PatrickHockstetter×Reader（part11）
Maybe Patrick really had listened.
When he passed the Losers' Club in the hallway, he didn't give them that cold stare like before, nor did he deliberately bump anyone's shoulder. He just ignored them completely. His eyes stayed straight ahead, his stride still casual, as if they didn't exist.
The first time you noticed it, you were caught off guard.
One afternoon, you ran into Ben at the cafeteria entrance. He was tying his shoelaces. Patrick walked past him. Ben's body instinctively tensed, but Patrick didn't even look at him. He just kept walking.
Ben looked up, saw you, and gave you a bewildered expression.
You nodded at him and didn't say anything.
On the way home from school, you asked Patrick, "You haven't been giving them a hard time lately."
"Didn't you tell me not to?" he said. His tone had a hint of complaint, but not really. You didn't press further, but something stirred inside you—he'd actually listened.
The weekend came. The day they'd agreed to go to the storm drain.
You didn't ask Patrick again whether he was coming. Pushing would only backfire. But when you left the house on Saturday morning, he was already standing on the street corner.
By the time the two of you reached the meeting spot, everyone else had already gathered. Except for Stanley. He'd declined the invitation. You could understand that—asking someone timid to go into a storm drain with unknown dangers was practically impossible.
But the number hadn't shrunk, because there was a new face.
A boy not wearing a school uniform stood next to Bill. His skin was tanned dark from the sun, and he wore a faded white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, revealing sturdy forearms. His eyes were sharp, and they looked like they held stories.
When he saw you, he gave a crisp nod. Then his gaze shifted to the person beside you, lingering on Patrick for a second.
Mike walked in the front. Slightly behind and to the side was Bill. His steps were steady, but you could tell he was nervous—both his hands were clenched into fists inside his pockets, and he was walking faster than usual.
Richie chewed his gum, blowing a bubble that popped with a snap before he sucked it back in. He kept glancing back at Patrick every so often, his expression practically saying, "Why is this guy here?"
Eddie walked beside him, clutching his inhaler, his steps stiff, also keeping his distance from a certain someone.
And the culprit—Patrick—walked behind you, hands in his pockets, still with that casual, devil-may-care attitude.
They waded across the stream in the wasteland. On an unremarkable slope, the storm drain entrance sat quietly.
You stood at the opening and peered inside. It was pitch black, like an open mouth. Even before going in, a strange smell drifted out—like the rag your class used to erase the blackboard, which someone had then used to wipe the floor.
Richie stood at the edge, poked his head in, then pulled it back. "Who's going first?"
"I'll take the front," Bill said, already stepping inside. He was brave, but you knew he was nervous—he'd been searching for his brother for months, and this was the closest he'd ever been to the truth.
Mike followed behind him, holding a branch he'd picked up from the wasteland. He tapped it against the concrete wall. The sound was muffled, echoing through the pipe like someone bouncing a ball far, far away.
The rest of you filed in after them.
Once inside, the light dimmed instantly. The air was damp and stuffy, with a faint smell of rust—like crawling into the throat of a giant sperm whale. You could feel your own breathing growing heavier. This kind of place made you instinctively want to get out.
Mike gradually drew even with Bill. Every time they passed a pipe or a fork, he would stop and look, carefully confirming something.
"Which, which entrance did you see it from?" Bill asked him.
Mike thought for a moment. "The north side of town."
"Then, then why did you bring us here?"
"Because it's all connected. The drains are all linked together. No matter where you go down, you end up in the same place."
The echoes bounced around the pipes a few times.
Richie had been quiet for a while—probably the longest stretch of silence in his life—and then he muttered, "The same place... That makes it sound like we have some kind of fate or doom waiting for us."
"You're so funny," Beverly said, rolling her eyes.
"Am I wrong? In movies, right before something horrible happens, they always say stuff like that."
"Usually those people are the main characters," Ben added unexpectedly.
Eddie muttered from the back, "All of you, shut up." But his voice was shaking a little too.
Footsteps echoed through the pipes. Every step had a reverberation, like someone was right behind you in your blind spot—you take a step, they take a step.
All around, water dripped. Drip. Drip. Over and over, even though there weren't any visible droplets clinging to the walls.
Don't worry about it, you told yourself. Maybe it's just some monster opening its mouth above your head, and that's its drool.
Eddie started wiping his hands. They'd become covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Every few seconds, he'd rub them on his pants, only for them to get sweaty again, then wipe them again.
You were a little tense too. Your face was tight.
Patrick walked quietly behind you. He was looking at the side passages and the dark corners. He'd been here before. He knew what was inside. You kind of wanted to ask him, but you also kind of didn't.
