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reginaldbelchhuggins-blog · 7 years

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The Short and Miserable Romance of Victor Criss

Chapter 2: First Kiss

Pairings: Henry x Victor, with some side Butch x Mrs Criss Rating: M Warnings for this chapter: Implied/referenced domestic abuse, period-typical attitudes, homophobic language, noncon elements, and some underage sexual exploration Warnings for later chapters: Violence, homophobia, racism, and sexism that are all period-typical; canon-standard content; underage sex, smoking, and drinking; noncon elements (but no actual noncon); canonical character death; major character death; strong language Chapters: [1], 2, [3], [4], [5], [6], [7] Ao3: [x] Summary:

Told from Victor's perspective, each chapter details either a first or last moment of Vic's growing relationship with Henry Bowers as they navigate homophobia, mental issues, and the growing influence of It. The first two chapters are pre-1988, the middle two will be where the sex is, and the final two are where the romance goes south

Chapter 7 could act as a stand-alone told from Henry’s perspective

Story prompt: The first and last Meeting/Kiss/Time of your OTP

A/N: This chapter, since the Bowers gang are 11-12 years old, draws more on the book for inspiration. Namely in regards to Victor and Belch's personalities, and the flavor text/referenced events. I also used some real life influence, such as my own personal experience with awkward 12-year-old flirting, and the actor playing Victor Criss in the new movie being a dancer (if you didn't know that before, you're welcome.)

Constructive Criticism is, as always, appreciated. Any type of comment is much loved. My editor is another author on this account, Ambiguous, but I am also using the Hemingway app. If you see any grammatical mistakes / continuity errors, please feel free to drop it in the comments so I can correct.

August 1985

The four boys stood side by side in their underwear, staring down the long drop from the edge of the quarry to the lake. Reginald “Belch” Huggins was the tallest, having reached six foot by his 12th birthday. He had skinny legs and broad shoulders, and made a huge splash as he hit the water despite having pretty good form.

Patrick Hockstetter was the second tallest and definitive widest. He was the personification of the word "butterball." He was a vaguely boy-shaped lump of splotchy colored flesh. He howled like a madman as he leaped second, tucking his feet up underneath him to form a cannonball. Belch was coming up for air when the waves caused by Patrick slapped him in the face.

Victor, although he was giggling, felt dread as his turn to jump came up. He was pale and skinny. The others argued over whether the platinum blonde of his hair made his skin whiter, or whether it was the other way around. Either way, he was nothing more than a sparkle of starlight in his white Hanes.

He took a deep breath and prepared himself—

And screamed as he fell forward, pushed, betrayed , by Henry. He was still screaming when his body broke the surface and the murky depths swallowed him whole.

Henry was the one all the girls talked about in a nice way. He wore hard work like it was a tee shirt. It left him with a golden tan, and the slightest definition on his chest that hinted at the body he would have in a few years. Belch lifted Vic onto his shoulders so they could watch Henry leap from the cliff. They cheered as he jumped backwards, getting in two solid flips before splashing down.

The quarry filled with their laughter as the boys played. It was the first time in a long year that they’d had any fun.

They swam until long after the sun had set, and the mosquitoes were coming out to feed. None of their parents were expecting them home. The Criss’ believed Vic was at the Huggins’. Mrs Huggins believed Belch and Henry was at the Criss’. Patrick’s parents might notice if he wasn’t here for breakfast. But they didn’t seem to care what he did since his baby brother Avery had died in the crib five years prior. Butch wasn’t allowed to know anything at all.

Vic still felt the chill that had run down his spine when he opened his bedroom window that night almost a week ago. Henry was standing outside with tears and snot streaming down his face, shaking. He’d had a whopper of a bruise on his neck that he still didn’t explain. Vic thought it looked an awful lot like Butch’s hands, and drew his own conclusions.

“He killed her,” Henry had said. As soon as he was inside Vic’s room, he’d pulled Vic into a tight embrace. That was the first hug of the year, but Vic couldn’t even enjoy it. Henry was trembling so bad. “Butch killed my mom!”

