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It was goddamn cold for October. Air sharp as a razor to the nose, trees bald and black like the skeletons kids had hanging from their porches, and all of Derry covered in cheap-ass decorations that made Henry wanna rip something apart. Paper ghosts in windows. Plastic pumpkins with dumb grins. That fake cotton cobweb shit stuck to every mailbox on Kansas Street.
“Fuckin’ Halloween,” Henry muttered, flicking the cigarette from his mouth into the gutter and watching the ember fizzle out like it deserved to die. “Town looks like a goddamn retard puked crepe paper all over it.”
“Jealous ‘cause you ain’t got no candy?” Belch asked from the other side of the porch, leaning back like the rotted railing could hold his fat ass. “Or ‘cause your costume sucks?”
Henry turned and gave him a look sharp enough to cut. “What costume?”
Victor Criss, perched on the arm of the porch swing like some blonde, bony gargoyle, laughed through his nose. “You mean the black hoodie and jeans? Yeah, real imaginative, man.”
“Fuck you. I ain’t wearin’ no costume.”
“You said you would,” came the voice. Quiet, even, laced with that smug fucking nothing-tone that somehow pissed Henry off more than anything else in the world. Patrick Hockstetter was sitting on the porch steps, elbows on knees, skinny fingers painted red with fake blood, looking like something that’d crawled out from a ditch and liked it. His skin was pale even under the moonlight. His shaggy brown hair looked wet, like he hadn’t dried off after a swim in a swamp. His eyes were green and flat like pond water.
“Didn’t say shit,” Henry snapped, but he didn’t meet Patrick’s eyes. Didn’t like lookin’ at them too long. They made his stomach crawl.
“You fuckin’ did,” Belch grunted. “Said Patrick talked you into it.”
“I didn’t say that either,” Henry muttered. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t wanna talk about how Patrick had said it’d be lame if Henry was the only one who didn’t dress up. Had said it low, not even lookin’ at him, just brushing past him at school like it was nothing. And Henry had said something back—can’t even remember what now, something mean probably—but he still ended up digging around his room later, grabbing the old army jacket his dad used to wear. Was too big on him. Made him look like some kind of child soldier or a drunk kid playing pretend.
So now he was wearin’ that. And a black T-shirt. And he’d smeared some dirt on his face like war paint or some shit. Which, fine. Whatever. He wasn’t a fag about it.
Patrick’s eyes slid over him now, slow and ugly. He had that half-smile like he knew something nobody else knew, and Henry felt his stomach twist again. Like a hook sinking in. Patrick’s mouth was covered in fake blood, too. Probably tasted like cherry syrup and roadkill. He was a zombie. A good one. Which Henry hated. The shirt was ripped, the skin painted grey-green, the neck bruised up like someone had strangled him and he’d liked it.
And he did look—good. In it.
For one second. A flash. Just a flash. Like—
Then Henry stomped on the thought, crushed it like a cigarette under boot. Freaky lookin’ bastard. Dirty son of a bitch. Probably got ringworm. Fuckin’ creepy faggot, wearin’ that costume like he’s somethin’.
“Fuckin’ pussy-ass holiday anyway,” Henry said, mostly just to say something. “All these kids dressin’ up like fairies ‘n’ pirates, runnin’ around screamin’. Whole thing’s faggy.”
“Yeah?” Patrick said. “That why you got dirt on your cheeks like a whore?”
“Eat shit, Hockstetter.”
Patrick’s smile didn’t move. But he gave Henry that look.
That one. The one that made Henry wanna bash his face in and then disappear into a hole somewhere and never come back out.
It wasn’t smug exactly. Wasn’t mean. Wasn’t even teasing. It was just—knowing. Like Patrick knew every single thing Henry was thinking and was amused by how hard he tried not to.
Henry clenched his jaw and turned away. Kicked the porch railing. “Fuck are we waitin’ for?”
“Belch’s car,” Vic said, checking his watch. “We were gonna hit up that party out near Route 7, remember?”
“Yeah, if it don’t suck balls,” Henry said. “I’m gettin’ laid tonight, man. Gonna find some slut dressed like a cat or some shit. Bitches eat that army shit up.”
There was a pause. The wind creaked through the trees. Off in the distance, a couple kids screeched like little ghosts.
Then Patrick tilted his head and looked at Henry with a dead expression. Raised one brow.
Didn’t say a damn word.
Didn’t have to.
Henry felt the back of his neck burn hot. “What?”
Patrick licked some of the fake blood off his finger. Didn’t break eye contact.
Vic cleared his throat. “Damn, Hockstetter. You’re committed, huh?”
“I like Halloween,” Patrick said. Still not looking at Vic. Still watching Henry. “It’s the one night you can walk around lookin’ like what you really are and nobody says shit.”
“What, a fuckin’ psycho?” Henry snapped, too loud. “You look like you got run over by a tractor.”
Patrick smiled, slow and crooked. “Thanks.”
Henry looked away, face hot. His palms were sweating. Goddamn freak was always sayin’ weird shit like that. Always makin’ things sound wrong on purpose. And that look—that condescending one—like Henry was the biggest joke he’d ever seen.
He wasn’t.
He wasn’t.
“Shit, there’s Belch,” Vic said, pushing up off the porch swing. “Bout time.”
