Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12587500.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, F/M
  Fandom:
      IT_-_Stephen_King, IT_(2017)
  Relationship:
      Henry_Bowers/Victor_Criss, Victor_Criss/Patrick_Hockstetter
  Character:
      Victor_Criss, Henry_Bowers, Patrick_Hockstetter, Reginald_“Belch”
      Huggins, Butch_Bowers, Beverly_Marsh, Stan_Uris, Richie_Tozier
  Additional Tags:
      Anorexia, Abusive_Relationship, Abuse, Depressing, Toxic_Relationship,
      Trigger_Warnings, First_Time, Homophobia, Like_father_like_son, Kissing,
      Platonic_Kissing, Recovery, Cigarettes, unlikely_friendship, Unrequited
      Love, Crossdressing, Dysphoria, Bisexual_Richie_Tozier, Oblivious_Richie
      Tozier, Richie_Tozier_Being_an_Asshole, Richie_Tozier_Is_A_Little_Shit,
      richie_tozier_being_supportive, vic_being_pure, coffee's_for_closers,
      (coffees_for_closers), fall_out_boy_-_Freeform, references, LISTEN_TO
      GOLDEN_DAYS_WHILE_YOU_READ_THIS, Bittersweet
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-01 Completed: 2017-11-15 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 5322
****** Don't You Ever Forget About Me ******
by skepticallysighing
Summary
     Patrick Hockstetter had killed. He had killed animals and he had
     killed people. He had killed people’s wills to live. He knew what
     words to say, what buttons to press, what lies to tell. But there was
     something he hadn’t ever tried that seemed like a big task with a
     great payoff. A project that he longed to undergo.
     Taking someone who was already dead inside and making them the
     happiest person in the world. Not because he cared about them, but
     because he wanted to see if he could.
Notes
     This isn't meant to be seen as smut. This is a horror story about
     abusive relationships and eating disorders. Take it however you will,
     alright? If it's gonna be triggering, please don't read it.
***** The Abyss *****
Patrick Hockstetter had killed. He had killed animals and he had killed people.
He had killed people’s wills to live. He knew what words to say, what buttons
to press, what lies to tell. But there was something he hadn’t ever tried that
seemed like a big task with a great payoff. A project that he longed to
undergo.
Taking someone who was already dead inside and making them the happiest person
in the world. Not because he cared about them, but because he wanted to see if
he could. Pacifist route, I suppose.
 
Henry learned pretty quickly that Vic was good at giving head.
It wasn’t hard to get him to do it either, because Vic had confessed his love
back in the third grade. All he had to do was lead him on with the false
promise of love, and Vic was hooked.
It wasn’t that Henry didn’t want to care about Vic, it wasn’t like that. It’s
just that caring about him would lead to other things, to holding hands and
deep kisses and batting their eyes at each other. That wasn’t what he wanted.
He didn’t want that. He wasn’t gay.
He just didn’t object to Vic sucking him off between classes.
Vic was, as Patrick reminded him, just another goon. He may have looked nicer,
but he was just a goon. He may have had the skinny body and blonde hair Henry
looked for in a girl, but that didn’t mean anything. Anyways, it made it easier
to pretend it was a hot girl sucking him off and not the cute little queer.
Not that Vic was cute.
Vic was just another quick fuck, and Henry made sure he remembered it.
But he still loved the way Vic looked when his eyes were full of love and his
mouth full of cock.
He didn’t slow down when Vic choked and tried to pull back, just forcing him
down, smothering himself in the tight hot sensation of the spasming throat. It
earned a low groan, and he was letting go of his load down the blonde’s throat,
toes curling up as Vic milked him dry.
The blonde leaned back, breathless and happy, and Henry couldn’t help watching
him. It took him a second to realise Vic expected him to return the favour, and
he quickly was shoving his cock into his pants, pushing past Vic and out of the
stall so quickly, he almost slammed the door against Vic’s head.
 
There were a few warning signs, looking back on it.
 
One day, back on a warm summer morning. They were out in the barrens alone,
Henry leaning against a tree and guiding Vic’s head up and down with one hand.
He hated it that Vic kept trying to stop, when he tried to talk. This was about
him, why did Vic always try to talk around his dick?
“Henry, I-” he pulled off, giving a quick lick to get rid of the spit
connecting them. “Could, I t-”
“I said no, you’re not touching yourself!” Henry pushed him back down, pulling
tight and pushing his groin into the poor blonde’s face. Vic made a little
sound, turning his head, hiding the way his lip shook. “Now, you’re gonna suck
and I’m gonna let you spit if you do a good job. Stop being gay and suck my
dick.”
And he did.
 