It wasn’t true. She’d survived, but her face was disfigured. Henrietta Bowers had taken her beating, and the one Henry was due for making trouble for Butch. Henry, of course, told Vic all about how it was his fault for making trouble with the Rabbi's boy -- a shy kid a few grades behind them. And while he cried and blamed himself, Henrietta was pulling herself into their sedan, running away to the WomansCare shelter, leaving Henry behind. But he didn’t know that as he held his best friend, his body racked with guilty sobs. He wouldn't know that for a few days, and by then, he'd tell Vic he didn't care. He only knew he'd last seen her in a bloody heap on the kitchen floor, and then he'd ran.

He was only twelve - life wasn’t supposed to be that difficult.

Henry would have stayed with Vic, but Butch had been making regular visits for many years. Vic still pretended sometimes it was just to talk because the truth made him uneasy in so many ways. Instead, Henry wound up staying with Belch. Mrs Huggins wouldn’t give up Henry if Butch set her on fire, so they knew he was safe there. Though Vic had to fight a lot of instincts not to go over there every day, knowing Henry was safe, for even a little while, made things better. Vic didn't even mind collecting, and completing, Henry's homework for him. Mr Caplan never commented on the sudden improvement of Henry's handwriting, either.

In fact, Mrs Huggins and Mr Caplan were some of the few adults who actually gave two shits about them. If Vic had lived to see his 16th birthday, Mrs Huggins would’ve taken him and Belch and fled to somewhere normal. His disappearance would have been credited to the pervert, so no one would look for him. His parents would be, in a small way, glad to see him go. It would have been a nice life, too. But things didn’t happen that way.

The safety of Belch’s house came with the price of freedom, and without freedom, Henry got bored. So grabbing his dad’s old tent from the garage, it had been Belch’s idea to go camping. He was tired of the piss attitude Henry got whenever he was bored, but was too nice to say anything. So far, it had been a good idea.

The boys put on their shoes for safety reasons, but were still too wet for their clothes, as they went about setting up camp. Patrick built a nice fire, and stared deep into it as he burnt every hotdog he touched to a blackened crisp. Belch was setting up the tent - his dad had showed him how once upon a time, before the accident. Henry and Vic sat around with the small radio, trying to find the right mood music. It was one of the last true purely happy memories with Henry Victor would have, and somehow, he knew it. So he was taking all of it that he could.

“Ooh, stop here!” Vic slapped Henry’s hand. That earned Vic a nasty glare, and a punch on the shoulder. “Dude, it’s Queen. You always have to stop on Queen. It’s an unspoken rule.”

“No I fucking don’t,” Henry spit back. “I listen to real rock music not that psuedo-hippie bullshit. And if you don’t get your fucking hand off my radio I’m going to shove it up your ass.”

“You’re going to shove my hand up my ass or the radio?” Vic asked, sarcastically. “I need to know how much to prepare.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and it’ll be both. First your hand, and then the radio. How you like that?”

With a huff, Vic sat back and crossed his arms. “Fine, you get to pick the tunes, and tell us when to stop swimming, and what comics we can bring. Anything else you want, master?”

“Maybe,” Henry said, eyeing Vic coolly. “My boots haven’t been licked in a long time. Got some real nasty shit crusted up on them.”

Vic couldn’t help but smile, and had to cover it by pretending to rub the chapped skin from his lips. He didn’t really care that Henry was being a little bossier than usual. If Henry had told him to wear his mom’s lingerie, Vic would’ve showed up in a saucy pink ensemble. But he was in a weird mood, and craved every morsel of attention he could get. Needling Henry was the quickest way to get a bite in, so Vic was being, as his Mama would say, incorrigible.

But it was time to take a break. Henry was growing frustrated, and Vic didn't want to ruin his first night out in forever. So instead, he said, “Sure thing. Let me just go chop my balls off first. Maybe then you’ll stop twisting them,” and stood up. He caught Henry looking as he walked away, and blew him a kiss. If anyone else had done such a thing, Henry would have rearranged their face. But Vic was special. He had special privileges to get away with more, as long as it wasn’t too gay.