Belch’s busted-up car rattled into the driveway, radio already blaring something scratchy and angry from the AM dial. Sounded like Eddie Cochran or Jerry Lee or some shit. The kind of song that made Henry’s brain buzz behind his eyes.
They all piled in. Vic in front, Henry and Patrick and Belch crammed in the back. Patrick’s thigh pressed against Henry’s. He didn’t move it.
The car smelled like motor oil and BO and Halloween masks. Henry stared out the window, eyes narrowed against the streetlights whippin’ past, and tried not to think about it. About Patrick.
About how the zombie paint looked good. About how it made him look dead. Or worse—alive in a way that made your skin crawl.
Patrick leaned his head back and hummed along to the music, just loud enough to be heard. His voice was low and tuneless.
Henry clenched his fists and stared harder out the window.
Faggot was still ugly. Ugly as shit.
Ugly fuckin’ bastard. Looked like the kind of kid you’d see at the end of a dark hallway and immediately walk the other direction.
But girls liked that, right? That thing. That edgy, dead-eyed, 'maybe-I-kill-animals-for-fun' vibe. At least girls not from Derry. Girls who didn’t know better.
The ride to the party was all busted speakers and bad singing, Belch driving like he had a death wish and Vic hollering every other lyric like he was trying to crack the windshield. Some Chuck Berry song came on and Henry could barely hear it over the engine noise and the wind howling in through the cracked back window, but the beat thumped hard enough through the seats to rattle his teeth.
“Fuckin’ cold,” Henry muttered, elbowing Patrick’s knee out of his way.
Patrick didn’t move. Just kept humming low and off-key, fingers tapping on his thigh like he was playing along on some invisible corpse piano. His pants were ripped at the knees, dirt ground into the cuffs. One of his shoes didn’t have laces. He looked like shit. He looked like shit on purpose.
The wind blew his blood-streaked hair back from his face, and Henry glanced once—quick—and then away.
They pulled up around ten. Big-ass house out near Route 7—some senior’s place with rich parents gone for the weekend and enough booze to poison a barn. Whole front yard was packed with cars, people spilling out onto the grass in all kinds of busted-up costumes. There were kids in devil horns, werewolf masks, a girl dressed like a nurse with fake blood dripping from her tits. Music blasted from inside, some Elvis shit rattling the porch light.
Henry stepped out of the car and cracked his neck, already smiling like he owned the place.
People turned when they saw them.
That was the good part.
Kids standing in groups by the fence went quiet. One guy bumped his friend’s arm and nodded toward them like watch out. A few of the girls looked nervous, stepping back as the Bowers gang passed by. One kid actually walked around the long way to avoid crossing their path.
Henry grinned wider.
That was power. That was respect.
Not ‘cause they liked him. ‘Cause they were scared. And that meant they were smart.
“Look at these fuckin’ clowns,” Belch said, waving toward a group of baseball players all dressed like vampires with slicked-back hair and fake fangs. “You ever see anything gayer?”
“Vic,” Henry said, “go rip their fangs out. Bet they come out with the teeth.”
Vic snorted. “I ain’t gettin’ blood on my hands. They look like they got mono.”
They pushed their way inside, the house already packed and humid with too many bodies and shitty pop music echoing off the walls. Lights were low, every room jammed with kids drinking out of red cups and trying to act older than they were.
Henry snagged a beer from the kitchen counter and popped the cap with his teeth. Belch took two. Vic already had his rolled between his fingers like he was waiting for a toast.
Patrick didn’t take one.
He didn’t have to. Some girl—tall, dark hair, sherrif’s cap—walked right up to him with a drink in each hand and a smile like she’d never been warned.
Henry caught the whole thing over the rim of his bottle.
She leaned in close, giggling. Said something he couldn’t hear. Patrick didn’t smile. Just stared at her like she was a bug he hadn’t decided whether or not to squash. Then—fucking hell—he actually said something back. Tilted his head. Smirked.
Henry’s gut twisted.
He watched for another second, then looked away.
Probably not even from Derry, he told himself. Had to be. No girl from town would touch Hockstetter unless she was real desperate or real stupid. Which, hell—maybe she was both.
Still. It was weird.
Weird seeing Patrick talk to someone like that. With interest. He was usually too busy dissecting frogs or drawing fucked-up shit in his notebooks to even look at girls. Let alone flirt.
Maybe he was just messin’ with her. That made more sense. Probably just fucking with her head for kicks.
Still—
“Y’all see that?” Vic muttered next to him, voice low. “We’re not lettin’ him leave with her, right?”
Belch barked out a laugh. “Fuck no. That girl’s gonna end up skinned.”
Vic frowned. “Deadass. I’m serious. You know what he’s like.”
Henry took another swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He ain’t leavin’ with anybody.”
“You gonna stop him?” Vic asked.
Henry didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
He finished his beer and crushed the can in his fist.
Patrick was still over there, still talking to the girl. Still wearing that stupid zombie smirk.
Henry looked away and tossed the can.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Ain’t my problem if some dumb bitch wants to flirt with roadkill.”
“Still,” Vic said. “We should keep an eye. Just in case.”
Henry didn’t respond. Just shoved his way back into the party, grabbed another drink off a table, and made himself at home. Talking shit. Smiling mean. He cracked a few jokes that made Belch wheeze and nearly knock over a lamp. Tripped a freshman in a ghost costume just because he could.
