Work Text:
"We need to talk, Henry."
You know that feeling you get when someone comes up to you — when they start the conversation with 'We need to talk'?
It's that deep seated dreadful feeling that rises up out of your stomach and settles heavily on your chest? The one that curls its slimy eldritch level tendrils of doom and gore as it feels and pokes around at your insides, leaving you nauseous — consumed with thoughts like 'Oh God , what now?' The feeling that makes you momentarily panic, anxiety running wild and free as your inner workings scramble to put up the correct protective walls that they never manage to finish in time before shit goes nuclear? Before the world is suddenly crumbling around you and you're left defenseless because you uprooted — completely removed the bomb shelter in the backyard of your mind long ago. You thought you wouldn't need it again — you assured yourself through your innermost deep, late night thought processes where you allowed yourself to let go — allowed yourself to give into the butterflies in your stomach and the swell in your heart. Those nights where you'd promise yourself over and over again that this time would be different — that things wouldn't go wrong.
But it wouldn't be because Henry could only stare on as you anxiously fidgeted with your necklace — the necklace that he'd given you for your last birthday.
Henry wants to vomit from the anxiety, but he wouldn't show it. You couldn't know just how weak he was for you — how you made him feel things that he hadn't felt before — things he still didn't quite understand, but he liked them. Henry really liked those feelings that made his face feel comfortably warm and his knees all wobbly and temporarily useless.
"Yeah? Spit it out, [Last Name]." He huffs, impatient
Henry's voice thunders with the confidence of a man who stands much taller than Henry ever could — laced with a pridefulness that Henry still wasn't able to possess quite yet. Of course he'd heard passing phrases along the lines of 'fake it til you make it', he wasn't stupid even if the whole of Derry seemed to be in agreement that he was. Henry wasn't stupid, nor was he illiterate in any sense of the word — no matter what his dad and his teachers said, no matter what he managed to catch out of those stupid fucking whispers coming from people who just didn't know how to keep their voices down low enough to not cause a scene when Henry walked through the school corridors, no matter what Patrick said when he wanted to hurt Henry in ways Henry wasn't good at hurting people. Henry Bowers wasn't stupid, nor was he illiterate.
But God fucking dammit if the sentiment laid deep beneath the bowls of various pieces of literature that Henry couldn't really understand no matter how many times he read them out loud — no matter how hard he thought on them was a little lost on him. He'd tried to read you so many fucking times over. God had this boy tried . But you were just like those books he'd be handed in English class. Every time he got even the littlest bit close to making sense of what had been put in front of him.. the lines of dialogue and well-loved paragraphs of plot-driving detail would start to blend together and the letters would start to switch places. It confused his brain and made him nauseous.
But unlike how he could with those insignificant little books, Henry just couldn't get angry with you.
He wanted to read you some more, even if it was hard — even if it made him want to cry and vomit and run and hide and kiss you and touch you and hold you and good God did he want to feel you. He wanted to give you a hug like those normal couples around school did. Greta wouldn't hug him when they were together, she said he was gross but you said he wasn't. You said he wasn't gross and Greta was a hateful bitch with the personality of a dead fish and she smelled like one too and you made him laugh so hard at that. Henry never laughed. Henry wasn't the type of guy who laughed but God did you make him laugh so hard he almost cried.
But Henry wouldn't cry. Not around you. Not even when he got frustrated with himself because you were an open book that he just couldn't read too good quite yet but he was getting there and he was trying his fucking hardest to read you and you were so patient and why did you want to talk to him now? Why did you have to phrase it that way?
"I, um.." You trail off
Your cheeks were reddening as you bit your lip all thoughtful like and God Henry thought you looked so pretty but all the prettiness in the world couldn't cool the anxious tornado of worry and anxiety and nausea that swirled around in his tummy where butterflies were supposed to flutter.
He can't stand the way that you keep looking around — gaze venturing and aimlessly wandering everywhere but to him. You're an open book and Henry just wants to read you but he's not the brightest star in the sky but you told him he has heart and that's what counts. You told him it was okay that he couldn't read as well as Victor does over the bonfires you all have in the barrens during the summer. You said it was okay that he can't write like that Bill Denbrough kid he's always picking on and throwing around because he fucking hates it when people are better than him at the littlest fucking things that he should be good at but he's not. He's not because all the doctors he's seen all tell him that he's had too many concussions and head injuries from being a brute and an idiot just like his father always tells him he is. The doctors always throw around the word Dyslexia and Henry doesn't want to know what it means but deep down he does. He hates it because that means he's stupid and Henry Bowers is not stupid. He's not illiterate and he wishes that he could just read and write like all the other kids can because it's not fucking fair.
