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"This won't work without all of us," Mike says. He already knows that he's won Bill over, which is more than halfway to winning them all over, and the relief makes him breathless. They're going to have a chance, because Bill knows they’ve got no choice but to fight It, and Mike feels a surge of exhilaration as he looks into Bill’s eyes.
They're as captivating as they were back when they were kids. They’re also glassy in a way that makes Mike know he should feel guilty, even though he did what he had to do.
But with you, they'll listen. Of course they will. Of course you came, of course you followed me. I remember you. I remember it all. Do you?
Bill is still half-sprawled on the floor, and now he makes an attempt to sit up. When Mike reaches out to help, Bill presses his back harder against the pile of books he's leaning against, shooting Mike a resentful glare.
Mike pulls away, staying still as Bill struggles to a sloppy kneeling position. Bill's face to face with Mike now, and Mike is almost holding his breath. He does nothing, just sits calmly like he would with an injured animal that could lash out any second. Bill surges forward and grabs Mike's shirt again, fisting his hand in the fabric. He's breathing so heavily that his chest heaves, and one of his knees is still pressed against one of Mike’s.
Bill has refused to look away from Mike for a moment, and Mike has the strange feeling that he’s looking for something in his face.
Bill’s fist loosens, and then his fingers are trailing down Mike’s chest and his stomach, down to Mike’s knee. His hand lingers there, and Bill says, “What if it gets us? It’s g-gonna get us.”
“No, Bill,” Mike says, shaking his head, and his eyes feel so dry they’re watering, sparking with tears of frustration, of disappointment. You were just wondering how we'd convince the others. You know we have to fight. You have to believe, this won’t work if you don’t believe. Mike doesn’t say it like that, because he thinks it sounds too much like there’s a reason to not believe. “We’re gonna get It. Finally. You know what we have to do, man, I just need you to help me get the others on our team. I know you can do it.”
Mike’s voice is halfway to hysterical, as unshakably convinced of his own truth as a preacher on the street corner monologuing about repentance, but he can’t sound anything but absolutely sure. He can’t be anything but sure.
Bill lets out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sob and a laugh, and for some reason it goes straight to Mike’s gut.
A tear runs down Bill’s face, mingling with cold sweat, and Mike’s elation is finally cut with a pang of guilt, because, intellectually, he knows he shouldn’t have drugged Bill. It was just the only thing he could think to do, the only way to show Bill the truth, because he had to convince at least one of his friends that they don’t have a choice besides killing It, and Mike never really considered anyone but Bill, because he’s their leader, he’s the one they’ve always been drawn to.
Yeah. Because of that.
Bill is looking at him, won’t look away, and the memories of who they were together rush through Mike like an electric current.
At the tail-end of the summer of '89, after It was (not) defeated, Mike asked Bill if he wanted to work on the farm with him, on a whim. He doesn’t know if he expected Bill to take the offer, but Bill jumped at it, and Mike was relieved. It was refreshing to work with Bill on the farm, this other living soul who came close to understanding Mike’s damage, because there was damage long before Mike faced It for the first time.
Bill was always brushing against him until eventually they were leaning against each other while they ate in the stables, surrounded by doomed livestock.
Some nights, Bill stayed long after the work was done, and he and Mike would tuck themselves under a blanket outside and look up at the stars, and they’d sit together for a bit until the other Losers showed up. They’d sneak out of their houses to hang out with him and Bill and talk under the moonlight, and Mike always welcomed their night-time visits.
As much as he liked spending time just him and Bill, having his other friends around reminded him that they knew he existed, that they hadn’t forgotten him. He could always talk to them, and they wanted to talk to him.
(Mike still got a book on stars from the library and practically memorized the whole thing to pretend he’d already known all the names of the constellations, because he thought it might impress Bill.)
He and Bill always shared a blanket whether the others were there or not, and some nights it really was just them, and Mike could never quite bring himself to be disappointed when things shook out that way.