It was easy. Easy to forget.
Mostly.
The music changed. Something heavier. The lights flickered.
Henry leaned back against the wall, watching kids stumble around like idiots. One kid puked in a pumpkin bowl and nobody even noticed.
Across the room, Patrick had drifted away from the girl.
Henry didn’t look.
Didn’t care.
Didn’t fucking care.
Couple hours later, the house was half wrecked and smelled like spilled beer, cigarettes, and perfume that cost two bucks at Woolworth’s. The floor was sticky. The walls were sweating. Somewhere in the living room, Belch was screaming over a drinking game, and somebody had broken the kitchen window trying to climb out onto the porch roof.
Henry didn’t know where Vic had gone—probably off making out with somebody’s cousin. Patrick had vanished a while back, too, which was fine by Henry. He’d been weird all night. Weirder than usual, even.
Henry had been drinking since ten. He wasn’t drunk, not really—he could still walk straight, still think—but his head was fuzzy, warm in the way that made everything louder and funnier and more manageable. He had that easy, cocky buzz running through him, the one that made him talk more than he should.
He was leaning against the back wall now, cigarette half hanging off his lip, talking to some girl in a devil costume. Red lipstick. Tight skirt. Curves. Pretty, sure—any guy with a pulse would’ve said so.
She was giggling at something he’d said. Probably not even that funny, but girls like that didn’t need much.
“So, what—you from around here?” he asked, voice loud over the noise.
“Yeah, like ten minutes outside Derry.” She smiled. “You go to Derry High, right? You’re… Henry?”
“Yeah. You heard of me?” He said it with that half-smirk, the one that always worked.
She laughed again, nervous this time. “Everybody’s heard of you.”
He grinned wider. “That so? Hope it’s the good kinda shit.”
She bit her lip. “Depends who you ask.”
He chuckled, low in his chest. She liked that. He could tell. Girls always did. All he had to do was lean a little closer, drop his voice low, give her that look—like she was the only one in the room. He was good at it. Always had been.
But even as he did it, even as she leaned in with that smile that said you could have me if you wanted, there was nothing. No spark. No heat. Not even interest.
She was hot, sure. Objectively. He could see it. But he didn’t feel it. Not in his gut. Not in his head. Not anywhere.
He should’ve. He always told himself he should.
Maybe it was the beer. Or the lighting. Or just that she talked too much. He didn’t know.
So he just kept up the act—laughing, flirting, brushing her arm like he meant it. Because that’s what he was supposed to do. Guys like him liked girls like her. That’s how it worked.
She touched his shoulder, leaned close to whisper something in his ear—he didn’t even catch it. He was too busy pretending he was into it, nodding, grinning, letting her hand stay there on his arm like it mattered.
And then—tap.
Hard on the shoulder.
Henry turned, already pissed. “What?”
Belch was standing behind him, out of breath, eyes wide. “Hey, uh—man, sorry, but you gotta—”
“Jesus, Belch, what the hell do you want?” Henry snapped. “You blind? I’m busy.”
Belch just jerked his head toward the hallway. “It’s Patrick.”
Henry froze. “What about him?”
“He’s—uh.” Belch stepped aside.
Patrick was there.
Barely.
He was slumped against Belch’s arm, half upright, fake blood smeared down his neck like he’d tried to drink it. His hair was stuck to his face, eyes glassy and unfocused. He was laughing under his breath—this weird, quiet, choked-up sound that wasn’t quite right.
Belch sighed. “He’s wasted. Like, can’t-stand-up wasted. Keeps askin’ for you.”
Henry blinked, then frowned. “For me?”
“Yeah. Said your name like four times. I dunno, man. I tried to get him to sit down, but he just—”
Patrick snorted out a laugh, head rolling back. “Henryyyyyy,” he drawled, slurring, voice syrup-slow. “There he is.”
Henry’s jaw clenched.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” he muttered. “What’d you drink, battery acid?”
Patrick didn’t answer. Just grinned—lopsided, eyes half-shut. He looked like every bad decision Henry’d ever made, standing there.
“Don’t look at me,” Belch said, holding him up. “He’s your problem. I ain’t draggin’ him around all night. You want me to dump him somewhere, or what?”
Henry glanced at the girl he’d been talking to—she was still watching, eyebrows raised, mouth a little open.
He could’ve walked away. Should’ve.
But he didn’t.
He looked back at Patrick. That stupid, blood-painted grin. That lazy slump against Belch’s arm. The way he was laughing about it, like he’d planned this whole thing.
“Goddamn it,” Henry muttered.
Belch shrugged. “Up to you, man.”
“Fine.” Henry grabbed Patrick by the arm. “Give him here.”
Patrick stumbled forward, catching himself on Henry’s shoulder, still laughing under his breath. His breath smelled like beer and smoke and something else Henry couldn’t name.
“Can’t believe you,” Henry hissed. “Drunk as shit, makin’ me babysit. You’re a goddamn disgrace.”
Patrick laughed harder, head dropping onto Henry’s shoulder. “You love it.”
“Shut up.”
He didn’t move.
Henry stood there for a second, jaw tight, Patrick’s weight heavy against him. He could feel the heat off him, the pulse through his shirt. It made his stomach feel weird.