As Vic sat down on a blanket by the fire, Patrick handed him a beef flavored stick of charcoal. He managed to find some pink colored meat in the layers underneath, and then ate it in three large bites. He watched Henry’s face scrunch up in concentration as a song warbled into existence.

When Belch finished up the tent, he came and sat beside them. Drawing deep from his chest, he proved his nickname was well-earned. He started burping along to the chorus of the song Henry had stopped on – Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper.

Vic and Patrick were howling with laughter, but Henry was not amused. He turned up the volume, trying to drown Belch out.

“Is that coming from your mouth?” Patrick was in awe. He hadn’t hung out with them that much yet so it was forgiven that he’d never heard Belch’s true talent. “Oh, that is freaky. Do it again.”

Belch got up and began to bob his head not unlike a chicken, burps breaking out every time his face came forward. He shuffled around with the grace one would expect from a boy of his stature. This broke Patrick up into tears.

"I fucking hate all of you," Henry said.

Vic was on his feet, too. He was so giddy from laughing that he took Belch’s hands and began to dance. Belch didn’t think anything of it, and was kind enough to burp in the opposite direction of Vic’s face. Henry turned the dial on the volume again until the speakers were vibrating. Vic and Belch both started singing along, louder than the radio. They sang along until the song ended, even as Henry threw pebbles and rocks at their feet.

As Billy Idol’s Dancing With Myself started playing, Belch and Vic let go of each other. Henry gave up and went after a hot dog. Patrick gave him a cigarette instead, and the two shared it as they watched Vic and Belch dance – but mostly, they watched Vic.

Not surprising, Vic was a much better dancer than Belch. The spry blonde wasn’t doing anything complicated. He'd picked up a few things from movies and music videos, and practiced until they looked okay in the mirror. Where Belch looked like a bag of potatoes being swung with great enthusiasm to the beat, Vic looked like he was actually dancing. In a few years, he could compete against Michael Jackson himself.

When that song was over, Vic plopped to the ground. That seemed to break some kind of spell. Henry looked around, nervous like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Patrick let out a deep breath, and his livery lips split into the biggest, curliest smile Vic had ever seen outside of a cartoon. Henry cleared his throat and handed Patrick the cigarette. He then stood up, rubbing at his crotch.

“I gotta piss,” he said, as if it needed explaining.

“Want someone to hold it?” Patrick asked.That was the first time he'd done one of his weirder jokes, and it took them all by surprise. Patrick locked eyes with Vic. Vic found himself unable to look away as Patrick held one of the hotdogs down near his crotch, and started rubbing it. Vic knew what he was simulating, but the blackened outside was cracking and peeling. Instead of imagining a regular dick being masturbated, Vic's mind conjured some filthy, disease ridden thing. He gagged, earning him another smile from Patrick.

Henry did a double take, scowling: “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I’m just saying, bosses need a right hand man,” Patrick said, putting a weird emphasis on right hand. He bit into the wiener he’d been flogging. “Someone to wipe your ass and hold your dick and all that jazz.”

A rose color blossomed on Henry's cheeks as he realized how he'd misunderstood Patrick. He blinked a few times, and then pointed at Patrick. “We don’t do that homo shit around here, alright?”

“It’s not homo,” Patrick called after him. Then, with a wink in Vic’s direction: “Not unless you want it to be.”

Vic shifted in his seat. He was Henry's right hand man, or so they said. The image of him on one knee, hand out for Henry to rest his dick on, crept into Vic’s brain. It was compelling in a strange way, and Vic shivered, not sure how to process how it made him feel. Maybe Henry had seen the same thing in his mind, because he looked everywhere but at Vic. He slapped Patrick on the back of his head before disappearing into the underbrush to relieve himself.

The three of them lit up the last cigarette. Vic took a long drag, let the smoke escape through the side of his mouth, and then passed it onto Belch. They got halfway through when Vic saw Henry out of the corner of his eye. He was standing behind a tree, and gesturing with his head for Vic to follow. Belch and Patrick didn't seem to notice, and had started discussing which actresses they wanted to bang. Vic flicked his eyes back Henry's way, and the bigger boy was gone. A small ball of excitement forming in his belly, Vic stood up. He brushed leaves and dirt off his ass, and started heading in the way he saw Henry go.

