing to get. As he reached the edge of the forest clearing, he noticed a great, bare tree, bark curling from its trunk with age. From this angle, you couldn’t see the more horrific part of it He had described it in his field notes as “a very weird oak”, but its having distinct eye holes and a gaping maw of splintered wood made “weird” kind of a moot descriptor. Getting out his shoddily roped-together axe from the strap on his backpack, he shook out his right arm and tried to muster some extra strength. It was standard at this point, but he still tried not to think too hard about how in blazes a tree could manage to scream in pain. Maxwell had been getting his sick kicks in strange, strange ways. As he chopped, a quiet but rather defined moan exuded from its center. Why did it have to do that?

  After finishing that ugly job, there then came the task of picking up and cutting some of that lumber. He could leave most of it, fairly assured that nothing would come to claim it (aside from the possibility of an unchecked wildfire, possibly due to Willow), but he chopped a few sturdy pieces of lumber. With faces. Eugh. The key to it was really not looking back; so long as one didn’t look directly at them, they could do a decent enough job of ignoring it. He arranged them into a rope-tied bundle, before hefting them onto his sore, sore back. Through all of this rather unscientific, infuriatingly common work, the one thing that really stuck out in his mind and kept him going was the persistent daydream of Willow’s lovely eyes lighting up, that wonderful smile, those rosy cheeks of hers, and perhaps—

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Through the snow, something was approaching. Wilson was immediately snapped out his sweet thoughts and into reality. Grasping for his spear, he realized suddenly that he had left it back in camp, by the tent. Improvising and raising his shovel, he turned around to strike whatever had followed him, before opening his eyes and realizing—

 “Miaow?”

  Two wide, shiny eyes were looking up at Wilson’s lantern, even at its low light. The baby catcoon was twitching in the cold, too exhausted to run any further. It could only keep meowing, almost as if to protest Wilson’s oncoming attack. He immediately lowered his shovel, putting his hand up to indicate that he wouldn’t hurt the little creature. Internally, he felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment- had he really been frightened that badly by something so pathetic? He really was about to lose his marbles out here.

  “P-pardon me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The kitten tiredly pawed over to Wilson’s leg, mushing its tiny face into him for all the warmth it could muster.

  “No,” Wilson sighed, picking up his shovel. “No, no. Come now, I have places to be. What’s a baby like you doing out here in the cold? Where’s your mum? Don’t you have a family missing you out here?”

  The kitten mewled weakly in reply, nuzzling up between Wilson’s legs and pawing at his snow-covered feet.

   “You too, huh? Poor thing,” he mused, seeming to be considering something wistfully. Before he could make a motion at the cat, his stomach cramped with hunger pangs- this whole idiotic quest was taking him longer than intended. “We really can’t afford any more mouths to feed right now. I don’t have anything for you, cat.”

   As he turned away and started trudging through the snow back towards camp once again, he heard the same tiny crunching noise getting fainter and fainter. Cats didn’t understand English, but perhaps the little creature had gotten the memo and decided to crawl back to whatever little den it had emerged from in this heinous snowstorm.

  The wind was picking up. Wilson needed to hurry back to camp before sunrise.

   Meanwhile, on the opposite end of the sprawling forest, Willow guarded her torch with one hand. Where could he be? It would be mere hours before dawn- perhaps waiting until then, or at least until the weather tided over, would have been more rational, but Willow was not the best at thinking rationally when she had a friend to rescue. Every now and again she’d call out for him, but the wind whisked away her voice.

  She continued along, but her search so far was looking grim. The snow piled on higher and higher, and if he had been here recently, any trace of him was well-hidden. The wind echoed through the branches of the evergreens, howling. Once again, Willow wondered why it had to be tonight. For the morning, she had prepared a surprise for him and everything- a gift to commemorate making it a second cycle of seasons out in this wasteland together. Why did the one non-survival-related nice thing she had been able to commit to have to be squandered like this? She had just wanted to tell him how much all this was worth. Not every “wake-up” left them fortunate to find anyone else at all, but she and him specifically had forged a strong friendship over the time period within which they had met one another, multiple “wake-ups” and all. They had managed to triumph over Maxwell, over the elements, and in some cases, over their own fears. They’d certainly be able to find and release the Queen, no matter how difficult the task seemed.