He shoved the thought down. “You’re lucky I don’t leave your sorry ass here.”
Patrick mumbled something he couldn’t catch. Something that almost sounded like please.
Henry ignored it.
He looked back at Belch. “Tell Vic we’re goin’. Tell him to stay outta trouble.”
Belch nodded, relief all over his face. “You got it, boss.”
Henry shifted his grip on Patrick’s arm. “Come on, jackass. Let’s get you home before you puke on somebody’s carpet.”
Patrick made another sound—half laugh, half sigh. His head lolled, and he smiled at nothing.
Henry sighed through his teeth. “You’re real fuckin’ pathetic, you know that?”
Patrick didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
He just leaned heavier into Henry’s side, stumbling along, still grinning like he knew something Henry didn’t.
They made it halfway through the living room before Henry realized what a fucking joke this looked like.
Normally, when the Bowers Gang walked into a room, people moved. Cleared the hell out like they were parting the goddamn Red Sea. Henry out front, full of swagger and murder in his eyes, Vic smirking behind him, Belch bringing up the rear like a brick wall, and Patrick—tall, quiet, and wrong—off to the side like a shadow with teeth. That was the formation. That was the vibe. People got scared. That’s how it was supposed to work.
But now?
Now the crowd still split—but for different reasons. Henry could see them watching, confused. Staring. Whispering.
Because Patrick Fucking Hockstetter, the same freak who once shoved a live rat down some kid’s shirt just to “see what would happen,” was now slumped sideways against Henry’s shoulder, stumbling along like his knees were made of wet cardboard. Laughing under his breath at shit no one said. Every few steps he muttered something weird—random words like “eyeballs” and “inside-out teeth”—and then made this dry little bark of a laugh, like he’d just told a joke to himself and thought it was the funniest fucking thing in the world.
Henry wanted to die.
He wasn’t carrying Patrick. Not exactly. Just steering him. Hand fisted tight in the front of Patrick’s jacket while the other tried to shove people out of the way. He could feel the heat of him—he was warm, too warm. Skin clammy. He smelled like beer, blood paint, smoke, and whatever else he’d been rolling in.
“Christ,” Henry hissed under his breath. “How much did you even drink?”
Patrick didn’t answer, just muttered something about “her skin looked like paper.” Then he giggled again. Except it wasn’t giggling, because Patrick didn’t giggle. It was more like a cough that forgot to stop.
“Shut the fuck up,” Henry snapped, dragging him through the porch doorway. “You sound like a goddamn maniac.”
Patrick wheezed another laugh and leaned harder into him. “You love it.”
“I’ll kill you.”
They stumbled out into the yard. It was colder now, air sharper, moon bright and annoying. The grass was trampled to shit. Someone was passed out under the porch stairs. Somebody else was getting fingered behind the fence. The usual Derry party scene.
Henry looked around automatically—half expecting to see Vic, Belch, someone. Nobody. Not even a sign of Belch’s rustbucket car.
Which is when the realization hit.
“…Fuck,” Henry muttered.
No ride.
No keys.
Nowhere to go and nothing to get there with.
He turned back toward the house, already pissed. “Guess I gotta find Belch, see if he’ll give me his keys—”
Patrick made a sound. Not a word. Just a low grunt like no and then both his hands grabbed Henry’s jacket like he thought he was about to fall off the face of the earth.
“The fuck, Hockstetter?”
“Don’t,” Patrick muttered, words slurred and clumsy. “Don’t go back in.”
Henry shoved at his hands. “Get off me.”
“No,” Patrick said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “No, stay here. You’re warm.”
Henry’s stomach turned. “Jesus Christ.”
He actually tried to pull away. Tried. But Patrick clung tighter, head dropping against Henry’s shoulder again, his breath all hot and gross against his neck. His voice dropped lower, just above a whisper. “She said my eyes looked like holes.”
“…What?”
“Eyes like holes,” Patrick repeated, like that made it better. Then he started snorting again. A real ugly laugh. Loud, broken. “She was weird, man.”
Henry tensed, teeth grinding. “Takes one to know one.”
Patrick didn’t respond to that. Just kind of swayed. He felt boneless. He was tall, sure, but it was the kind of tall that bent easy when you weren’t looking. Right now he felt like a scarecrow with broken wiring, all limbs and loose screws.
“I should just throw you in one of those bedrooms and let you die,” Henry muttered.
Patrick’s hands fisted in his jacket. “You won’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
“You like me,” Patrick said.
Henry shoved him again. “You’re drunk and retarded. Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
But he didn’t let go.
Didn’t go back inside either.
Because he couldn’t go back in—he wasn’t getting those keys, and he knew it. Vic would tell him he was drunk, too. Belch would laugh in his face. No way they’d hand the car over. He wasn’t walking all the way home, not with Patrick clinging to him like a goddamn haunted coat rack.
He was about to snap. About to tell Patrick to sleep it off in a ditch when—
“My house is closer.”
Henry looked down.
Patrick was squinting at the ground like it was trying to fight him. “We can walk.”
Henry stared. “Walk?”
Patrick nodded. “It’s like… twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if you’re slow.”
“Yeah, or dead,” Henry said. “You think you can walk?”
