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The water’s motion was calm, just as the moment was. If it had appeared any cleaner, which in this environment was improbable due to the sewage tracking through the small streams here from the lakes nearby all the way into the shallow water body that took up the Barrens, Bill might have wanted to stick his feet in, or maybe dip his fingers past the water’s surface to see if it was cold, possibly refreshing from the hot summer’s air. But the auburn-haired boy did nothing of the sort, his attention was caught elsewhere.
He was watching—watching as the other’s hand flicked through a large, in comparison to them, book which edges were cast with a glossy and nice-looking floral pattern with types of birds in what would be the blank spaces between the multicolored flowers. Stan’s thumb brushed the sturdy spine of the book as he held it splayed out with his opposing hand. The two boys both sat perched on the smooth, peaking rocks which stuck out from the murky water, just sized perfectly enough to be fairly comfortable, or at least not totally uncomfortable for anyone their age to rest upon. Bill, in contrast to the other, held nothing in his hands. There were a couple of quarters and crumpled up notes shoved in his pockets; nothing to make use of. This was not a negative thing. Bill was perfectly fine with the scenery here: the upcoming sunset, the soothing noise of air flowing through the nature which loomed above them in dark green messes, tangles that reminded Bill of Richie’s hair, the boy beside him who sat silent, absorbed in a book rather than making conversation, a fact to which Bill took no offense to at all, because that was just what Stan did sometimes, that was the “norm,” and neither of them would want to have it any other way; no words had to be said for it to be enjoyable, and if Stan were to look up at Bill and expect a comment, Bill would still be too stuck on the other’s face to give a good reply.
Like the trees, Stan’s hair blew gently in the wind. The barely-brunette but not quite blonde twirls upturned by the breeze and golden from the sun. His head turned down, dark eyes focused on the printed words on the pages, studying, absorbing the information to put to use in future time. His face set neutral. Bill thought of him, in this moment, as peaceful. And a little meekly, as mesmerizing.
And, without having to move his neck at all to see the expression on Bill’s face which perhaps would have made painfully obvious something not hidden but silently acknowledged, Stan smiled, like instead the book’s words were a manuscript of Bill’s inner monologue and not info on differentiating bird species in the country, but Stan wasn’t looking at the words now, only a clear portion of the page that bordered the paragraphs—a tell that he wasn’t just appreciating the book. Bill had opened his mouth to say something but all that came out was a bashed chuckle and then he grinned wide and steady in amusement and disbelief of what had just happened. He felt absurdly childish and all too happy at the same time. His blue eyes gleamed with joy and he hunched down to peer at his lap and waited for the red in his face to wear off.
Then—a branch, a couple of branches, snapping in the distance. Leaves shivering and being crushed by a larger force, the sounds small yet startling due to the shared silence, and a brown-haired boy and a taller ginger girl stumbled out of prickly-looking bushes, surely scratching themselves in the action, waving and shouting things that were on the verge of unintelligible and whatever exchange Bill and Stan had telepathically shared then was pushed aside. Not to be forgotten, but to ponder about on lonely nights, a memory to hold onto for decades, a memory meant to last.
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