One of those nights, when they were almost sixteen, as they huddled together in the cold moonlight and traced out pictures in the stars and tried to keep their minds off of Richie’s recent move, Mike asked, shyly, why Bill had been willing to work at the farm when it was such hard work. And Bill told him, Th-there’s just…s-sssomething about you. I love all the Losers. I just like…being with you in a d-different way. I always h-have. Always did.
Bill’s face flushed red when he said that, and so did Mike’s.
Mike gave Bill an awkward smile, mortified, and tried not to notice how Bill’s face fell in disappointment. It felt like Bill was trying to confess something, and Mike couldn’t bring himself to do anything but push that to the back of his mind, because he couldn’t confess anything back. He couldn’t explain his own feelings. He couldn’t even explain why he asked that question, why he’d wanted to ask it for so long. Why he asked specifically at a moment when they were warm together, leaning against each other, whispering and smiling.
Everything was just too complicated, and Mike was afraid that if he said anything, the wrong words would come out, or they wouldn’t come out at all.
He wondered if that was what it was like for Bill when his stutter left the words stuck in his throat, as he turned his eyes to the sky and tried not to think about the hurt on Bill’s face.
It was while Mike was looking at the moon, which was just shy of full, that he was finally able to think clearly. He was being selfish when he asked that question, because for some reason he’d wanted Bill to give him the answer he gave him, even though he knew he couldn’t say anything back. Or he couldn’t say anything back that they didn’t already know.
You don’t talk to boys like that. We can't push it. Not here.
They forgot that night. They just pretended that nothing had ever happened that night, and went back to being exactly how they were. It was easy to be quiet together, and Mike didn’t think much of it, or actively tried not to think much of it until years later, when they were seventeen and Bill was leaving Derry with his parents. It was then that he wished he’d done something else that night. That he’d been braver, because it wasn’t like Bill would remember what had happened if Mike hadn’t turned his face away.
Even with that thought in his head, he didn’t get any braver with age, and all the evidence was in what happened the last time he and Bill saw each other before the Denbroughs drove away. When they met behind Bill’s old house, and, tucked away in the midday shadows, said goodbye.
That was when Bill reached up with a steady hand and rested his fingers on Mike’s lips. The look in his eyes was almost hypnotized, and Mike breathed against his skin and thought, I should. He thought, Please do it. But he couldn’t even admit what he should do or what he was internally begging Bill to do, so instead he and Bill just stood there together, and Bill’s fingers left Mike’s lips and trailed down his chin and then up to cup his cheek.
He looked at Mike like he was trying to understand something, and promised, with desperate uncertainty, that he’d write and call.
He promised he’d call as soon as he got to Camden, and both of them knew he wouldn’t. They were smart enough to figure out the forgetting, after Bev and Eddie and Richie didn’t write or call. Their friends never would’ve left them behind if they hadn’t just...forgotten. Mike knew that after all those talks in the clubhouse and under the stars, all those tears and hugs and hours spent just being together, they would never just slip their friends’ minds.
Mike didn’t ask if Bill was sure he’d forget, didn’t ask if maybe he wanted to forget, because Mike would understand if Bill did but he didn’t know if he’d forgive him.
They said absolutely nothing, but Mike could feel the longing, the affection, the grace in the silence, and he didn’t want to break it.
Bill wiped a tear from Mike’s cheek. Mike hadn’t even noticed he was crying.
He pulled Bill in and hugged him so tight it must’ve been hard to breathe, smelling his shampoo and deodorant and trying to memorize the way Bill fit into the crook of his neck, but Bill hugged back just as hard, and scrubbed at his own eyes with his heels when he pulled back.
When Bill left, Mike waved as his parents drove him away just like he waved when every one of his friends drove away, from the first to the last, and did his best to wipe away his tears without anyone’s help. When he got back home, his grandpa was in the kitchen, and he gave Mike a considering look that made him freeze. Our farmhand left, Mike said in a voice that made him wince, because it was wobbly, and his grandfather nodded. The look in his eyes was wary, but more sympathetic than Mike expected from him.