“I am walking,” Patrick said. “With you.”
Henry wanted to punch a tree.
Instead he stared at the road. Quiet. Cold air needling into his sleeves.
It was true. Patrick lived closer. Just past the gas station on Mill Street. Still a hike, but manageable. Annoying. But manageable.
He let out a long, slow breath.
“Fine,” he said. “You owe me, you freak.”
Patrick grinned, eyes barely open. “I owe you lots.”
“Not in a fun way,” Henry muttered, already starting down the sidewalk with Patrick dragging along beside him like a drunk-ass ghost.
Patrick mumbled something about blood and fingers and shadow people.
Henry ignored it.
He had no idea what the hell he was doing.
And he hated that he was doing it anyway. It was probably past midnight. The kind of late where the air goes real still, where even the wind feels like it’s holding its breath. Streetlights buzzed dim and yellow, casting long-ass shadows across the sidewalk as Henry half-walked, half-dragged Patrick Hockstetter’s dead-weight ass through the empty streets of Derry.
Most of the jack-o’-lanterns were burned out. Candy wrappers littered the curbs. Porch lights were off, curtains drawn, plastic skeletons twisting on strings in the cold breeze like they were hanging for real.
“Can’t believe I’m doin’ this,” Henry muttered, dragging Patrick another few steps forward.
Patrick wasn’t helping.
He wasn’t even really walking—more like… leaning, slumped over Henry’s shoulder with his arm hooked lazily around his back, legs moving with just enough effort to not completely fall down. He was heavy as shit. All bone and height and dead weight. Which didn’t make sense. Kid looked like he’d blow away in the wind, but somehow carried weight like a corpse.
“You walk like a fuckin’ drunk giraffe,” Henry grunted.
Patrick snorted. “Graceful.”
“You’re a goddamn burden.”
“You volunteered.”
“I did not—” Henry snapped, adjusting his grip, “—volunteer. Belch threw you at me like a sack of diseased laundry and now I’m stuck with you.”
Patrick mumbled something under his breath.
“What?”
“I said you coulda left me,” Patrick slurred, laughing again, soft and dry. “Coulda dropped me on the porch, left me for the wolves. Let the shadows peel my skin off.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Shut the fuck up with that creepy shit.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
“Don’t test me.”
They turned a corner, passing an old cracked fence and a tipped-over trash bin. The kind of stretch of neighborhood where nothing ever happened except sometimes something really bad. The silence pressed in tight. The kind of quiet that made your ears ring a little.
Patrick tilted his head back to stare up at the sky. “Moon looks like a bruise.”
“You look like a bruise.”
Patrick grinned at that. “Bet you like it.”
Henry's stomach twisted.
“Don’t start,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
“What’s wrong, Henry? You mad?”
Henry stopped walking for a second and shoved Patrick off just enough to reset him upright. “No, I’m fuckin’ thrilled to be dragging your drunk, psycho ass across half of Derry. Highlight of my year.”
Patrick leaned in closer, letting his full weight sag again. “Tired already?”
“Don’t.”
“What, you can’t handle me?”
Henry turned to glare at him. “You’re lucky I don’t drop you right here.”
Patrick blinked slow. “Guess you’re not as strong as you act.”
Oh, fuck that.
Henry shoved him hard—just enough to make him stumble—but caught him again before he could faceplant on the sidewalk. “You wanna see how strong I am, I’ll put you through someone’s goddamn fence.”
Patrick was laughing now. Quiet, raspy. Didn’t even care. “See? There he is.”
“There who is?”
“You. All pissed off. You get mean when you’re tired.”
“I’m always mean,” Henry spat.
“Yeah,” Patrick murmured, smile crooked. “That’s the fun part.”
Henry didn’t respond to that. Just yanked Patrick forward again, quickening his pace.
The weight was getting to him, but there was no way in hell he was gonna let Patrick be right.
They walked like that for a while.
Silence in between bickering. Shoes scraping on old pavement. Dogs barking somewhere way off. Occasionally Patrick would mutter something—half thoughts, weird shit about peeling people open like apples, or how blood looked good under certain kinds of streetlight.
Henry mostly ignored it. He was used to the way Patrick talked. Sometimes he tuned it out, sometimes he didn’t. Tonight it was just noise.
Creepy, drunk, goddamn exhausting noise.
“You’re worse when you’re like this,” Henry muttered at one point.
Patrick turned his head, real slow, breath hot against Henry’s jaw. “Like what?”
“Drunk. Like you don’t got your brain all twisted up like usual. You’re just… messy.”
Patrick smiled. “You miss the twisted-up version?”
Henry pushed him forward again. “I miss not havin’ to carry your dumb ass home like I’m your fuckin’ babysitter.”
Patrick leaned his head down toward Henry’s shoulder, voice muffled. “I could bite you.”
“Try it and I’ll knock your teeth out.”
“…Just sayin’. Could.”
They kept walking.
After a minute, Patrick said, quieter now: “You’re warm.”
Henry didn’t respond.
Didn’t shove him. Didn’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds. Just kept walking. Jaw tight. Fists tighter.
Because he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Not like that.
Patrick was drunk. That’s all. He was just drunk and weird and didn’t mean anything.
Nothing meant anything.
They passed another block. Patrick kept muttering. Henry tuned most of it out. Tried to think about something else—anything else.
