mixtape (reddie)

Chapter 27

Richie stands in the hallway, carefully moving about the wooden floorboards so that he does not wake anybody.

Early morning light falls through the blurry curtains, dust pirouetting through the stiff air on the 5 am winter Saturday. Richie's t-shirt feels too thin in the cold house, and the blue light coming in from the sky only makes things colder.

He stares at the photos, each picture frame hanging up with a sense of purpose. Photos of Bill riding a bike, Bill holding fishing rods, and Bill in Cub Scout uniforms. There's photos of a younger boy with four gaps in his teeth, a younger boy caught mid-laugh, and a younger boy hugging Bill with all the might in the world. Those ones hurt the most. The photos of Bill and the kid, only because Bill has a certain light in his eyes that Richie has never seen before.

The floorboards creak eerily beside him, and when he glances over, he sees Bill himself emerging from the kitchen slowly. His usually neat hair is dissaray, his bleary eyes focused wistfully on the wall of memories.

"C-Couldn't s-s-sleep?" Bill ponders.

"Sorry," Richie shrugs, "Got a bit bored waiting for everyone to wake up. You?"

"W-Wanted a glass of wuh-water," Bill lifts the cup up, the light catching the lip marks on the brim of the glass. "Ben and M-Mmm-Mike are cuh-cuddling."

Richie smiles a little, one that doesn't quite reach the rest of his face. He watches as Bill's eyes drift back to the picture frames, a lifetime of memories with his brother that he will never get to make flashing on the male's features.

"He used to cut photos from dad's newspapers and stick them on this wall so that we could remember other people's lives as well as our own," Bill speaks with a clarity in his voice. No stutters, no hesitations, no falters. "Nobody had the heart to tell him he was cutting out obituaries."

Richie looks back at a particularly painful photograph, an image of Georgie riding on top of Bill's shoulders, the kid reaching his arms up to the sky.

"Hm," Richie grunts, not quite sure of which words to say. Richie is a single child, so he's not sure what it would mean to lose a brother, but he's sure it feels a lot like the hot rock that tightly winds in his throat when he imagines Beverly's father taking things too far one night. He says, with comfort, "I'm sorry, Bill."

Bill shrugs, letting out a weak but desperate laugh. His stutter returns quickly, attacking his words in full force. "Wuh-What c-c-can you d-do, right?"

"Are you going to head back to bed?" Richie asks quickly, not wanting to be alone in the silence of the Denbrough house.

"P-Planned on it," Bill nods, then says "D-Do you wuh-want me t-to stay up-p?"

Richie looks away in embarrassment, shrugging a little but silently begging Bill to choose him. Bill nods, turns on his heel, and heads back to the kitchen. Richie follows him aimlessly, watching as the boy opens the fridge.

"Do you want b-breakfast?" Bill asks, "We've g-g-got, uhh, cereal."

"Hmm," Richie leans over his shoulder, examining the food that he's working with. "You like omelettes? I can cook."

"T-Trashmouth knows how to c-c-cook?" Bill almost laughs. "I mean, s-sure. G-Go for it."

Bill gets everything that Richie says he needs, showing the tall boy where the pots and pans are for any future breakfast endeavors. It makes Richie feel just a little bit more welcomed, a little bit more home. Bill is welcoming him in and showing him around for the future, which ignites hope that there will be future sleepovers for the two to spend together.