Chapter Text
When they’re finally together, it’s palpable. The oxygen seems to concentrate, allowing the seven of them to truly breathe for the first time. As Henry Bowers, head bleeding like a laughing river of red, lies crumpled (as his father will later put it, like a paper man) on the earthy stones of the Kenduskeag, the newly-formed group forms a procession. It is led by Eddie Kaspbrak, who laughs giddily as the adrenaline of the Apocalyptic Rock Fight of 1989 begins to wane.
“God, Bev, you really cracked him one,” Eddie grins, turning briefly to fix his eyes on his fire-haired friend. She lets out a tentative smile of her own, and Mike Hanlon feels so suddenly right that his knees nearly turn to water. “‘Bout time. Fucker's been basically asking for it for years now.”
“Oh, what, Eds, no comment on the amount of deadly bacteria undoubtedly flowing into Bowers’ new orifice?” Mike hears Richie Tozier call out from behind him. “He's probably dying of salmonella or something as we speak, man.”
Eddie turns his head again, but the twinkle of joy in his dark eye is replaced by one of a mixture of frustration and contentment as he glares at Richie. “Firstly, asshole, you don't get salmonella from a head wound. I bet even… even Ben could tell you that, you moron.”
“Hey,” Ben Hanscom pipes up, but his smile diminishes any real offense that might have taken hold in his voice.
“Second of all,” Eddie soldiers on, “why the hell would you say orifice? It makes it sound like Bowers sprouted another asshole, or something. Third, I don't really think I'd care even if it was deadly stuff getting into that cut.” He frowns, looking slightly guilty before setting his jaw. “It's Henry Bowers. And fourth,” he swipes a hand through the air with each word, brow furrowed heavily in Richie's direction, “do not call me Eds, dickwad.”
“Too late, Eds,” Richie calls back, sounding morose. “It just suits you so well. Cute name for a cuter boy, yaknow?”
“Beep, beep,” Eddie mumbles. When he turns around, Mike can see his ears flooded red on either side of his head. Mike squints slightly, thinking.
They're in a verdant field, walking out of the Barrens and through the spiked blades of grass that poke at their hands when they weave through the plants. Mike considers Eddie, considers his supposedly chronic asthma, considers how the Kaspbrak boy's infamous inhaler is yet to make an appearance. Mike knows of Sonia Kaspbrak. Hell, everyone in Derry knows of Sonia Kaspbrak. Knows how that woman would probably keep her sole son locked in a padded meter-cubed room for the rest of his life given the choice. And, despite never having spoken to said son until about ten minutes ago, Mike has also a good understanding of Eddie's reliance on his medication. Word of mouth is a powerful tool, even for the homeschooled kid on the outskirts of town. Considering how sick Eddie is meant to be, it takes Mike by surprise that his aspirator remains hidden - presumably in his fanny pack. He would have guessed that even the mention of a hayfever-sufferer's absolute hell - the field they're walking through, that is - would have set off an asthma attack.
Apparently not.
Maybe Eddie doesn't even have asthma. That would be funny, Mike thinks, as he smiles to himself. Eddie is thee asthmatic of Derry. Of course he really has the damn thing; it's strange to think of it any other way. Still, Mike Hanlon is only thirteen. The ways of the adulting world and its manipulative habits are yet to be known to him, so he shakes the bizarre thought away.
He can't help but feel a slight pang of guilt about the rock fight with Bowers and his minions. There was no reason for the others to come to his aid, even if he's beyond grateful that they did. He's not sure how far Henry would have gone, but as he's a kid with somebody as notably crazy as Butch Bowers for a father… Mike's easy smile turns to a grimace. The others could have gotten seriously hurt - hell, the older kids did get in a good few zingers - and while Mike thanks
(the Turtle)
his lucky stars that they did come to his aid, the pressure of knowing it's on him is awful. Plus, there's no way the six other kids in their steadily progressing line won't pay for what they did to Henry, a hundred times over.
He relays his thoughts to the group, frowning. Eddie is the one who answers him, ears back to their normal color, an easygoing smile on his face that immediately makes Mike feel better before Eddie's even begun to talk.
“Oh, no-no-no, Bowers? He's always after us.”
“I guess that's one thi-thi-thing we all have in common,” stutters out Bill Denbrough. There is a high, excited blush on his cheeks - excited about what, Mike isn't entirely sure. Their absolute and non-negotiated victory in the rock fight, maybe? Getting his own back on Henry Bowers, even for one afternoon, must play at least a small part in the proud expression on Bill's face. But that doesn't quite sit right with Mike. He's sure there's something else, because he feels it, too. And he and Bill are not the only ones, it turns out.
“Yeah, Homeschool,” grins Richie. “Welcome to the Losers’ Club!”
Oh, yeah. That's it. Something pure and gold floods through Mike's veins, showing itself only in an honored smile.
The seven of them. Their club. The Losers’ Club.