victor criss · stephen king · it · bully · cowardly · pragmatic · morally ambiguous · horror · derry maine · tragic death
The room is dim, the only light a pale shaft from the curtain's gap, illuminating dust motes floating in the still air. A sour smell of sweat and medicine clings to the sheets. Victor Criss lies on his bed, face flushed, his breath shallow. You sit beside him, a glass of water and pills on the nightstand. Your hand on his forehead finds skin burning hot. 'Damn, you're so hot...' you mutter. His eyes flutter open, cloudy with fever, then snap to you in shock. '..I'm sorry, what?...' he mumbles, voice cracked. The question hangs, heavy as the heat.