  She didn’t have a revival device at the ready! They had been fine! What if he was gone and she couldn’t get an amulet or something together in time? If she was to lose him this time around, too, she didn’t know what she was going to do. Well… untrue, really, she’d do her best to survive on her own, regardless, but there was a special kind of warmth that came with having a partner that made the lonesome nights bearable. She could find him. She had to find him.

   But, there was no time. She started hurrying herself along, and she grabbed tightly to her pack of medical supplies. If she couldn’t immediately find him, it didn’t matter- for now, what was important was trying to find him if he was still alive and on his feet out here in no man’s land. Easier said than done- this was like finding a needle in a pile of fire ants!

   “Cold…” she mused simply, pulling up her muffler. It didn’t do much. She couldn’t stand this awful loss of feeling. Numbness was just like your limbs dying while you were still alive.

   Wilson could see camp. Pulling his hat down over his brow, he grinned. There was something so reassuring about seeing everything intact after such an arduous night. Even in this awful weather, perhaps he could make something out of nothing and give tomorrow just a spritz of magic.

  Science! He meant science, of course.

   Clearing snow from around base with his shovel, he set to work quickly, restarting the bonfire, taking off his gloves, and putting some sensation back into his fingers.. He made his way to the workbench. From a compartment in one of the machines, he took a small, weathered little notebook. Now, where was the page where he had written about staves? Ah, yes, if you wanted the best result, you’d need to fix the gem atop a piece of Living Wood, easy enough. The wood would channel the energy from the gem and allow a “circuit” of heat energy without burning or overheating in one’s hands. A little bit of rope, cut the stone like a spearhead, save the shards for some other project… position it correctly, fix it in place with rope, it had to be straight or it might fire all off-kilter… a few drops of Nightmare Fuel from a dangerous encounter to coat the wood, and voila! He supposed one could call such an implement a “flame-thrower”! Then again… perhaps not.

   From his satchel, he pulled an array of multi-colored candles. These would do nicely. Holly boughs with berries, neatly folded into a circular wreath. Wilson almost scoffed a little- he hadn’t much to do with the holidays over the course of his relatively short life, and here he was decorating their makeshift home like some kind of nutcase. He supposed he was one, deep down. It had been over ten years since he had felt anything but apathy for the holiday, and as he set a slab of ham into the cooking pot, the scent that filled the air gave him some nostalgia for a time before all of this. There were faint, fading memories of senseless, boring New Year’s Eve parties during his early college years and downing alcohol to numb the feelings of bitterness and resentment towards his family, but also of pleasant Chanukkah nights and warm Christmases long before even all of that with his siblings and childhood friends, eating rich food and playing about with train sets.

  Miss Willow… she wouldn’t be too upset with him, would she? This had been an impulsive decision, and he could have been badly hurt if he had gotten himself lost. He had wanted to make her happy, but especially if he had been wrong in his assumption, he might just end up with a well-deserved smack upside the head. Hmm.

  Wait just a moment. Where was Willow? Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson had noticed that she wasn’t on her bedroll. Had she stirred?

  He walked over to inspect the tent. Sure enough, there was no sign of Willow, nor her pack… and he certainly hadn’t seen her on the way back. He would have noticed her, right?

  “Miss Willow?” he called, using his hands to amplify his voice. “Miss Willow, are you there?”

  There came no reply. Wilson’s expression was pained, concerned… and grew only more so as another thought entered his mind: was this his fault?

  “Oh, no… no, no, no, no!”

  How could he have been so stupid? All that secretiveness, and for what? Some dumb presents that would mean nothing out here in the harsh wilderness of the Constant. Now she could be out there, alone, in the grueling wilderness… and it was all his own doing. His heart had fallen into his stomach, as he raced around to grab the completed fire staff. He’d have to arm himself, this time. And just as suddenly, he started to hear:

  Grrr… rowf! Rowf, rowf! GRRRRrrr…

  Willow stopped dead in her tracks.