"I.. I know your birthday is coming up but..." You trail off
Henry wants to puke. He wants to spill his guts because something in his head is itching — clawing at his mind and telling him things like 'this is it' and 'this is the end' and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want that because he's so close to cracking the code — he can see the lines of the book that is you finally blending back together and he wants to cry because he's not ready. He's not ready to be alon again because Greta doesn't love him like you do and none of the guys give him hugs or touch him like you do because that would gay and Henry Bowers is not gay. He's not stupid. He's not illiterate.
"I wanted to give you your gift early because, well, I know it's been rough lately and I think you need it now more than later." You explain
And then you finally bring your arms out from behind your back and all Henry can do is blink. The letters are finally ceasing their constant switching and the lines are getting clear and you're holding a little gift box. A tiny little gift box in your tiny little hands and it's red and that's Henry's favorite fucking color and he's about to burst and he's shaking and all he can do is fucking stare as he fights his fucking hardest to cross the right wires in his brain and switch on the generator.
"What the fuck is this?"
His voice is confident and almost fucking angry with the way it booms but Henry doesn't feel that way at all. He isn't angry he's just so fucking confused and Henry doesn't feel the slightest bit of confidence in the slightest and he's fucking quaking with feelings he doesn't understand. He's staring down at the present and you gesture for him to take it and oh God what's happening?
And when he takes it from you, and as his fingertips brush over the soft skin of your soft hands the generator in his brain is suddenly whirring to life and he doesn't know what to do with the pages that he's finally starting to read. He doesn't know what to do with the information coming into his head at such a fast rate but Henry Bowers isn't illiterate or stupid or gay and why does his throat feel so scratchy and why does his face feel itchy and why do his eyes feel so full of water as he pulls the top off of the little box to reveal a knife nestled deep into a sea of golden tissue paper. Henry's breaking into a million pieces as he picks the little pocket knife up and holds it up into the light. He's fucking crumbling and shattering into a million pieces as he drops the box to the ground and flicks the blade open and for once the lines aren't blurring together and the words aren't switching around because all he can see are three little words engraved into the side of the blade near the thickest part. He doesn't know what to do because he always worried that he was illiterate and stupid and gay and that everyone was right thinking what they thought about him.
"Do you like it?" You ask
Henry's choking, his face is hot and it's itchier and warmer than before and he's suddenly wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks because the pocket knife had the words 'I love you, Henry' engraved onto the blade and he's not crying and he's not illiterate and he's not stupid and he's so fucking overwhelmed and he's shaking and he just doesn't know what to do because he can finally fucking read just like all the other kids in Derry and it's scary.
Then the cold surrounding his broken down body is suddenly being washed away as you wrap your arms around him. You're hugging him and it's tight and it doesn't hurt and he doesn't need to shove you away because it's you and you're not one of the guys and you're not calling him a pussy for bursting into tears that he isn't fucking crying over a stupid little birthday gift you surprised him with early because you knew that he hadn't been doing good but now he's doing great because you're here and he's warm and he's safe in your arms. And then you press a kiss to his cheek and it's sweet and it sends bits of electricity rolling through his body and God what did he do to deserve you?
"Don't cry, Henry." You whisper "It's okay. I can take it back if it's not-"
"No!" Henry snaps, a bit too quickly for his own liking
And he closes the knife and he holds it close against his chest like he used to do with his dad's before he fucking lost it but he's not stupid and he's not illiterate and this isn't gay because this is the greatest thing that's ever happened to him. You're the greatest thing that's ever happened to him and he doesn't know what to do with any of that so he just melts into your embrace. He clings to you like his life depends on it and he doesn't let go for a long time and he buries his face into your shoulder and he thanks you over and over again until he doesn't have the breath to do it. But you just stay there in his arms and you rub his back and he doesn't mind the scars of his dad's previous lessons so much anymore because you're still here and you're touching him and you told him that it was just skin and that it didn't matter because you had scars too.
"You're welcome, Henry." You whisper, placing a sweet kiss to his cheek
But that isn't enough and Henry's straightening up before he realizes and then his hands are cupping your cheeks and the knife is definitely cold against your skin but you don't seem to mind because he's kissing you and he loves you and you don't tell him he's being a little bitch for crying like his dad does and you don't treat him like Patrick does and you ignore the whispers in the hallway while you walk around holding his hand and you ignore the comments his dad makes about you being too good for him because you love him and that's exactly what you tell people who have anything to say about it. You tell people that he's not so bad and that he's really smart and kind and that he treats you so nice and that's all Henry ever wanted to be seen as. You read him so well, unlike anyone in this nowhere shithole town and you're patient with him while he struggles and stumbles and stutters whilst he tries to read you back.
Henry Bowers isn't illiterate and he isn't stupid and he's so fucking thankful that he has you here with him because he doesn't know what he would've done without you.
"Happy early birthday, Henry." You tell him "I love you so much."