“Where you going?” Belch asked, coughing.

“Paris,” Vic shot the answer over his shoulder. Patrick’s titter followed him as he walked along the side of the lake. He tried not to make too much noise, listening for Henry. He wound up going a good ways down before he spotted his friend leaning against a tree.

Moonlight splashed against Henry’s young frame. His blue eyes were searching the sky, a small smile curling his lips. Vic was struck with how beautiful Henry could be. Even with fading bruises marking his body, he was ethereal. There were so many things going on in Vic’s head, he wasn’t sure exactly what his body wanted to feel. He was queasy, and happy. Nervous.

You don't even know what he wants, Vic's brain said, being reasonable. But Vic did know what Henry wanted. It was the same thing Henry always wanted when he shuffled Vic off into private. He wanted some kind of touch that wasn't painful; some kind of affection that wasn't laced with poison. He wanted Vic to hug him, to pet his hair, to reassure him that he wasn't a monster, or stupid, or whatever other terrible thing Butch had planted in his head.

But there was something different in the air. Henry was contemplating too hard about something. There was only one way to find out what that something was, so Vic snapped his fingers, then hit the side of his right hand flat with the palm of his left. It was a nervous tic he’d picked up from his Papa. He did it again as he strode towards Henry, looking around at the area of the Quarry they were in.

They were right at the curve of the lake, where the moon was the brightest. It gave the area a strange blue tint, like they were caught in the glow of a battery operated lantern.

Henry turned his head when he heard Vic approach, and watched him with a thoughtful expression. When Vic was close enough for a good conversation, he started picking up pebbles and tossing them into the lake. The tiny splash they made was good noise. Plip.

“How come I’ve never seen you dance before?” Henry asked, picking at his cuticles.

Vic shrugged. Plip. In went another pebble.

“You saw me dance at Veronica Grogan’s birthday party,” Vic said. He could clearly see the conga line of eight year olds with no coordination trying to do the Locomotion. It had been a spectacular mess, but loads of fun.

“That doesn’t count,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “I mean like you were dancing just now.”

Vic shrugged again. “Just haven’t felt like it, I guess.”

“I liked it. You should do it more,” Henry said. Vic turned to look at him, and Henry was staring off in the distance. He was rocking against the tree. Vic rolled it over in his mind before he said a quick, “Thanks.”

“I like… I like a lot of things you do,” Henry sounded like it was difficult to say what he was saying. Vic supposed for someone like Henry, it might have been. He wasn’t used to using his words to express the things inside of him. So Vic didn’t interrupt him. Instead, he stood up, hand full of glittering pebbles, and gave Henry his full attention. "I like that you're smart. I know I rag on you a lot for it, but that's just something I have to do. Can't have the guys thinking I'm soft on you." Henry paused. He took a deep breath. Vic was curious now. “I like the way you smile. It makes me think of cats and happy shit. Your face makes me think of cats...like the way their faces just… stick out...”

Vic waited a few moments, making sure Henry was done. Henry was blushing, his eyes refusing to look at Vic. Vic didn't know what to say to that. He took the sentence apart and examined every piece of it. He came to the conclusion Henry was trying to compliment him, and decided to return it.

Dropping the pebbles in to make a pattering of plips, Vic was forming his thoughts before speaking them.

“Well, thanks, Hank. Your face makes me think of..” Vic wanted to say Kevin Bacon , but he stopped himself. He could do better. He needed to do better. “You know when it’s cold outside but the sun is shining? Or when your mom hangs the towels over the heater so your ass doesn’t freeze in winter?” Henry nodded. “That’s what I think of when I look at your face. When everything else is just fucking cold, I can look at you and feel warm.”

"Why?" Henry asked, scrunching up his face.

"Because you're my best friend," Vic said, and at that moment, he truly believed it. The way Henry made him nervous sometimes - like they were dancing on the edge of the quarry's cliff, waiting for the other to take the plunge first - he had never felt for anyone else. But as Henry closed the distance between them and took Vic’s hands in his, Vic knew he never would. Just like Vic was special to Henry, Henry was special to Vic. Henry ran his thumb over Vic’s, and Vic massaged circles into Henry's palms. Although they didn’t hold hands as often as they did when they were little, Vic didn’t think this usage of physical affection was anything other than ordinary. At least, not until Henry brought one set of hands up to his lips, and gave Vic's a little kiss. This drew small laugh from Vic, who asked, “What’re you doing?”