But every time Patrick leaned a little heavier against him, or breathed too close to his neck, or said something with that fucked-up smile, Henry’s brain did that thing. That static thing.
And still—he didn’t let go.
Didn’t drop him.
Didn’t stop walking.
They were deep in the neighborhood now. The kind where all the houses looked the same—little sea-colored boxes with white trim and pumpkin buckets still hanging from porches, but the candles inside had long since died. Not a soul out. No more kids. No more music. Just wind through the trees and that weird buzz of powerlines above them.
Patrick had gone quiet for a bit, not because he’d sobered up—hell no—but in that way drunk people sometimes got real focused on something invisible. He kept blinking at street signs like they were talking to him.
Henry’s back hurt. His shoulder was killing him. He was so goddamn tired he could feel it in his teeth. Patrick hadn’t gotten any lighter. He was still hunched into Henry’s side, slack-jawed and warm, barely lifting his own feet half the time.
“You’re a fuckin’ log,” Henry muttered. “You know that? A tall, heavy-ass, talk-too-much log.”
Patrick said nothing. Just sort of chuckled under his breath, slow and syrupy.
They passed under another streetlight. That’s when the car rolled by.
Some old guy in a truck.
One of those old Derry types like his old man—wrinkled face, hat too small for his head, eyes like rotten marbles. Probably owned a bait shop or used to beat his kids with a belt in the '40s. The truck slowed just enough as it passed to get a good look at them.
Henry glanced up.
The man’s face was blank. Not curious. Not even cautious.
Just that look.
That look.
Like the kind he’d seen a hundred times in his life.
Judgment. Disgust.
Two boys. One leaning on the other. One touching the other. One holding the other up. One of them looking… soft.
Henry’s face burned.
And then—he snapped.
“Get the fuck off me,” he barked, shoving Patrick off with more force than he meant to.
Patrick stumbled hard. His foot caught on the edge of the curb and he went down, fast, a messy tangle of elbows and knees.
“Shit—”
Henry caught him. Just barely. Fisted the front of his jacket and yanked him back upright, almost nose to nose.
Patrick was laughing again.
God. Of course he was.
“Jesus Christ, Hockstetter,” Henry hissed. “Walk on your own. You look like a fuckin’—”
He stopped himself. Didn’t finish the sentence.
Didn’t have to.
Patrick was smiling. That same smile like he knew everything.
“Touched a nerve?” he mumbled, voice loose and dry.
Henry shoved him again, not as hard this time, just enough to get him upright and moving. “Shut your mouth.”
“You’re real defensive for somebody who’s just bein’ nice.”
“I said shut it.”
Patrick kept walking, swaying a little. Then: “You ever think none of this is real?”
Henry blinked. “What?”
Patrick didn’t stop. “Like… any of it. This street. The lights. That guy in the truck. Even you.”
Henry stared at him. “You’re drunk.”
“Mmhm.” Patrick gave a crooked nod, eyes half-lidded. “Drunk and awake.”
“Okay, now you’re just saying shit.”
“I mean it,” Patrick said. “What if none of you are real? What if you’re just… in my head. Like toys. Or stories. I always kinda figured it like that.”
Henry kept walking. Faster now. “You’re a goddamn freak, you know that?”
Patrick didn’t stop. Didn’t even sound offended. “If everyone else is fake, then it’s not freaky. It’s efficient.”
Henry shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Patrick grinned. “I’m the only real person. Been that way since I was a kid. Rest of you are… set pieces. You know. Props. Like TV extras.”
“You think I’m a prop?”
Patrick leaned toward him again, whispering like he was sharing a secret. “You’re louder than most. I’ll give you that.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re more real than the rest,” Patrick said, serious now. “Doesn’t mean you’re real. But you feel real. Sometimes. In the way pain does.”
Henry stopped walking. Just long enough to give him a look that could burn a hole through steel.
“That’s the dumbest fuckin’ worldview I ever heard,” he said flatly. “I am real, dipshit.”
Patrick just shrugged. “Sure.”
“Not sure. I am. You think you’re the only thing that matters ‘cause your brain’s rotted out with bugs or whatever the fuck, but that don’t make it true.”
Patrick laughed again. “You’re realer than the others. I said that.”
“Yeah, and that’s bullshit too.”
They walked a little further. Patrick was quiet now. Just that eerie little half-smile on his face like he was thinking about something only he understood.
The houses changed again. A row of painted cottages. Sea-blue. Soft yellow. Pale green.
Patrick’s was near the corner. Nice enough place. No lights on. No signs of life. Looked peaceful. Looked fake.
“Here,” Patrick muttered, slowing.
Henry stopped.
Looked up at the dark windows.
No porch light.
No sound.
Just the streetlamp flickering behind them.
Patrick didn’t move. Just swayed in place, hands in his jacket pockets now, smiling up at his own house like it was a museum exhibit.
“You gonna fall asleep out here or what?” Henry grumbled.
Patrick didn’t answer.
Just stood there swaying, quiet.
The door creaked open with that old-school sound—wood swollen from years of Maine winters, hinges needing oil, that kinda sound that made a place feel ancient even if it looked clean. Henry kicked it shut behind them, shoving Patrick forward and catching the doorframe before it could hit him in the back.
