Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They stand in a semi-circle silently, all of them looking down at the shining plaque in Mike’s hands. They’re stood in Bassey Park. In front of them lies the gargantuan pedestal that the giant Paul Bunyan had a week ago stood upon, before the mysterious and sudden collapsing of a major underground cistern had caused a surge in the Kenduskeag that had resulted in the entirety of downtown being flooded out. Where Bunyan had once smiled uncannily off into the far distance was now a pile of splintered wood and plastic.

“I like it,” Bev says quietly. Her head is resting against Ben’s bicep as she looks down at the plaque. “It’s fitting, you know?”

“It’s perfect,” Bill agrees. There’s a tightness to his jaw as he reads over the inscribed words, and they all know he’s thinking about Georgie.

“How’s it going, Losers?” calls a voice from behind them. They all look over their shoulders to see Richie and Eddie approaching, hands entwined between them. Bev smiles to herself, and tries to catch Bill’s eye, but he stubbornly doesn’t glance in her direction. “Oh, shit, I’m glad that fucking thing’s gone. Fucking Paul, man. Gave me nightmares for years, swear to God.”

“Come take a look at this,” Mike says to them, showing them the small slab of shimmering metal. They read over it, smiling gently, and Mike doesn’t miss the slight shine to Richie’s eye as he sees Stan’s name.

“That’s really good, you guys,” nods Eddie. “Who’s got the screwdriver?”

“Right here.” Mike fishes around in his pocket until he produces a small manual tool. Ben takes it wordlessly, then kneels down before the wooden pedestal and takes the plaque, too. He holds it up to the surface, thinking.

“No, no, no, it needs to be huh-higher up,” Bill insists. “What if there’s an-nother flood?”

“This one only happened because we killed It,” points out Bev.

“Yeah, Bill,” shrugs Richie. “The cistern collapsed so all the water got pushed out into the river, right?”

“Even if there is another flood anytime soon,” Mike adds, “it shouldn’t be nearly as bad. It was a freak accident that it got to this level, anyway. It never did over the last few decades, even when it really pissed it down.”

“So the height’s okay?” Ben asks patiently, holding the plaque carefully in place.

“Yeah, the height’s all good,” says Eddie, “but it’s not at all straight. I don’t– Richie, do not even start.”

“I wasn’t going to!”

“I heard you breathe in, do you think I’m stupid?”

“That’s just me breathing, man. Do you want me to stop breathing? ‘Cause that’s kinda fucked up if you do.”

“Beep, beep.” He rolls his eyes. “Ben, my point is, it’s not -” He levels a glare in Richie’s direction, “- level. It’s all wonky.”

“He’s literally an architect, Eddie,” Bev grins bemusedly. “Honey, isn’t your whole job to keep things level?”

“Uh, I think I spend more time on structural stability, but sure. I guess it falls under the umbrella.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” Eddie asks incredulously, hand chopping through the air. “What exactly are you proving here, Bev?”

“Uhh, that my boyfriend’s better than yours, obviously.”

Richie coughs out a startled laugh. Ben’s ears brighten as he turns back towards what he’s doing.

“How does that even relate?!” Eddie shrieks, undeterred. “You’re just saying things that don’t–”

“Huh-Hey, guys, could you maybe not?” Bill asks sweetly. He’s glancing between them with an amused smirk on his face.

“Yeah, come on, you guys,” Richie butts in, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “It’s obvious that ol’ Haystack’s the better man here.” He grins. “And anyway, why not agree to disagree, hm?”

Eddie and Bev both gape comically at him, equally offended that he would even consider such a thing. But they don’t say anything more.

“Is this better?” asks Ben, craning his neck back to try and get a better view of his positioning.

“Oh, yeah, loads,” Eddie tells him vehemently, nodding.

“Everyone else agree?”

There’s a round of affirming hums.

Mike passes Ben down four little screws, and they dig into the wood as Ben rotates them in tight. Soon enough they’re snug against the metal of the plaque, and Ben hands back the screwdriver as he stands and steps back into Bev’s vicinity. Their hands link between them, Bev’s head leaning on his shoulder and his head on hers. Eddie winds his arm around Richie’s waist and Richie tugs him closer with an arm around his shoulder, hip checking him playfully. Bill pats Mike’s shoulder with a heavy, familiar palm, then leaves it there companionably. They stand in their semi-circle of six, looking at the words engraved into the shining metal, and they let the silence wash over them. It’s not awkward, or weird; it’s almost like a blanket has settled over their little slice of Earth, muffling them and keeping them hidden from the outside world.

They’d all chipped in to design and buy the plaque, as well as a non-unsubstantial extra sum to ensure they’d be able to put it up themselves. It had taken far too long to decide what they wanted to say - Bill electing for a large reminiscent piece, Ben shyly offering something poetic. But eventually, like always, their ideas had converged into a short, simple, sweet message that they were all pleased with.

The flood had been disastrous. Enough to topple the omnipresent Paul Bunyan, none of them had been surprised to hear of the substantial loss of life due to the rushing water. They’d all shed their fair share of tears over the endless names in the obituary columns, and it had been their want to express their anguish that had brought up the idea of the plaque to begin with. They couldn’t help but feel that it was almost like Pennywise’s last laugh. Ha ha, Losers, you killed me, but I’ll always be one step ahead.

It was natural, though, that they had to mention the other things. The years of bloodshed, and murder, and life shorn short. Too many of their childhood pals. Their brothers - quite literally. Their sisters. They couldn’t just let it all go unmentioned.

Tears fill Mike’s eyes. They are not entirely born of upset or unhappiness - they are relieved and free as they build up and run unbidden down his cheeks. He lets them fall with a gentle smile.

The perfect silence of the afternoon is broken by a whooping song that rises and falls over the breeze, like a conductor’s hands as he directs his orchestra. It gets louder, then a small red bird lights gently on top of the pedestal in front of the Losers. Its blushing break is surrounded by a ring of raven’s black, and its plumage gives it eyebrows that make it look like it’s frowning at a bad joke. It regards the group with a graceful nonchalance, and they watch it right back, nobody daring to move. The bird - a cardinal, Mike realizes - opens its beak and makes that gentle whooping sound again.

(“did you know the cardinal prefers to eat, drink, and bathe around dusk?” stan asks him as they sit on the park bench, a heavy pair of binoculars between them. “it’s actually very rare to see them this north of massachusetts…”)

They’d not been lucky that day. Figures it’s now that one finally turns up.

The bird’s glassy black eyes seem to fix on Mike’s own for a moment, its head tilting to the side inquisitively. Then it lets out one more whoop! and leaps off the pedestal. It flaps its wings and soars with all the grace in the world over their heads. They turn to watch it as it flits through the empty air, singing all the while, until the red of its feathers is indistinguishable from its surroundings.

A sigh falls from around the semi-circle.

The oxygen seems to concentrate around them, allowing the six of them to truly breathe for the first time in twenty-seven years.

As he stands under the blanket with his friends, Mike Hanlon smiles.