Another day, Vic undressed to go swimming with the others, heart aglow and
smiling brightly. He pulled off his tank top and then his baggy pants.
Despite his skinny appearance, his stomach was just a little soft and his
thighs were just a little bigger than you’d expect, giving him a pear shape.
On a girl, it would’ve been lovely. Idealistic, even, a standard that was hard
to reach. If you asked Belch, he’d have told you he loved big girls. If you
asked anyone, they would’ve said he had a nice ass. He wasn’t overweight. No
one would’ve said he was fat.
Except Henry.
“God, look at your blubber,” Henry said, slapping his thigh when he was close
enough, watching it bounce. Just the way a thigh is supposed to react to being
slapped. “Everyone thinks you’re skinny, but you just hide it all down here,
don’t you?”
Vic shrugged, not showing how much the words affected him.
When he went home, he got his mama’s tape measurer and wrapped it around his
thigh, trying to see just how big it was.
Twenty-four inches.
Now, depending on your height and your existing weight, along with your build,
you thigh circumference doesn’t really tell you much. You could be all muscle
and have the biggest thighs, or the tiniest.
But to Victor Criss, twenty-four meant blubber.
So he started to keep track of what he ate. He normally ate well, so now, he
tried to eat nothing at all. No more sugar in his coffee, not chips when Belch
offered them, no more family dinner. Everytime he slipped up and accidentally
ate half a pint of ice cream, he’d punish himself harshly.
But soon he was twenty, and he had lost ten pounds. When he got on his knees
for Henry in his boxers and a t-shirt, he happily did so, waiting for Henry to
compliment him on how much smaller his thighs were. Henry didn’t notice.
That was fine. There just wasn’t enough difference between the two. He could go
smaller.
 
Vic went a day without eating. If you asked Belch, Belch would’ve told you he
was worried. Vic’s stomach was shrinking and his ribs soon bulged more than his
gut. His wrists were so small and his fingers so long.
If you asked Vic, he’d tell you he was just all blubber and bloating and he
needed to skip a meal..
But when Vic was feeling dizzy and was sure he’d pass out any second, Henry
glanced over at him.
Henry touched him, he reached for his wrist and felt it, curious.
“You look so dainty today,” he praised. “I dunno what it is. I like it.” 
He didn’t have a clue that Vic wasn’t eating just for him.
But the praise gave him the strength to happily survive the rest of the cold
cold day.
 
Henry would ignore him in public. If Vic got too close, or tried to hold his
hand, he’d get shoved off with a snap of “Don’t touch me, faggot!”
And so he’d fall back to walk behind him, hand shoved into his pocket, wishing
someone would hold his hand and tell him how lovely he was.
That’s where Patrick took his play.
He took Vic’s too-small hand, squeezing it and taking in how tired he looked.
“Hey, you little apricot,” he grinned. Later on he’d regret using the word
apricot, he should’ve called him baby. Or something that wasn’t apricot. “Did
you sleep last night?”
“Stop touching me,” Vic snapped as he ripped his hand back, and that was the
end of the conversation.
 
Vic touched himself to the thought of Henry making love to him. The idea of
Henry actually touching him, actually loving him was enough to bring him up
every single time.
He’d cry afterwards.
 
“Ow, Henry, Henry wait-”
“Just a minute more-”
Vic bit down and pulled away quickly. “Hen, you’re hurting me!”
“You’re such a pain,” Henry growled, he was so close. Why couldn’t Vic just be
a good bitch and do what he was told?
“My gag reflex, it’s...it’s sensitive right now, I can’t…”
“That’s bullshit. You’re just trying to get out of sucking me off. Didn’t you
say you loved me or something?”
“Henry, please-”
“Fine, you’re so useless, stay still and I’ll do it myself.”
Vic did, lips tightly closed and eyes clenched shut. He could hear the sound of
Henry’s hands sliding up and down. When Henry exploded in white confetti all
over his face, he had to try hard not to cry.
Henry zipped himself up and got out of he bathroom stall, fixing himself up to
go back to class. Vic held back his tears.
“Clean yourself up. And don’t mess up again.”
He cried his heart out.
 