  Hounds.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and not just from the cold. She was stuck out here, and so was Wilson, most likely, and they were going to have to deal with hounds. Their packs had been getting larger and larger with every new “wave” of them that had appeared, and she didn’t know if either of them could take these things alone, in the middle of a snowstorm.

  No, that couldn’t be true. She had to try to make something out of this. How far was she from camp? Could she make it back in time? In camp, the palisades could serve as a line of defense. She could have the upper ground against those mutts- once she could get them to trickle one at a time and force them into a small place instead of out here in the open, in their territory, she could take them. She was handier with a spear than Maxwell had been expecting, for sure, and she’d show whoever this Charlie lady was that she had been informed about that she could put up just as good a fight.

  She was mustering all her energy and sprinting, now, back towards camp. Stealth wasn’t an option. In rain, in high winds, or in the dead of winter, those monsters could still sniff a person out and tear them limb from limb, if they weren’t prepared. She checked her map- if she cut through this part of the woods, past the spot with the tree that had a face, she’d be able to make it back to camp in a relatively short span. Willow wasn’t an especially religious young woman, but she was praying to whatever would listen that she and Wilson would make it out of this mess in one piece.

   Wilson shuddered, gripping the staff tightly in both hands and looking frantically from side to side. Where were they? He knew he heard hounds. It wasn’t just his head messing with him, was it? He had his makeshift armor on him, he was ready for a bout, but where were they? The growling and the howling had gotten closer and closer… but now it was coming a little from the right. Why weren’t they coming this way?

  Unless…

  “Willow?” he murmured, eyes wide. “Willow!”

 Dropping all pretenses of preparation and confidence, he threw the gate open and dashed right back out into the woods.

  And from the edge of camp, there came a tiny “Miaow?”

  Willow dashed forwards, but the hounds were in hot pursuit. She didn’t dare look back- that was just an invitation to get run down and torn to pieces. The faint glow of camp—wait, shouldn’t that have been put out by the wind hours ago? — could be seen very faintly in the distance. Just a few hundred more feet, and

  “Willow!”

  “Wilson?!” she blurted out in surprise. She couldn’t feel anything about this whole debacle outside of absolute shock, and slowed down, skimming to a halt on the frosty ground. She couldn’t see where he was. “Wilson, what the hell were you—”

  She turned, only to see a pure white hound leaping out at her from the woods, its hungry, fang-filled maw agape as it pounced. It could have well been the end if not for the fact that Wilson emerged from the brush clutching a fire staff, high on adrenaline, tackling the hound and striking it onto the ground with his free arm.

   The hound struggled, biting into Wilson’s arm and drawing blood as he wrestled with the creature, striking it square in the snout. He winced in pain, but managed to toss the staff to Willow.

  “Take it and—take it and run!” he stammered out, taking his axe and plunging the sharpened edge into the hound’s neck.

  “Are you okay?! There’s gotta be a dozen of those creeps!”

  “I’ll be fine! Just get yourself to safety!” he urged.

  Willow frowned, glaring at him. “Are you stupid? There’s no way I’m going to up and leave you for the vultures!”

  Wilson stood, cradling his injury. “You’re always like this, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right! Now, take my spear! We’re going to show these glorified coyotes what we’re made of!” Willow exclaimed, just as another hound rushed at Wilson. Guarding the blow and jamming the spear between its teeth, he kicked it aside, giving Willow a clear shot of crackling sparks at the hound’s underbelly. Willow smirked gleefully, readying the staff once again.

  “Wow, I could absolutely get used to having one of these to swing around.”

  A fireball shot through the air, hitting a hound square in the muzzle. Willow shot again, engulfing another one completely in flames and nearly incinerating it. Wilson followed up, spearing another hound directly through its heart and tossing yet another above and behind him with a well-timed parry. Both managed to land their shots on a great number of hounds, at least five more being scorched in a massive, beautiful plume of flames, even more being completely skewered with the surprisingly sturdy spear. Willow and Wilson both took injuries throughout the fight, trading blows with polearms and wolf teeth, but Wilson took a good deal more of the damage thanks to fighting at a much closer range.

