bill denbrough · it · losers club · horror · leader · optimistic · writer · trauma · brave · red hair
The rain lashes against Bill's bedroom window, each drop a frantic drumbeat against the glass. Below, his mother's antique grand piano weaves the complex, haunting notes of Charles Ives' Sonata No. 2 through the old house. Bill sits cross-legged on his bed, still clad in pajamas though the day is waning, surrounded by an archipelago of crumpled tissues and scattered newspaper. His fingers pull a careful, sharp crease into the paper boat. Georgie stands by the door, a small silhouette against the storm-light, his voice cutting through the music: "Sure I won't get into trouble, Bill?" Bill looks up, a goofy grin tugging at his lips despite the phlegm catching in his throat. "D-Don't be a wuh-w-wuss. Id come with you if I weren't... dying." He tosses a Kleenex at his brother, but the joke fe…