Inside, it was dark as hell.
Not just no porch light—nothing. No lamps, no TV glow, no footsteps on the stairs. Just dead silence and a faint smell of potpourri and Lysol.
“Why the fuck’s it so dark in here?” Henry muttered.
Patrick didn’t answer, just kind of wandered in, brushing against the hallway wall like he needed to feel something solid to walk.
“Hey,” Henry said louder, shutting the door all the way. “Where are your parents? Thought your mom was one of those Jesus freak types that leaves lights on for angels or whatever.”
Patrick made a sound halfway between a hiccup and a laugh. “Out.”
Henry frowned. “Out where?”
“Dinner. Maybe. Church. Who cares.” Patrick waved his hand through the air like the question itself was irrelevant. “She said they’d be late.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Wait, they? Your dad too?”
“Mmhm.”
“Huh.”
He hadn’t met them proper before, but he’d seen Patrick’s mom around—at school functions, probably. She was the kind of woman who wore ugly flower blouses and smiled at everybody like they were puppies. Sweet, chirpy voice, always saying Patrick was such a “gifted young man,” like she couldn’t smell the rot under his skin. The type that made cupcakes with Jesus stickers on ‘em and probably told people Patrick liked science.
She looked like she belonged in a Sears catalog.
Patrick did not.
“The fuck she think you are, choir boy?” Henry muttered, flipping the light switch. Nothing.
“They’re broken,” Patrick said cheerfully from the hallway. “All of ‘em. I like it better dark anyway.”
“Creepy ass.”
Henry stepped further in. The house was cleaner than he expected. Not spotless, but that kind of put-together suburban neat that said someone gave a shit about it. Crosses on the wall. Pictures of saints. One of those “God Bless This House” embroidered things in the hallway.
He hated it.
“Living room’s that way,” Patrick said, pointing with his whole arm like a drunk tour guide.
Henry shoved him gently in that direction. “You’re not sleeping on the couch. Probably drool all over the throw pillows.”
“You worried about my mouth?” Patrick asked.
“Worried about cleaning up after your mouth,” Henry shot back.
Patrick turned, leaned into him again. Too close. Even in the dark. Henry could feel the heat off him. Could smell the beer sweat and fake blood and whatever weird cologne Patrick had probably stolen from the drugstore.
Then Patrick leaned a little closer.
They were just inside the hallway, no lights on, moonlight from the kitchen window painting stripes across Patrick’s face. He was smiling.
Not his usual, creepy-crawly smirk. This one was slower. Sharper. Focused.
And quiet.
“Since they’re not home,” Patrick said, voice soft, “we got the whole place to ourselves.”
Henry froze.
Patrick tilted his head. “Could do something. Again.”
The word dropped like a hammer.
Henry’s mouth went dry.
His chest buzzed hot.
His hand tensed around Patrick’s arm.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t do anything for a full second—just stood there, brain buzzing, stomach twisted up.
He thought about the way Patrick had looked the last time that word meant something. The way he touched him. The way he watched him.
And then he shoved him.
Hard.
Patrick stumbled back into the wall, hit it with a soft thump, laughing like it was a goddamn game.
“You’re drunk as fuck,” Henry snapped, voice louder than it needed to be. “You’re not even standing up straight. You’re wasted, and you’re acting like a goddamn faggot.”
Patrick raised his brows. Not surprised. Just amused. “Mm. There it is.”
Henry shook his head, pacing one step back, one step forward again. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind if you think we’re doin’ anything tonight. Get your head outta your ass. Just go to bed.”
Patrick tilted his head again. “You don’t want to?”
“You’re drunk,” Henry snapped. “Jesus. I ain’t—I’m not doing shit with you like this.”
Something flashed in Patrick’s face. Hard to name it. Not shock. Not anger. Something more like… recognition. Like he saw something he wasn’t gonna say out loud.
Then he smiled. Shrugged.
“You’re no fun.”
“Yeah, well,” Henry grumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re a fuckin’ mess.”
Patrick leaned on him again as they walked further into the house. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
They crossed through the hallway, past a shelf of family photos that didn’t match Patrick at all. A first communion portrait. A birthday hat. A blurry picture of a science fair ribbon.
All lies.
Henry helped him toward the stairs. Patrick leaned his full weight again, breathing out slow, like sleep was already chewing at him.
“This the part where you tuck me in?” Patrick mumbled.
Henry snorted. “You wish.”
Patrick rested his head lightly on Henry’s shoulder. Not creepy. Not weird. Just heavy.
“You gotta sober up,” Henry muttered.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Well, tough shit.”
And that was it.
Patrick threw up twice before the worst of it passed.
Not all the way, though. Not enough to clear his head. Henry stood there, arms crossed, leaning on the bathroom doorframe like he was trying not to be involved even though he absolutely was. He looked pissed, but not surprised—like the whole night had been one long, goddamn inconvenience and he was just enduring it.
“I told you to drink water before the fuckin’ party,” he muttered while Patrick gagged over the sink. “You didn’t listen. Dumbass.”
Patrick didn’t answer. Couldn’t, probably. Just sort of half-moaned and tried to spit without choking. Henry filled a glass again and shoved it into his hand.
“Drink. You ain’t dying on my watch, Jesus Christ.”
