Chapter Text
Henry had been picking on Christopher Lawson since the 10th grade. Christopher knew why, of course: Christopher was queer. But they had been best friends from kindergarten through 8th, when Chris kissed him one summer night while his dad was gone.
They were watching old movies of his mom’s that had been stuffed in the closet to be forgotten about. The summer heat had left when night fell, but the house retained heat like no other. Helpful in the frigid Maine winters, but not so much in its humid summers. Hence the fans on high and the windows and doors open in an attempt to keep the two of them from heat stroke.
The Birds, which actually wasn’t half bad, was nearly over. They lounged on the couch, Both of their stomachs were full of junk food. Spread out on the dirty coffee table was a bowl of popcorn and a few boxes of Runts and Skittles they’d lifted from the five and dime. Chris had just handed the bottle of whiskey back to Henry, his throat burning, when Henry had let something slip. Even in the dark living room Chris could see the pink in his cheeks, clearly not meaning to be heard. But he had been. Chris looked over at him, kinda grinning and nervous and praying he’d heard right.
“What’d you say?” he asked.
“Nothin’,” Henry’d said innocently.
“You liar,” Christopher had laughed. Elbowing him in the ribs, he’d said, “C’mon, tell me… Or else.”
“Chris, don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Henry had warned, already inching away. Chris grinned maniacally, then attacked. See, the almighty Henry Bowers had a secret Achilles heel: he was insanely ticklish.
In a matter of seconds, Chris was on top of him, relentlessly assaulting Henry’s ribs while he laughed and cried and begged for mercy.
“I’ll never tell!” He yelled, in between fits of laughter. “Chris, if you don’t stop I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. I swear to fucking god—”
Chris scoffed. “Like you’d ever hit me,” he said, but finally stopped, realizing how compromising this situation could become. Henry was breathing hard, his chest rapidly rising and falling with each desperate inhale and exhale, smiling with a dazed sort of look on his face.
And Chris was sitting there, straddling his waist, leaning over him. He remembered thinking, dear God, I’m a lucky fucking bastard. Because no one else would see this side of Henry, ever. And no one else would see this side of him, either. That fact hit him like a freight train. He felt raw, vulnerable, absolutely oblivious. They were inseparable, bound together. Had promised each other a few years before that they’d be friends no matter what happened, it be the two of them forever. How had he not seen it before?
Sitting there, both of them staring at each other, waiting for something neither of them could put a name to, Chris saw it, saw the two of them clearer than he ever had before. Henry’s eyes gleamed and his lips were parted and it was just too goddamned much to feel all at once. His heart was racing, stomach full of butterflies, aching sweetly. Henry swallowed nervously, but made no attempts to move away. Both of them came to some silent agreement and in between one moment and the next they were kissing.
Chris remembered the feel of Henry’s lips: warm, surprisingly soft, tasting a little metallic from his split lip: a parting gift from his father before he went to the bar. How Henry had grabbed his shoulders, let it last longer than somebody who didn’t want it. All at once it was an eternity and far too short.
There was the sound of gravel under tires and headlights flashing through the window, then Henry’d pushed him away, spitting on the floor, cherry-red and pissed as a fire-ant. But only somebody who knew Henry could see the fragility, the way his hands shook at his sides, the way his body wanted to curl in on itself. Henry told him to get out, using coarser words, and so he left, careful to avoid Henry’s dad.
He’d crossed the bridge on the way home, where they’d carved their initials back before they knew it was just for lovers. Chris had traced over the aged etchings in the wood, tears slipping down his face silently before walking the rest of the way home.
They didn’t see each other for the rest of the summer, not for Christopher’s lack of trying. Henry never answered the phone, never answered the door. He knew not to push him. The more you pushed him and pried, the harder he dug in his heels. So Christopher had left his door open, sat by the window and waited for something that was never gonna come. What else was he supposed to do? Moving on was gonna be the death of him, but so was waiting.
So on their first day of high school, Henry had new hair and new friends that all screamed jail or dead before 25. Christopher didn’t dare approach him, Henry’d made quite a reputation for himself over the summer through bruises, black eyes, and broken bones. The doctors and drugstores in town had made a pretty penny because of him. So yeah, Christopher steered clear, and Henry steered clear of him, for that year at least.
Over the months, Henry started catching his eyes in the halls, during lunch, in the class they shared that year. There was something…off with him. Something about Henry that gave him chills.