𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄 〣 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇

iv.

a/n: this is where the tea starts spilling!

Bill biked through the back streets of Derry on his way to the Hanlon farm. It was Friday, the night of the bonfire, and the air was crisp and warm, whipping his hair back as he biked. His backpack, full of snacks and poker chips, bumped against his body every time his tires hit a divot in the unpaved road.

While he tried to preoccupy his thoughts with the night of fun he was about to embark on with his friends, one painful memory kept resurfacing in the back of his mind. He wanted more than anything to believe it to be untrue, but there was no denying it:

Stanley Uris had come to school that day with his hands wrapped in bandages, all the way up to his wrists. He had tried to pull his sweater sleeves down enough to conceal them, but to no avail.

Bill—as well as the rest of the Losers—had pestered Stanley to no end about what happened. Unbeknownst to them, Stan lied his ass off and stated simply that Henry Bowers had pushed him down on the way to school, and his palms had been scraped against the pavement. 

This seemed to satisfy everyone for the time being, but the more Bill thought about it, the more he thought he remembered seeing the mullet-wearing asshole smoking behind the school before first period. And if Henry had pushed Stan around that morning, there's no way he'd just leave him alone after a little shove.

But Bill trusted Stan, he didn't even want to think about accusing his best friend of lying.

He pulled his bike into the driveway next to Stan's beaten-up truck. The rest of the Losers' bikes were piled in the front yard. Bill takes his backpack and walks around the side of the house, out into the open field.

By the property's decently-sized lake, an orange-yellow flame blazed in the fire pit. The Losers stand around it, Bev, Ben and Mike conversing quietly while sipping drinks from red plastic cups, Eddie ripping something—probably a joint—from Richie's hand and chucking it in the fire, and Stan sitting in the grass, watching but not participating in their rambles.

When the taller boy noticed Bill trucking through the field, he raises one bandage-wrapped hand in a silent wave. Bill forces back the frown that wants to appear at the site of Stan's hands and smiles instead, overjoyed to see his best friend.

He quickened his pace until he was standing right in front of Stan, and the fire was warming the right side of his body. The others said hello, but Bill barely heard them. He barely heard himself say hello back.

Stan's left eye was slightly swollen, and even in the low light of the fire, Bill could clearly see it had turned a deep shade of purple.

"Just Bowers again. Caught me on the way home," Stan mumbled with a fake smile, praying Bill wouldn't pursue the subject.

"A-Are you okay?" Bill asked worriedly, plopping down beside his friend and wrapping his arms around him in a comforting squeeze.

"Course I am," Stan assured, though he wanted nothing more than for Bill to hold him whilst he broke down and told him everything. But Stanley was stronger than that. "It's just a bruise. It'll fade in a week or two."

Bill nods, again deciding to trust Stan, and dumps the contents of his backpack on the ground. He digs through the pile of snacks until he finds the deck of cards and the poker chips, "Wh-Who wants to p-play c-c-cards?"

"Only if we're playing strip poker, right Eds?" Richie smirks, elbowing Eddie's ribs playfully.

"Beep-beep, asshole," Eddie spits, shoving Richie back.

"Come on, it'll be fun!" Richie pleads, plopping onto the ground and pulling Eddie into his lap, much to the smaller boy's dismay.

"Rich, you're literally the only person here who thinks strip poker is fun," Mike chides. He and the rest of the Losers gather around the four already sitting next to the fire. Bill shuffles the cards and deals them out while Ben passes everyone an even amount of poker chips to start the first hand.