now and then

IV. The Tape

now

It isn't fair to Eddie that he can't look at him.

Lots of things aren't fair. Poverty, hunger, the American judicial system. Death, taxes, and the killer clown from hell that eats kids. Richie supposes in the grand scheme o' life, it's not right to lose sleep over this particular thing, although the feeling of that little twerp's eyes following him everywhere sure as shit doesn't help much.

The old house on Neibolt street somehow looks more rotted than before, almost as if the rot has spread outward. The dead grass in the yard looks nearly black and the old iron gate is rusted and broken all-to-hell. The Losers approach it in some sort of quiet reverence, or hatred. Beverly places her hand on the gate.

Bill Denbrough already stands in its shadow, kicking at the front door, chest heaving and eyes a little too bugged out. It's as crazed as Richie's ever seen him, even compared to the first time they stood here. He straight up doesn't look well.

"Bill, you straight up don't look well," Richie tells him as he climbs the stairs to help him pry off the wooden boards—after Bill's made his big hero speech and Richie has unintelligently volunteered to help him.

"Yeah, you l-l-look like shit too, Richie."

Richie harrumphs, and pries off another plank.

"W-w-w-what's your excuse?" Bill prods.

"I think I just remembered that I'm pissed at you," Richie grumbles, and they break down the door.

then

The acoustics of New Order fill Bill Denbrough's bedroom from wall to wall on a Friday afternoon. Richie and Bill lay on the floor—Bill with his legs kicked up on his bed, Richie with his legs on Bill's TV stand. A half-eaten jar of cheese puffs sits between them. A few crushed beer cans—three, or four, or maybe five or six—decorate the floor.

"Has S-Stan s-s-said anything to you r-recently?" Bill asks in a whiny, tired sort of tone.

"Yuh-huh. Yesterday, he said, 'Hey, Richie', and the day before that he said, 'Jump in a lake, Richie'."

"I-I mean, a-a-about m-m-me."

"Billy boy, you're stuttering more than usual, you comin' down with something?"

Bill throws a cheese puff at him. "Richie, c-c'mon, h-h-help me out, here."

"No, William, Stanley has not said anything to me about you in recent memory. That do it for ya?"

Bill stands up; starts kicking a beer can towards the trash bin inch-by-inch like it's a soccer ball—but in a real sad, unenthused way.

"He's just..." he starts. "He's been acting r-r-really weird, l-lately."

"Yeah? Weird how?" Richie agreed that sometimes Stan acted like he was from a different planet, but that that was pretty par-for-the-course as far as Stan was concerned.

"Well, weird l-like..." Bill twists his lips. "Like at the p-p-prom last S-Saturday. He, uh...we had a f-fight."

"M-hmm. Everyone saw. And heard."

"It was just, uh...really w-w-weird." Bill kicks the can into the trash, then drops his butt back onto his bed in an unceremonious plop.

Richie sits up on the floor. "Okay, Billiam, you gotta give me more than that."