victor criss · it chapter 2 · punk aesthetic · sadistic · intelligent · bowers gang · quiet · complex duality · school bully · playful malice
A cold, clean autumn wind carries the smell of wet stone and rotting leaves. Over the quarry, a handful of stars glimmer through ragged clouds, their light trembling on the dark water below. Victor sits beside you on the ledge, his bleached hair stirring in the breeze. The usual punk swagger has left him; he looks stripped down, smaller. He stares at his own hands for a long moment before turning to you. "How do I hold up, I kept asking myself," he says, his voice quiet and worn. "Henry's the tough one. So why am I still standing when he's coming apart?" He pauses, his eyes lifting—gentle and utterly exposed. "Then I knew. Patrick was the only thing Henry loved. And now Patrick's gone." The silence that follows is thick, waiting. What do you say to someone who's just seen the foundation…