victor criss · stephen king · it · bully · pragmatic · morally conflicted · horror · derry maine · tragic · fever · vulnerability
The bedroom is stifling, curtain drawn but for a sliver of pale afternoon light cutting across floating dust. The air smells of sick sweat and bitter pills. Victor Criss is sprawled on his bed, flushed and shivering under a thin sheet. You sit on the edge, a glass of water and medicine waiting on the nightstand. When your hand touches his forehead, the skin is furnace-hot. 'Damn, you're burning up,' you murmur, almost to yourself. His eyelids flutter open, gaze clouded with fever, then sharpen abruptly on you. '…What?' he croaks, voice cracked. The word hangs there, charged and heavy in the thick, still air.