Maybe it’s for the best, he offered, and the shame and crushing loss that ran through Mike nearly left him on the floor, but he always deferred to his grandfather, and this time wasn’t different, because he wasn’t wrong. Mike knew the facts. He couldn’t talk to boys like that, couldn’t look at boys like that, couldn’t touch boys like that, not being where he was, not being who he was.
But he still waited for Bill for decades, just like he waited for his other friends, and now that he’s alone with Bill he realizes that maybe he’s been trying to forget something about him.
Mike hasn’t been wanting Bill all this time, but now that they’re here together, so close, it all comes rushing back. Those moments, those brief conversations, that silence between them.
Mike swallows and blinks back tears. He wonders if Bill remembers yet, but he’s too scattered to see anything but confusion and betrayal and grudging understanding in Bill’s eyes. Besides, that was a long time ago. Mike has to admit it.
His friends have changed. He spent so much time digging into their lives, but the versions of them he built up in his head are just a little different, and he’s way too happy to have them back, to meet them for real, when they’re suffering.
He’s just been alone, is the thing. He’s been so alone, and now Bill is here and he’s going to be able to convince the others to not leave Mike, or to kill It, rather. He’s not going to leave Mike. This time, there’s no driving away. Bill drove towards Mike’s home, he followed Mike upstairs, he took the water, and whatever else happened, Mike feels more victory than anything, that and waves of affection and relief.
If this kills Mike, and it might, at least he’ll be with his friends. Most of them. It’s selfish and he knows it, but he’s been alone for so long. He’s been doing all the work for so goddamn long. No way he’s going to let them go. This time he can’t let them leave without him.
He chose Bill because he knew Bill would come with him. Because when Mike asked if Bill wanted to work with him, he said yes. Because Mike was searching for something in Bill’s face too, the day that he left, and what he saw was a promise that this wasn’t the end.
Because everything between them is unfinished, and he just wants to be complete.
Bill licks his lips, and Mike feels his stomach lurch when he sees that there’s blood on Bill’s mouth and chin. He bit through his cheek or his lip at some point, and that’s when Mike’s guilt turns heavy. I didn’t mean to make you bleed, he wants to say. I wasn’t looking to hurt you.
He doesn’t say anything, because he’s afraid of Bill’s response, of what the resentment in his eyes might translate to, because he knows, he knows. He drugged him, but he didn’t do that to hurt him.
“You understand, right?” Mike asks. “Why I did what I did?”
It’s not a nice thing to ask. He shouldn’t beg Bill to say that he forgives him, but Mike needs to know. He needs to know that he understands, that he remembers.
Bill’s expression softens, and his eyes fix on Mike’s face in a way that hits him right in the chest and takes his breath away, because Bill is looking at him more closely than anyone has in years, looking at him with more understanding than anyone has in years. Mike nearly lets out a sob when Bill nods and says, “I do.”
Instead, he smiles helplessly, and reaches out. This time Bill doesn’t pull away.
Blood is still slowly trickling from Bill’s mouth, thin and wet with saliva, and Mike’s fingers stutter against the air until he finally lets himself touch Bill’s lips, working to wipe the blood away.
Years ago, Bill wiped away tears Mike hadn’t even known he was crying. Now, Bill’s eyes spark with confusion. “I’m b-bleeding,” he says against Mike’s fingertips, and Mike swallows hard.
“It’ll be okay,” he promises, because he’s still convincing them both that he can promise anything at all.
Mike lets his fingers trail away from Bill’s lips to cup his cheek instead, and Bill’s shaking breaths begin to even out. After a few seconds, Bill whispers, “We sh-should go. Soon.”
Mike nods, a couple of quick jerks of his head. “You’re right,” he murmurs, because they’re wasting time here, getting caught up in the moment and the past both.
He still doesn’t move, and neither does Bill, both of them reluctant to end the first peaceful moment either of them have had in...years, probably.
So they sit together for just a little while longer, and Mike can’t bring himself to call it a waste of time.