“Thanking you,” Henry said. He decided to elaborate when he saw the frustration on Vic’s face. “For helping me with Butch, and… just shut up and let me do this, because it's never happening again.”

He kissed Vic’s hand again. Turning their hands over, he kissed Vic’s wrist, and then his forearm. It wasn’t unpleasant, but Vic was too confused to really appreciate the moment. Henry drew the line at kissing. They'd tried it once - a kiss on each cheek - and had decided it was too weird. He was even more confused when Henry stopped kissing his arm, and, instead, brushed his lips against Vic’s. It wasn’t a kiss, exactly. It was testing for one. When Vic didn’t resist, Henry put a little more force into it.

Vic lit up like a sparkler on the fourth of July. He felt dizzy, smelling the lake on Henry's skin, and their pheromones intermingling. As Henry kept kissing him, he thought he might pass out. Like the dames in the movies, just swooning over their cowboy. Vic brought a hand up to Henry's hair, and pulled him in closer.

He hadn’t noticed Henry had dropped his hand until he felt it, warm and soft, sliding into his underwear, cupping his penis. He couldn’t speak. He tried to, but he was scared when he realized what Henry was doing. What he was really doing. It felt good. Vic knew he needed to tell Henry to stop before they got caught, but he didn't want him to stop.

But if he did those things, what did that make him? Was he queer? Was Henry? A bullet of fear broke through Vic's heart as he thought about Butch finding out. He could see Henry - so big when he was with his friends, and so small in Butch's shadow. Butch would crush him, grind him into dust. The thought made Vic's heart twitch. The image of Henry's face, caved in, an eye jutting out, was so vivid that if Henry's mouth hadn't been there to catch it, he would've gasped.

“No,” Vic said, pulling away. Henry didn’t seem to hear him. He just stepped in closer, and went back to it. Vic squeezed the wrist of the hand fondling him as tight as he could, and pulled it away from him. Henry looked down at the wrist, and then took a step back, jerking it from Vic’s grasp.

“I thought you liked me,” Henry said, sounding hurt. His face twisted into something so full of hate, it was worthy of Butch. “I’m not a flamer. If you tell anyone, I’ll-”

“I do!” Vic said, before the fear could really settle in Henry, and Vic lost him. Lost everything. “I do like you, Henry. But can we just… do more of what you were doing before? I liked that.”

Henry licked his lips, and reached out to brush the hair behind Vic’s ear. He ran his thumb along Vic’s lip. Vic thought maybe another kiss was coming, but instead, he pulled Vic by the hand until he was falling in step behind Henry.

“You think you could maybe get those hotdogs away from Fucknuts before he burns all of them?” Henry asked, starting back towards their camp.

“Yeah, okay,” Vic said. “Henry...” He wanted to ask what’s next? But he had the feeling they were in dangerous territory. So he never finished his sentence.

“And where the fuck are the marshmallows? Didn’t I tell you to bring marshmallows, the big kind?” Henry turned to walk backwards while he talked. Vic was in awe that he didn’t trip even once.

“I’ll get them for you, Hank,” Vic said. That brought another smile to Henry’s face. He hopped in place a couple of times, and then broke out into a full sprint. He always tried to get a head start because Vic was faster, but the younger boy passed him easily, as always. By the time Henry actually made it back to the others, Vic was whipping Patrick with a burnt wiener as the two boys laughed, and Belch had a skewer of Marshmallows ready for smores.

Henry went back to Butch the next day, deciding to take his punishment like a man. Vic didn’t see him again until school started. He was unsure of how things were left between them, so he didn’t say anything, letting Henry make all the moves. Sporting a shiner and a cracked lip, Henry draped his arm around Vic’s neck while Patrick and Belch were in Home Ec, and dragged him into the bathroom.

“We can do that stuff you like,” Henry whispered. “But I want to try something.”