  “And stay out!” Willow shouted, dispersing whatever remained of the pack back into the forest with another wave of the glowing staff. As soon as the adrenaline started to tone itself down, Willow had to clutch her head with one hand. Something about using magical attacks always gave her the worst headaches.

  Shaking herself back awake, she noticed Wilson across from her, leaning on his spear. He could barely keep his balance. Walking over to him, she took hold of his shoulders.

  “Ugh… M-Miss Willow, I’m deeply sorry about all that. I didn’t mean to act so bull-headedly out there. I just wanted to ensure you’d have a nice…” he groaned, shaking his head.

  “Wilson? You… oh, jeez, some of that is your blood. Ow, that looks…” she said, going over his injuries with a concerned look, just before he completely collapsed into her arms. “Wilson? H-hey, now… wake up! Now isn’t the time to take a nap! Wake…--”

  That was the last thing that Wilson remembered. Upon awakening, the sunlit tent seemed to spin as he shot up, catching his breath with a hand on his chest. That’s when he realized he was shirtless- through his clouded vision, he could see that joining with old scars, many of the new wounds sustained to his arms and chest had been patched up, the salve soothing the injuries underneath. He still felt terribly, terribly sore all over.

  “M-Miss Willow?”

  “Uh-huh?” she answered. She had been kneeling right beside him, getting more bandages out of the medical kit.

  “Agh! Pardon, please allow me to become decent, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

  “No ‘what happened?’ No ‘gee, Willow! Many thanks for saving my rear end with your amazing skills! My goose would’ve been really cooked if you hadn’t been there!’” she laughed. “Men are all the same, I swear. You’ll get your ratty old shirt back after I’m done treating you. Does that sound like a plan?” she said, before cheekily pressing a bandage onto the roughed-up bridge of his nose.

  He looked down once more at his scars and looked back at Willow, kind of bewildered. “You… you still think I…” he started, before glancing outside. “It stopped snowing, did it?”

  “You’re a regular genius, aren’t ya?”

  “Hmph,” he grunted, blushing. “I just mean that quite some time must’ve passed. And, what I really wanted to say was, er…”

  “Happy Winter’s Feast?” she guessed.

  “Well, y-yes, I suppose. But, no, that’s not it,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank-you very much, Miss Willow. You’re right, I would have been done for.”

  With a few more minutes of medicine application and some words exchanged between the pair, Willow tossed Wilson his clothes with a “Here, catch!” (right into his face), leaving the tent.

  “Hold on a moment- don’t get up, now,” she said. “You need your rest, mister.”

  Wilson curled up, looking a little bit dejected. All of the effort he had placed into making this a great day for Willow, and here she was taking care of him! None of this was very gentlemanly at all. He swatted back old gender norms from his mind, reminding himself that Willow was very capable and that she had told him multiple times that they were on even ground when it came to this sort of thing.

  Willow came back into the tent with two wooden plates piled high with food.

  “I’ve gotta hand it to ya, you did a pretty good job with the ham! Where were you hiding that, anyway? I think I know what you had in mind for breakfast, so I looked in the icebox, and it turns out we had plenty of stuff to use as garnishes! Fire-roasted, of course.”

  The dish looked blackened in some places. And yet, it smelled nothing short of heavenly!

  “May I?” asked Wilson, whose stomach had been growling aloud since even before he was awake.

  “No, no you cannot,” Willow said sardonically, in her best impression of her own approximation of what Wilson’s mother had been like. “C’mon. Dig in, ya filthy animal.”

  Wilson didn’t wait another second before taking a bite, his eyes lighting up. “Effs afshtounding!”

  She laughed. “You really think so? I’m proud of it, too!”

