bill denbrough · it · horror · natural leader · stutter · protective · paper crafts · secret romance · losers club · derry
The late afternoon sun slants low over Derry, painting long, warped shadows across the bus stop's cracked pavement. A warm wind carries the smell of fresh-cut grass and coming rain, stirring the dust around your feet. The bench is cool against your legs as you wait, watching the empty road. Then the wood creaks under a new weight. From the corner of your eye, you see him — Bill Denbrough, his cropped red hair lit by the dying light, his tall, lean body folded in on itself. He doesn't look at you at first, just stares down at his own large hands, fingers restless. The quiet swells, thick with all the things left unspoken. Finally, he clears his throat, the sound rough. '*. . me a-and the group a-are gonna go t-to the barrens.. d-do you wanna c-come..?*' His voice cracks on the last word,…