Vic sat on Henry’s lap, his boots planted against the wall so anyone who entered only saw Henry’s underneath the stall. They took turns filling their mouths with smoke, and, on Henry’s suggestion, each other’s tongues. It was nice. Henry came home with him after school. They made out until Mama called them down to dinner.

The next week, Henry started dating Veronica Grogan, but Vic knew it wasn’t the end of whatever madness had gripped them that night at the Quarry. Henry was a lot like Butch in that sense. Sure enough, he watched Butch come ‘round the house in the afternoon for his Mama, and Henry come ‘round in the evening for himself. And Vic was just fine with that. He didn't know if he was gay, or straight with an exception. He knew Veronica was just some thing to throw people off their scent, and that the more he and Henry sucked face, the closer they felt.

Sometime before Christmas, Vic looked at Henry from across his bed and realized he might just be in love. He didn't really know what love was - his parents certainly didn't know enough to tell him. But as he brushed the hair from Henry's face, he knew that if Butch ever caught them, he would take every last punch Butch had to throw if it meant Henry got away safe. They weren't just best friends, or brothers. He wasn't just some right-hand man, there to keep Henry's mission on point and to reel him back if he got in too deep. Henry had become his everything, and he was the only thing keeping Henry alive, sometimes.

And sometime before the new year, after Butch was reinstated on the force after a long and grueling suspension, Henry realized the same thing: that Vic would die for him. He only needed to ask.

#stephen king #it #it 2017 #the bowers gang #henry bowers #victor criss #patrick hockstetter #belch huggins #fanfic #writing #romance #eventual smut #it prompts #henvic #henry x victor #victor x henry #henry/victor #victor/henry #vicry

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reginaldbelchhuggins-blog · 7 years

Text

The Short and Miserable Romance of Victor Criss

Pairings: Henry x Victor, with some side Butch x Mrs Criss Rating: M Warnings for this chapter: Violence against children, implied/referenced domestic abuse, period-typical ableism and attitudes Warnings for later chapters: Violence, homophobia, racism, and sexism that are all period-typical; canon-standard content; underage sex, smoking, and drinking; noncon elements (but no actual noncon); canonical character death; major character death; strong language Chapters: 1, [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], [7] Ao3: [x] Summary:

Chapter 7 could act as a stand-alone told from Henry’s perspective

Story prompt: The first and last Meeting/Kiss/Time of your OTP

A/N: This is their first meeting. According to the book, they met in first grade, but I’ve got them around the age of 5 here:

July 1978

“Victor Andrew Criss, you get back here this instant!”

The tiny blonde was flying down the street. His little Harley Davidson boots never touched the ground. The woman chasing him – her husband’s leather belt tight in hand – hadn’t run since high school. That had been two and half Vic’s ago. Red-faced and panting, she was determined not to lose sight of him.

“Your daddy’s gonna whoop your ass red, boy!”

He ran straight down Jackson Street and hooked a left at Witcham. His boots slipped against the smooth cement, but he managed to stay upright. He kept track of his directions in his mind, knowing he’d have to go home some day. Maybe after a week, or a month, or even a few months. However long it took for his parents to realize that coming here was the worst decision they could have made .

Maybe he’d go back to Portland himself. Someone here must know how to get there and would be willing to give him a ride. He had two dollars in his pocket to pay for it.

But Papaw Criss had died, and now Vic’s dad decided they were going to be farmers. He didn’t care that Mama Criss had to leave her good job working in that office with the asshole boss (her words). He didn't care that they could no longer afford McDonald’s on the weekends. Papa didn’t care that their house was smaller, and smellier, or that there were rats in the basement. Papa didn’t care that it would take the entire family to work the land, and, frankly speaking, Vic didn’t want to. Papa Criss didn’t care about anyone but himself, and his sudden desire to recapture his youth.

Or at least that’s what his Mama told Angela Bartlett on the phone the night before the moving van arrived. Though Vic didn’t know what it meant, he agreed with it all the same. Because the way she said it, he knew it was something only an asshole would do.