On the way out of school, Vic was dizzy and weak, carrying his books and trying
to stand up straight. Patrick and Belch noticed immediately, Henry was fixing
his nails up with his knife.
“Hey, Vic. You good? You look like you’re gonna crumble,” Belch murmured as
they left the school grounds, going to Henry’s backyard to hang out.
“I’m fine, I just…” he glanced at Henry, speaking loudly enough that there was
no way he could be ignored. “I just really wish someone could carry me for a
bit.”
Vic was so focused on Henry, he didn’t realise Patrick was sneaking up until it
was too late.
Vic immediately gave a shout when he felt arms around his waist, eyes blown
wide as he was torn from the ground. It took him a second to realise it was the
lanky creep holding him, and he struggled desperately.
“Patrick, you fucking flamer, put me down!”
“Thought you needed a pick you up, doll! Look at you, light as a feather and
thin as a dime, your scrawny legs can’t even hold you up!” Patrick teased,
nuzzling his face into the blonde’s neck, earning more curses.
Henry didn’t even look back.
 
“Mm..fuck, your mouth,” Henry moaned as Vic went down on him in his bedroom.
Butch was out, so they had time. Sometimes he was in a good mood and he got
chatty, mumbling praise and orders. Vic was used to it and tried to ignore it.
But he could ignore it when Henry groaned “Oh, yes, baby girl-”
And he choked.
Henry pulled him off, just in case Vic accidentally bit, looking over him in a
hazy state. “What’s the matter?” he snapped, not really angry, just out of it.
“I, I, /Henry/, I’m not a girl!”
“This isn’t about you, Vic, just shut up and do what you’re here to do,
alright?”
And he pushed him back down.
Vic was limp this time, letting Henry say his words, praising a blonde haired
girl named Vic that wasn’t him.
That’s the first time he realised that he had changed everything but his gender
to get Henry’s approval.
That’s the first time he realised that, just maybe, Henry didn’t love him back.
 
And Vic couldn’t quite remember what happened that day when the two of them
were down in the woods. But he remembered that he told Henry the fatal words.
***** “I love you.” *****
And he remembered what Henry said next.
“You fucking creep!” Henry was shouting as Vic fell back to the trees, hitting
them hard, putting distance between them. “You’re so sick, you actually get off
on sucking me! You’re
(sick sick sick)
so fucking-”
And Vic was running, shaking like the leaves were shook by the trees, breath
heavy to match his shattered heart.
 
Vic felt like he had been running forever when he slammed into Patrick. The two
hit the ground hard, and Vic was too heartbroken to even try to stand up.
“Vic? Vicky, what’s wrong?”
It sounded weird. Deep down, Vic knew that Patrick didn’t actually care. Why
was he doing this, then? What was the point in being so sweet with him?
He scrambled up quickly, shaking like a leaf. When his knees gave out, he felt
back into the closest trees, shakily whimpering when the words wouldn’t come.
Before he could completely collapse, Patrick had one arm around him, keeping
him up.
Henry would’ve never caught him.
He shakily sobbed at the idea, twisting his head away and dissolving into
another fit of crying. He forced the balls of his hands into his sockets in a
pathetic attempt to slow the tears.
“Hey..hey, baby, come on, look at me,” Patrick coaxed, resting one hand on the
boy’s waist. Warm. Patrick spoke so kindly. “Let me so those pretty little
eyes, Vicky.”
Vic peeked through them, eyes still red from crying, as if Patrick might hit
him the moment he left the safety of his fingers.
Patrick smiled and leaned forward, kissing his forehead.
“Beautiful eyes.”
Vic knew the words were just meant to lull him into submission, but...Henry
never called him beautiful…
Their kiss was a sweet one, and nothing like Vic would’ve expected it to be.
Patrick seemed so gentle and sweet. Everyone who would stomach talking about
Patrick having sex spoke of him in a certain way. A perverted rough creature
who wouldn’t stop even for a second, never blinking and smiling like a wolf.
That had to be a lie, because Patrick let him set the pace.
It was everything Vic looked for in a kiss. Just the soft suckling of each
other’s lips, no teeth, just sweet and breathless. Patrick tasted like copper
and campfire smoke, and he really would be lying if he said he could get
enough.
When they pulled off, Patrick spoke against his lips in sweet, smoke-laced
words: “You see? He’s never gonna jacket you.”
“Huh?”
“You know, when you’ve got a girl you like to fuck, so you let her wear your
jacket so everyone knows she’s yours? Yeah. You ain’t getting his jacket, you
little apricot, a-”
Patrick stopped when he realised Vic had started crying again, and he made a
soft noise of curiousity, using one thumb to caress his cheek again. Not to
comfort him, but to feel the way he shook.
“Vicky, Vicky, Vicky. You’re real gone for him, aren’t you?”
“Stop asking questions! A-are you writing a book or something?” Vic snapped,
but he still leaned into his hand with a low whine.
“Maybe I will, little apricot, maybe I will.”
“Why are you calling me that? It’s weird,” he protested.
“I’ll call you something sweeter than that if you come home with me.”
“I-...what..?”
“Look, baby doll. If you ever get over him, I’m usually hanging around my house
at night. Everyone thinks I live in the drain pipes are something.”
“I thought you lived in the drain pipes for a while.”
“Yeah, that’s a little fucking rude, you can’t come over anymore,” he teased,
squeezing his hip and earning a weak smile. “Once you realised he’s never gonna
treat you right, come to me. I’ll treat you real nice.”
And he left.
 