Later, Henry made him toast, which Patrick didn’t eat. Then he made him a fried egg, which Patrick stared at like it was a dead rat. Then he gave up, shoved the plate on the counter, and stood behind him in the dim kitchen light, watching to make sure he didn’t collapse.
“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re barely upright.”
Patrick grinned a little and leaned on the table. “You worry too much.”
Henry wanted to smack him.
Instead, he helped him upstairs. Not like—helped him, helped him. Just a hand on the back. Shoved him when he slowed down too much. Called him a moron the whole way up. Patrick laughed through most of it, teeth stained red from the fake blood on his mouth that wouldn’t come off.
Once they got to his room, Henry tossed some clothes at him—raggedy sweatpants and a T-shirt from gym class, both of which looked like they’d been through a war.
“Put that shit on.”
Patrick blinked at him. “You dressing me now?”
“Hell no,” Henry said immediately. “Do it yourself. Door’s staying shut.”
He slammed it. Waited outside with his arms crossed, fuming. Not even because of the situation anymore. Just the fact that this was his night now. Babysitting some freak who couldn't hold his liquor. He could’ve been getting laid. He could’ve been beating the shit outta someone in the backyard like normal people. Instead, he was standing in the hallway of Patrick Hockstetter’s house, listening to him struggle into sweatpants and talk to himself.
Eventually, the door opened. Patrick stood there, face damp, fake blood smeared across his jaw like warpaint. His hair was wet where he’d tried to wash his face, but it hadn’t worked right—just left streaks, like he’d rubbed soap in and gave up halfway through.
Henry sighed. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“You look like you lost a fight with a fuckin’ Sharpie.”
Patrick beamed. “You think I look good.”
“Kill yourself,” Henry muttered, walking past him. “Bed. Now.”
Patrick flopped into bed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Henry dragged a chair from the desk and parked it next to the mattress like he was doing guard duty. He crossed his arms. Sat stiff. Watched the dim rise and fall of Patrick’s chest in the shadows.
Patrick rolled onto his side to look at him, cheek pressed into the pillow.
“You know,” he slurred, “you didn’t have to stay.”
“I ain’t gonna let you choke on your own vomit.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Silence again.
The kind of silence that only happens when someone’s too tired to fight. Henry stared out the window, jaw clenched, trying to calculate how much of his night had been wasted on this.
He didn’t even know what time it was.
Patrick’s voice broke the quiet again. Soft this time. Not teasing. Just curious.
“You mad?”
Henry scoffed. “You think?”
Patrick smiled into the pillow. “I mean, really mad.”
“I been babysittin’ your drunk ass since nine o’clock,” Henry growled. “You think I like sittin’ here in a goddamn desk chair while you drool into your momma’s pillows? I coulda been at that party gettin’ my dick sucked.”
Patrick blinked at him. Still dazed. “You wouldn’t’ve.”
Henry turned. “What?”
“You wouldn’t’ve left me.”
Henry stared at him.
“I mean—” Patrick shrugged lazily. “You didn’t. That’s all.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
“So?” Patrick said. “Why’d you even bring me home, then?”
Henry opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked away.
Patrick watched him with that same lazy, weird look he always got when he was drifting into some dumb, creepy headspace. His voice got softer, creepier, like something slipping into your ear when you weren’t looking.
“I had this dream last week,” he said suddenly, “where I threw up black ink and you weren’t real.”
Henry looked at him. “What?”
“You were like… a projection,” Patrick muttered. “Not real. Just something my head made up. You know. Something mean. Like a warning.”
Henry squinted. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?”
Patrick smirked, slow. “Just sayin’... maybe you’re not real.”
Henry leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “Shut the fuck up with that creepy bullshit. Jesus.”
Patrick didn’t respond for a while. Just laid there. Breathing steady. Then, after a minute:
“…Glad my plan worked.”
Henry looked at him. “What?”
Patrick gave a drunken little laugh. Didn’t elaborate.
Henry sat forward. “What plan?”
Patrick’s voice was slurred now. Slipping. “Mmm… nothin’.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t plan shit.”
“Didn’t I?” Patrick mumbled. He was already half-asleep. “Knew you’d come…”
Henry clenched his jaw. “You’re fuckin’ retarded.”
Patrick didn’t answer. His breath evened out. His eyes slipped shut.
Henry sat there another minute, watching him. The room was quiet now—just the sound of the fan buzzing faintly, the rustle of blankets when Patrick shifted in his sleep.
Then, slow and quiet, Henry leaned forward.
He didn’t think about it. Didn’t even realize what he was doing till he was already doing it.
Their faces were close.
Too close.
And then—he kissed him.
Not hard. Not weird. Not gross.
Just soft.
Brief.
Quiet.
Patrick didn’t react. Probably asleep already. Lips warm, barely moved.
Henry pulled back fast.
Sat still.
Didn’t breathe for a second.
Then, just as soft, he whispered: “That was faggots as fuck.”
Patrick didn’t say anything.
He was out cold.
Henry sat there with his arms crossed again, angry for no reason, burning behind the ears, eyes on the wall.
He didn’t leave. Just kept sitting there. Kept watching. Kept making sure Patrick didn’t roll over and choke.
Didn’t say a word.
Not for a long time.
Just sat in the dark.
Like a goddamn babysitter.