The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

fifteen

fifteen - some hope could save us all

Dear mom,

Are you going to write back?

Richie inhales deeply and stares down at the paper, his fingers tapping along the pencil. It only takes a split second to make a decision and he's putting the eraser to the page and rubbing his words away. He pushes up his glasses and leans back in the rickety chair the motel had provided to go along with the desk.

He hears Ben cough from behind him, sharp and forceful. They've turned the heat down a generous amount and the air that pushes into the room is as cold as Derry's winters, but that still doesn't seem like enough for Ben. They don't know his temperature, can't get medicine, can't go to a doctor. They're on their own.

"Not going to go help the man, Dr. K?"

Eddie's eyes dart to Richie, then down to the eraser marked page. "No," he says, his voice clear even through his shirt. He refuses reusing the mask Richie wore, so he's pulled the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose. "I don't know how to help. I only have my own meds."

"Fair enough," Richie shrugs.

Mike sits straight from the chair next to the bed. He has a wet towel draped over his arm, using it to gently pat at Ben's horribly warm face. "Are you still taking your meds? Even after that summer?" He asks, glancing over at Eddie.

That summer, Richie repeats in his head. Their first summer all together. The summer with the cool waters of the quarry, sticky fingers from ice cream, watching the Fourth of July fireworks from Richie's backyard, Beverly's long hair pulled over her shoulder, Eddie coming to terms with his placebo medication. The best summer.

Eddie's eyes study Mike, careful and slow, as if he's debating with himself if he wants to respond. He then shifts his weight to the other foot and opens his mouth. "No," he says, then pauses. His eyes drop down to the ground and his eyebrows pinch together. "I keep them with me for.. personal sake I guess. They're something my mom had."

Richie slides his eyes to Mike, carefully watching his reaction. He looks away, ashamed and embarrassed, and mutters out a soft "Oh, sorry." He then grabs the wet cloth and lays it over Ben's forehead, pressing it down gently.

"Is he doing any better?" Richie asks to redirect the topic.

"No," Mike sighs out. "He's still very hot. Maybe a glass of water could help?"

Eddie moves off the wall before either boy could react. Richie says, "At least he's hasn't thrown up. That was disgusting to listen to," and watches as Eddie grabs a styrofoam cup and goes into the bathroom to fill it up.

While Mike lists out all he's afraid of with Ben's sickness, Eddie emerges from the bathroom with a filled cup and walks himself over to the two. It's the closest he's gotten to Ben ever since he first mentioned of getting sick. Mike grabs the water from him and thanks Eddie with a quick smile. Richie watches the interaction with careful eyes, studying either boy. He's not sure what this could mean, if it means anything at all.

Eddie joins Richie on the other side of the room, returning the collar of his shirt to over his face. Richie sets his head in the palm of his hand and stares down at the paper, the words Dear mom scribbled one the top staring right back.