That night, Vic went back to the place where they all met every night. Belch
had started a campfire, and Henry was sitting close, playing with his blade.
When Vic came, Henry looked up, quickly standing and advancing on him. Vic
flinched, ready to be hit, which made it all the more surprising when Henry
stopped a foot away with a soft frown.
“Vic, I...hey. I’m sorry about earlier. I...let’s talk about it more tomorrow,
alright?”
And that’s why Vic thought everything might be alright now. That’s why he
thought “Hey, it was shit this morning, but now it might be alright.”
They were all sitting around the campfire on the cold spring night, watching
Belch poke it. Vic was lost in his own mind, eyes pleasantly hazed, forgetting
his morals, just remembering the way Patrick spoke to him so sweetly. The way
it would be when Henry would kiss him. Heaven.
And then there was a hand on the back of his neck.
He didn’t want to blow him off tonight. He wanted to be cared for and adored
and safe.
“Vic, come on,” Henry ordered, pulling him up like he was a dog. That’s all
Henry saw him as, right? A dog? He knew what Henry wanted, but he really wasn’t
in the mood.
“Not right now,” he said softly, trying to squirm loose.
That took Henry by surprise.
“Vic. You little nosebleed, when I say now I mean n-”
That was it.
And Vic had shoved him away, on his feet. Belch looked up quickly, startled by
motion. Of course he didn’t know about the blowjobs, but his friends fighting
always made him feel nervous.
“Not now, and never again, alright?! Find yourself someone else to fuck with,
you fucking shuck! You’re just like your dad!”
“Vic, don’t s-”
“What did you just say to me, fag?!”
“Hey, Henry, don’t call him th-”
“I’m done with you! You’re nothing but a goddamn shuckster, I never wanna see
you again!”
Henry grabbed at him, and his fingers brushed lightly across Vic’s shoulder. He
had no idea this would be the very last time he ever laid a hand on the blonde.
Because then, Vic pulled away.
“It’s over. It’s over now, alright? It’s over.”
And he turned and left.
Henry and Belch didn’t follow, not understanding what had happened.
 