“VICTOR ANDREW! STOP!” His mother’s voice sounded far away. He could hear the raw force in it, though. She was steamin’ mad, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t dare stop. As soon as he stopped, she’d be lifting him by one arm and whipping him with the other. So he lowered his head to fight the wind, and ran even faster.

Vic didn’t see the man until they were colliding. The child’s entire weight slammed into the back of the man’s knee, forcing it to buckle; but the man’s reflexes were fast. He caught himself on one knee. His hand swung out with deliberate force, curling into a fist only moments before it caught Vic above his right eye . Fire exploded across Vic’s face. The force of the punch knocked him off his feet. As the back of his head bounced off the sidewalk, the world went bright white for a few seconds, and then black.

Vic woke for a brief moment. Someone was carrying him, cradling him like he was a baby. It wasn’t his Mama, but someone with big, round arms, who smelled like cigarettes and barbeque. Vic tried to protest being carried , but his words came out slurred and messy. His Mama’s hand popped up from nowhere, petting his hair. She shushed him.

"Go back to sleep, baby. You’re alright.”

He might have tried to fight it, but his eyes were so heavy, and the world had gone fuzzy. He rested his face against the man’s chest, and drifted away again.

When consciousness returned in full, Vic was in bed, staring at the walls he'd wake up to every day for the rest of his life. Someone had removed his shoes, bandaged up his head, and tucked him in. He moved to undo all, but sitting up made the dull ache in his brain into a regular ache, and then it became a throbbing ache. His brain was thumping so loud against his skull, he almost didn’t hear the small voice asking him if it was alright.

“Huh?” Vic asked, turning so he could see who spoke.

Looking the same age as Vic, there was a boy sitting on a fold out chair beside the bed. He was taller than Victor by an inch, and had the sort of thin, hay-colored hair baby dolls had. He also had the face of a baby doll, with big blue eyes, and a small mouth. Boys weren’t supposed to be pretty, but Vic couldn’t think of another way to say it. The boy was pretty, and Vic couldn’t stop smiling when the boy looked at him. He liked it when the boy looked at him, but couldn't say why.

He was reading Vic’s comics and sipping from a Pepsi bottle with a straw in it. As he noticed Vic staring, he began to hold the Pepsi closer to his chest. Vic could see some second thoughts cross his mind. He held it out to Vic instead, turning the straw so it was easier for him to take a sip. It was the best tasting soda Vic had ever had.

“Butch got you good,” the boy said. His voice was lower than Vic’s, and already had a quality Vic would come to associate with drinking. “He said you might have a concussion.”

“Who’s Butch?” Vic asked, wincing as he remembered his headache. It seemed to make it stronger.

“My dad,” the boy answered, as if it wasn’t strange to call his dad anything other than some variation of father.

“Oh,” Vic said. The boy was straight forward and plain. It got Vic thinking that maybe he was wrong and that maybe in places other than Portland that was a normal thing. “What’s a concussion?”

“I don’t know but you’re probably going to the hospital,” the boy said. He seemed worried. He set the Pepsi down on the floor, and then held up some fingers, remembering something he saw on TV. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Vic counted them slowly, trying to not to aggravate the pain. “Three.”

“Okay, you’re good then. Just get some iced peas and a glass of wine. That’s what my mom does when Butch gets her good.”

Vic nodded. What the boy was saying didn’t make sense. How were peas supposed to help a headache? But he said it with such confidence that Vic couldn’t help but think he knew what he was talking about.

They sat in silence for only a few seconds, and then the boy’s mouth was running miles a minute. He showed Vic the comics he’d picked out to read. Even though they were Vic’s, he started talking to him about them like Vic wouldn't know anything. Vic hardly got a word in edgewise, and it was usually, “Oh yeah!” or “Cool.” But the boy had come alive, and his eyes sparkled as he pointed out some detail in the background of the page. Vic’d never seen anyone so passionate about something before. It had him charmed and mesmerized.

The boy was soon sitting on the bed beside him. The Pepsi shared between them, the boy went on about his comic book theories.

“He has to be in Batman’s brain because he always knows what Batman’s doing. Plus my dad has the same thing. He fought against the Vietcong and sometimes he thinks people are there when they aren’t.”