  After they had both finished their meals, Wilson looked up somewhat glumly at Willow. “Listen, Willow, I… I’m really, truly sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “You know. Winter’s Feast and all? We agreed last time around that this’d be our holiday sort of thing, so I tried to prepare something special for you,” he started, as Willow held up a broken, burnt-out fire staff with an eyebrow raised. “Yes, that. I wanted to make a display and give you a gift and all of that, but I was idiotic enough to leave camp without telling you in the middle of the night just to conform to stupid societal expectations of merriment when we’re out here in the literal middle of nowhere. And now, your gift was used up all in one go and you were the one who made me breakfast. I hate the holidays.”

  “Me too.”

  “Yes, and I—wait, what?”

  “I never liked the holidays. I never had a family to celebrate them with. I was a regular Artful Dodger, you know?”

  “O-oh. Oh, no, that just makes this all so much worse… I didn’t mean to dredge up any bad memories for you.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Willow said. “While it’s true that you were being a little bit of a blockhead…”

  He sighed.

  “And a dimwit…”

  He winced.

  “And if we’re really being honest here, your brains were totally out to lunch for all of this.”

  Wilson had his head in his hands. Willow reached her own to his, tipping up his chin.

  “But, if I’m still being fully honest here, that whole stunt with the fire staff and the ham and the candles and stuff? It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me for the holidays. Nobody ever cooks me dinner or gets me gifts… except for you, ya kook.”

  She gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. At this point, he was blushing hard and choking on every word he tried to say in response.

  “I-I, um, well… what I mean is… what I’m trying to say is… y-you’re… you’re welcome? I mean, it’s always very nice to know that your feelings are shared on a matter, especially intense hatred and especially when it comes to stuff regarding one’s own messy, messy young adulthood, and especially regarding something that it seems like almost everybody else enjoys. I’m blessed to kn-know you in the first place at all, let alone… let alone, you know, be your friend. If there’s anyone I’d like to be trapped in a desolate, shadowy wasteland with, it’s you. Not to say… not to say I like seeing you trapped out here in this desolate wasteland. I had no idea—er, that is to say, I couldn’t have known things would play out like this, and while I very much don’t think I deserve any of this praise or whatnot, I wanted to thank you again for all of this. And what I really think I want to say to you, Miss Willow, is—”

  He was cut off when she pulled him close to her by the collar, giving him a once-over before then planting a kiss on his lips.

  Wilson P. Higgsbury was rendered totally silent for the next few moments, dizzy with a mix of total shock and love-struck stupor.

  “By the way, I was planning to give you this, but judging by the look on your face I think I know which part of today you’re gonna remember more.” Willow said, patting a bright green gemstone into his hands. “I found it in a statue, and it’s science-colored. You’re you, so I know you’re going to do something amazing with it. Good luck.”

  Just as she was about to go on her proud way, Willow noticed a tiny mewling outside the tent. A long, long trail of paw prints led to the tent, from far out into the woods.

  “Is that a kitten?!”

  Wilson slapped himself into cognizance. “I… um, yes, actually. I think it may have followed me. It might have come here for warmth, if it truly has nowhere else to go.”

  “Oh, Wilson, she’s so cute!” Willow remarked, picking up the tiny catcoon in her hands and lifting it gently. The kitten splayed its little legs like it was flying. “We need to get you some food! You’re far too skinny!”

  “Er, Willow, I never checked whether it was male or female…”

  “C’mon, help me give her a name! How about ‘Ashley’? Or ‘Cinders’! Maybe… ‘Bernadette’?”

  “She kind of looks like more of a ‘Baroness Bernadette Bernice Blackstone’,” he said, before hastily adding: “The first.”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “Bernadette it is,” she decided. “Bernadette, you’re the best gift I could have possibly gotten for Winter’s Feast… because you! Are! Just! That! Good! Yes, yes you are!”

  The kitten nuzzled into Willow’s arms as she hugged it softly to her chest. For the first time in forever, with a partner and even a little pet, now, she finally felt as if she had something resembling a family. She swore on that day that she’d do whatever it took to protect that sense of family.