When Patrick opened the door in his longjohns, he was startled to see a crying
Victor Criss there. What was more surprising was the way Vic threw himself into
Patrick’s arms, hysterically sobbing and clinging to him and babbling.
He was quick to bring him in, to pull him to the couch and into his lap,
praising him.
Vic explained what happened, or at least, he tried to. It came out as shaking
sobs and pathetic whimpers, and he couldn’t let go of Patrick’s shirt the
entire time.
Patrick knew he had this weak link right where he wanted him.
Patrick easily pulled Vic into his lap, wrapping his big hands around too-small
thighs, looking him over.
“I’m gonna make love to you,” Patrick murmured as he pressed a chaste kiss over
the blonde’s shoulder. “Is that alright with you?”
If Patrick had said fuck, then Vic would’ve flinched and shook his head.
But...making love...Henry would never make love, because he didn’t love him. He
didn’t know if he loved Patrick much, but making love sounded so much nicer
than fucking.
“Slowly? I’ve never…” he couldn’t find the words, he was never much for
talking. It earned a chuckle from Patrick, who leaned up, so close their lips
brushed.
“Why don’t I kiss you first?” he suggested in a warm breath.
“Yeah. Y-yeah, sounds good,” Vic nodded, letting go of his control and letting
Patrick positively devour him. It wasn’t rough, no, not at all, but it was like
he was a tiny star in a big, empty galaxy.
Like he was the only thing that mattered to Patrick.
He knew it was just a lie, he knew it deep in his gut, that the emptiness was
full of black holes, but it didn’t stop him from loving every second of it.
The sound of lips and tongue sucking and smacking filled the room, and the
occasional low groan escaped Patrick’s throat to be swallowed down Vic’s. Each
sound felt like the best praise, turning him on, and he began to grind down a
little to relieve the pressure.
“U-uh,” Patrick groaned, pulling Vic down, rutting up against him. “Can you
feel that, Vicky?” He leaned down to suck a hickey where his bones were
positively bulging out of their skin, right on the clavicle. “Beautiful tease.”
Vic could only whine, eyes falling shut, already desperate for more. And then
his shirt was coming off and Patrick was fussing over him.
“Tiny,” Patrick murmured, rubbing his ribcage, with strained against his skin.
“Look at you, you’ve been starving yourself, baby?”
Vic nodded, there was no point lying to Patrick, looking saddened.
“I’m gonna make sure you eat. Gonna make sure you eat lots of good food
everyday, gonna make sure you’re safe, gonna fix you.”
“But Hen-”
“Forget what Henry wants. This is about you, baby doll.”
 