Vic didn’t know what a Vietcong was, but he’d heard Papa say that sometimes, so it was a thing that existed. It drew up some image of a giant monkey, though, so that's what he saw. He giggled at the thought of seeing one that didn’t really exist walking about. It made him remember the game he used to play. That was before Papa had backhanded him across the mouth and told him to grow up, of course.

"That game's for little babies and psychos," he'd said. Vic had started crying, even as he insisted he wasn't either one.

“Yeah, but you don’t see them because they’re ‘maginary,” Vic said. “Robin sees the Joker, too. So he’s real.”

“This is comic books,” the boy said, making a face like that answered everything. In a way, Vic supposed it did. They both started laughing at that.

“I’m Victor, by the way. Victor Criss.”

“Henry. Bowers,” the boy said, holding out his hand. Vic shook it, and when their skin touched, he felt something pass between them.

When Vic looked into Henry's eyes, he saw loneliness. He was like Vic: filled with passions and aspirations, looking for someone to share them with. But unlike Vic, he'd lost his boyhood innocence already. His arms were already sporting purple and blue marks from the lessons he'd learned so far. When Henry looked into him, he must’ve seen something too, because they both kept holding on.

Vic wondered if this is what it felt like to have a brother.

Lacing their fingers together in that way Vic sometimes saw in magazines, the two glanced at the door. They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong, but they’d also learned a long time ago their parents often thought different .

Henry’s voice dropped into a conspirator’s whisper: “Do you like firecrackers?”

Vic nodded.

The mischievous smile that took over Henry’s face made Vic feel very happy in a way he didn’t fully understand. So they were both grinning ear to ear as he crept closer to Vic, and revealed that he had a pocket full of them.

“Can I come over when you set them off?” Vic asked, his voice also very soft and very low.

“Fuck yeah. I got a bunch of crap toys I plan on blowing up after cartoons tomorrow.”

Vic smiled at Henry using a bad word, but the smile faltered when something occurred to him. “I don’t know where you live…”

“Oh, then I’ll come over here. Butch works until later and he can pick me up. I think he'd like to talk to your mom again. They've been talking in your dad's room for a really long time."

Vic blinked. Henry shrugged.

"I have some XMen comics in that box over there..."

Butch and Henry stayed for dinner. Mama had a dreamy look in her eyes as she served them sirloin and potatoes. Papa had bought that food for their anniversary. But whatever she and Butch had talked about put her in such a good mood, she must've forgot. Her cheeks were even a nice shade of pink, making her look like a little girl. The front door opened and Papa appeared. He had worked his last day at the supermarket, and the smile on his face match the one on his wife's.

"You boys go on and watch TV," Papa ordered, clapping Butch on the back. "Let us grown ups talk."

That was code for let us get drunk. The boys shot them curious glances, and then were out in the living room. They had no way of knowing Oscar "Butch" Bowers and Andy Criss Jr were once old school mates, but the laughter coming from the kitchen was loud and hearty, and they knew they wouldn't be interrupted anytime soon. Henry's hand crept over to grab Vic's, and Vic let him take it. They sat that way until Henry passed out. Vic undid their fingers and pretended to be asleep when Butch came to collect his son. He seemed less like a psycho when he cradled his sleeping boy then when he knocked Vic out. The potential was still there, though.

Mama and Papa saw them to the door. They didn’t move Vic back to his room. They turned off the television set and went about their evening unpacking. Vic couldn't make out the hushed argument they were having, but he could hear their tones and knew they were having one . It would be the first of many that ended with one of the other of them in the kitchen, and the other in the bedroom.

Pretending to be asleep became being asleep. Although he'd be waking up in that miserable house, Vic didn't mind it, anymore. He had a whole day of playing with Henry to look forward to. He would recall, years later, that they never did take him to the hospital. In fact, he could pinpoint that memory as the exact moment in time when his parents changed. It was subtle, at first, but they did change as all parents in Derry changed. They became less of a presence in his life, less invested. Almost like they had been preparing for his death from the moment it was decided they belonged there.

That day, Vic didn't know anything about it. So he slept peacefully, and dreamed of the day ahead.

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