And then his pants were off and they were rocking back and forth together.
“Can’t wait to fuck you,” Patrick panted against his neck, adding another
bitemark.
“Make love,” Vic corrected, breathless but still stubborn. “You’re gonna make
love to me.”
“Damn right I am, apricot,” he grinned, slapping Vic’s side and earning a yelp.
“Don’t call me apricot, it doesn’t even make sense, there’s literally nothing
less sexy than-” 
Patrick pounced on him, pinning him and kissing him, earning a giggle.
It passed quickly, the sex. A few moments stood out, but they all blurred in
the end.
Until his back arched as he curled upon Patrick’s lap, trying to arch into him
without getting too far away, letting his own head fall back onto the broader
set of shoulders.
“Oh, oh fuck,” Patrick groaned, one hand guiding his pace, the other twisting.
Vic knew he must’ve looked stupid, his eyes rolled back with tears and tongue
hanging out. “You’re so beautiful.”
Vic cried out, his words felt better than his touch, oh god oh, oh-
“Beautiful boy. Pretty boy. Come on, come for me.”
And, for Patrick, he did.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered, guiding Vic to lay down. “An delicate
little angel. I love you.”
And Vic knew Patrick couldn’t love. Patrick would never experience the feeling
he felt whenever Henry was close.
Vic knew he could never love Patrick back.
“I love you too.”
***** Miss Beverly Marsh: A Coping Mechanism *****
One day, ages after the fact, Beverly and Vic were smoking together in the
bathrooms. He sat with his feet on the ground, she sat in his lap with her feet
around his waist so he could hold her up. To a passerbyer, there was just one
person in there. This wasn’t anything new, no, not really.
And it wasn’t new when Beverly leaned in and pressed her rosy lips over his.
They kissed slowly for a second, pulling back once they had their fill.
“You kiss like a girl,” she murmured, and it was praise.
“Thanks. You kiss like one too,” he returned, hands resting around her neck.
For both of them learned that they liked kissing like this. Where neither of
them were seeking control, where both of them just wanted to submit. No
violence, no dominance, no undertones. Just soft chaste kissing.
“Do you think you’ll find love, Vic?”
“I dunno. I don’t think love’s worth finding anymore.”
“Mm.”
And they pressed smoke-laced lips together again.
***** Patrick Hockstetter: The Recovery *****
Chapter Summary
     One-shots of Vic's recovery
“Look at you, you don’t look like a POW anymore,” Patrick grinned in the
doorway, as Vic was getting undressed to shower.
“That’s not funny,” Vic said blankly, glancing in the mirror. His ribs didn’t
strain against his body so much anymore, and his stomach didn’t cave in. He
poked it self consciously, wishing he weren’t s-
“I know, I know,” Patrick wrapped his arms around him, hugging him close,
resting his chin over his boyfriend’s head. Vic made a protesting sound, as he
was naked, but he gave up and let Patrick fuss over him. “You look good. You
feel so soft.” He reached down to his stomach, running his hand over it
lightly. “You wanna be normal again, right?”
“More than anything.”
“Then we gotta get you to look normal. And your skinniness isn’t normal. I
don’t want you to keep track of what you eat anymore, alright?”
“Trick, I can’t just…that’s really hard to just do. It’s habit, I can’t
just stop.”
“Then we’ll work on it. You’re gonna be alright.”
***** Stan Uris: An Escape *****
“You really shouldn’t smoke those,” Stan told him one day, when they shared an
umbrella and company to get through a rainy patch of the Barrens.
Vic looked at him quickly, the cigarette halfway to his lips. His body was
rarely as cold anymore, but he still loved the way the cigs warmed him up.
“Mm, you’re no fun,” the blonde said softly, but he lowered it for now.
“If you’re like Bev, and you think lung cancer’s gonna help you feel better
about yourself, be my guest.”
“Stop imitating Eddie or I’ll burn you.”
Stan looked startled before he realised Vic wasn’t serious.
“You can have a drag, if you want,” Vic offered, holding out the cigarette.
Stan glanced up at him, clearly dubious of his intentions. His little nose
wrinkled up before he reached out, snatching it from his fingertips and
bringing it to his lips.
He inhaled, and immediately began to cough.
Vic felt a laugh rush through him, a rare sound that couldn’t stop once it
started. He had to stop for a second, grabbing the umbrella so Stan wouldn’t
drop it, watching him hack up the smoke.
“That was a great try,” Vic grinned, watching him before Stan handed the
cigarette back.
“Eugh…you’d think it would be an easier habit to quit,” the smaller muttered,
and they walked once more.
***** Belch Huggins: Denial *****
Belch was over at Henry’s house one night. Henry had become a lot more
sensitive since Vic had left.
Vic had turned out to be a fag and tried to grope Henry, that’s what Henry had
told him, so that’s what he believed happened. Henry wouldn’t lie, right? And
Vic had seemed so nice too.
The only reason Belch was thinking about the blonde was because, while he was
rummaging around under Henry’s bed for extra pillows, he had found something
positively filthy.
In his palm was a pair of Vic’s underwear, wadded up and covered in cumstains.
Unsure how to process it, he shoved it back under the bed.
***** Relapse *****
Patrick had known something was wrong the moment Vic was rushing towards him.
Shaking and pale, the boy’s roots were growing in. He immediately reached up
when he got close enough, folding his arms around the brunette’s neck and
curling up into his arms. Patrick easily picked up his brunette, holding him
close and stroking his hair until he could speak enough to make sense.
“Saw Henry,” he whispered. “Saw him. He was..h-he had this..”
Patrick knew, and shushed him with one finger. Henry had found this skinny girl
with short blonde hair and he had been kissing her wherever he could.
He let Vic cry, and when he was done crying, he kissed him breathless.
***** Richie Tozier: Acceptance *****
“Hey, lookin’ good Stan,” grinned Richie, making finger guns at the undressing
boy. They were down at the Barrens, all eight of them, getting ready for a
quick swim.
Stan, with the blankest face in the entire world, sent him finger guns back.
“Huh? What’s-” and Eddie’s eyes widened at the sight, covering his mouth. Vic
quickly looked down and realised he had forgotten about the girl’s underwear he
still wore. White cotton, simple. Soft and comfortable and just right.
For a second, Vic was ready for his friends to call him out. To call him a fag,
to drive him away. To be so so disgusted.
Richie clapped his hands together and hooted obnoxiously.
“Alas, Criss turned out to be a Flamer after all, and I thought Eddie was the
gayest person I’d ever seen!”
“Richie!” Eddie protested.
“Nothing’s better than playing back seat bingo, am I right, Wheezy?”
“CAN YOU NOT FOR LIKE TWO MINUTES-”
But they were all laughing again, and soon they were distracted. No one really
minded that he was crossdressed. Huh.
Nice.
***** The Summit (Henry Bowers: Coffee's for Closers) *****
When Henry and Belch came across the Losers playing in the quarry, Henry got a
nasty shock.
He barely cared what the others were doing. Splashing, being dorks, making
noise. But right there, curled up between the Jewish kid and the black kid, was
Vic.
Stan Uris was talking about something, Mike Hanlon had a hand around Vic’s
waist, and whatever the two were saying was making Vic smile.
It took him a moment to notice why Vic looked so different. He had fleshed out,
skin warm and pink from being in the sun, he looked like he actually ate. His
hair had gone months without being bleached again, and it was nearly all the
way brown.
The most startling thing was that when Mike said something, Vic burst into
laughter. His eyes creased up from the apples of his cheeks, pushing hard, and
his lips were curled up. When he got older, he’d have laugh lines for sure.
Henry had seen him laugh once before, when he was younger.
Vic’s eyes were shining and filled with so much love as he looked up at the
two.
Henry’s heart panged when he realised Vic would never look at him like that
again.
“Should we get ‘em?” Belch asked, hands in his pockets, looking over Henry for
permission.
“No. Leave ‘em. Let’s go see if Patrick’s home,” Henry said, turning away. He
couldn’t bring himself to hurt Vic. And perhaps what hurt the most was the
realisation that he would never love again.
***** Pretty Eyes, Pretty Lips (In Retrospect: Butch Bowers) *****
Months and months after he had begun to hang out with the Losers, a startling
thought crossed Vic’s mind:
Henry looked just like his daddy.
 
He had been at the Bowers Farm, working hard, when he first realised how
disturbed Butch was. He knew Butch didn’t like him much, he was too girly to be
hanging out with Henry and Belch, too weak. He always said things like “Hello,
boys…and Vic”.
Of course he thought Vic was a fag, but he didn’t do a thing about it. He had
no clue that Vic sucked Henry off every single day.
Vic could remember the reason it happened better than he remembered how much it
hurt when it happened.
The armful of tomatoes he carried, piled high in his arms and in danger of
toppling over at any second, he remembered them well.
He remembered falling, the way some spilled away while a few splattered in
juicy, seedy messes.
Butch must’ve been waiting for him to mess up, for the moment he looked up, the
man had a piece of firewood in his hands as he rushed towards him, cussing
about nips and killing and little useless things as he slammed it right into
Vic’s chest.
He remembered Belch and Patrick jumping back with big eyes, startled and
without a clue what to do, looking at Henry for instructions. Henry would not
look at Vic, unable to interfere with his dad.
The worst part was not the bruised chest or the splinters in his neck, no,
he wished.
The worst part was when Butch had pulled away, breathing heavily,
and cupping Vic’s face, touching
(under his)
skin.
“You’re Marsha Criss’s boy, ain’t you? Got her face,” in a whisper. And he
touched
(oh sick sick sick)
his hair, just running his fingers through.
“Keep those pretty eyes and lips to yourself. Don’t want you turning my son
into a fag.”
(Oh.)
Even when he got away, he could still feel his eyes and his
(sick)
eyes right there wherever he went.
 
 
“I’m not my dad. I’m not Butch. I’m..I’m nothing like him.”
But that was just a lie, wasn’t it?
 
 
That one night when Vic had gotten a bit tired, a bit shaky on his feet. The
blonde hadn’t been able to keep his balance and had stumbled, that’s why Henry
sat down and pulled Vic with him, right?
He remembered slumping down, sitting on the ground- no, not on the ground, in
Henry’s lap.
When Henry had reached up and hooked his fingers into Vic’s mouth, he hadn’t
really thought about it. He sleepily was sure Henry was just feeling around for
his braces, to see what they felt like.
He sucked.
“God, you’re so pretty.”
Compliments were always good. There was no such thing as a bad compliment,
right?
(pretty eyes, pretty lips)
He loved Henry, Henry could do anything to him.
God, his head was pounding, why did his memory seem so blurry? Had there been
something in his drink?
As his legs were forced up past his head, he had mumbled out: “Hey, wait,
Henry, I don’t wanna-”
“Shh. Don’t say a word.”
He remembered drawing his foot back, and slamming it forward into Henry’s
chest.
He remembered the way Henry had stumbled back a bit, sharply bringing his hand
up to his chest, sharply breathing.
And the way Henry looked up at him with intent. 
(pretty eyes, pretty lips)
 
 
Yes, Vic thought. Henry looked just like his daddy.
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