Mike suddenly stopped. He raised his branch and held it across Bill's chest. "Listen."
You held your breath and focused. From deep in the pipe came a sound. You couldn't tell what it was. It sounded like someone laughing, and it made your skin crawl.
The hairs on the back of your neck stood up one by one.
Richie opened his mouth, but Bill silenced him with a glare.
The sound lasted a few seconds, then stopped.
You were toward the back, your palms slick with sweat. You remembered your dream: the damp drain, the deep red water, the bright red balloon.
You told yourself it was just a drain, no big deal. But your eyes kept searching the darkness, afraid something would suddenly rush out—and even more afraid that nothing would, and then that thing would come from behind you...
Patrick, behind you, keenly picked up on your unease.
"Aren't you supposed to be fearless? Don't scare yourself," he said out of nowhere, with that trademark smirk. "You're almost as chicken as Trashmouth."
You felt a flash of annoyance at the first half of his sentence, but by the time he finished, you were already laughing.
Richie whipped his head around, shot Patrick a venomous glare, and quickened his pace.
When they reached a fork, Bill stopped.
"L-left or right?" he asked, stuttering more than usual.
Mike crouched down and looked at the ground. There was a thin layer of silt on the floor, marked with several streaks—like drag marks.
"How do you know?" Richie asked.
Mike stood up and pointed at the marks. "Someone came this way."
"Rats don't walk like that."
You didn't really know what rat tracks looked like either, but the way Mike said it made you believe he did.
Everyone turned left. The pipe grew narrower, the air thicker.
Suppressive. Suffocating. Strange, eerie noises from no one knew where. Most people's thoughts had quietly shifted to the terror that might be lurking just ahead.
No one wanted to say it out loud, but everyone was thinking the same thing: Let's get out of here first. Georgie's case... we can come back another time.
After another two or three minutes, Bill suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. The people behind him nearly collided into him. Richie cursed, "What the hell."
Bill crouched down. There was a recessed hollow in the wall at this section of the pipe—darker than the rest, clearly visible. He reached inside, felt around for a second, paused, then pushed his hand in deeper.
He found something. He pulled it out, yanking a piece of tattered fabric from the mud.
Bill laid it on the ground. Only then did you see it was a yellow raincoat.
The raincoat was covered in mud. The collar was torn open in a large gash. The left sleeve was shorter than the right, as if it had been ripped off. There was a dark stain on it—you couldn't tell if it was mud or something else.
Bill knelt on the ground, both hands braced on the floor, head down, looking at the raincoat. His body trembled slightly.
The fear in the air was tinged with sorrow. No one spoke.
Richie looked like he wanted to say something but held back. Beverly gently placed a hand on Bill's shoulder.
"What did I tell you," Patrick thought. His theory had finally been confirmed.
Bill knelt there for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds. Then he picked up the raincoat and shook the mud off it. Not that it did much good—muddy water dripped from the sleeves onto the ground, making tiny little sounds, like someone quietly sobbing.
He folded the raincoat. Slowly. Folded it in half, then in half again, then again... until it was the size of a small square. He tucked it into his backpack.
"Let's go." His voice was hoarse when he stood up, but he hadn't cried.
Everyone silently exhaled in relief. They could finally leave this godforsaken place.
Bill began leading the way back. When he reached the fork, a confused look crossed his face.
Coming in, it had been on his left. But now, the pipe to the left had light in it—it looked like an exit.
Everyone looked ahead. Sure enough, there was a small patch of light in the distance, brighter than the surrounding darkness, like sunlight leaking in through a manhole cover. Hazy. Unreal.
"Maybe it leads out," Bill said, but Mike grabbed his arm.
"No." Mike stared for a moment. "That direction is wrong."
"It's not the direction we came from. I remember clearly," he added after a pause.
A chill ran down your spine—cold air seeping from the inside out, like someone had poured a glass of ice water down your vertebrae.
Mike's expression suddenly changed. Like he'd seen the most terrifying thing in the world.
"GO!" he shouted suddenly, spinning around and bolting in the opposite direction.
The first urgent footstep—splat—landed in the water, like a string snapping. Then the second. The third. Like dominoes, one triggering the next. Everyone was running.
Your body moved faster than your brain. By the time you realized what was happening, you'd already turned and were running with the rest of them, your lungs filling with that wet, foul air.
The pipe exploded into chaos.
Someone was shouting "This way!" Someone else was shouting "Go back!" People were calling each other's names, but the voices all blurred together into a single buzzing noise. You couldn't tell what anyone was saying. Flashlight beams swung wildly—across the ceiling, the walls, the water—stretching everyone's shadows long and short, making them look like a bunch of cats whose tails had been stepped on.
The water underfoot was treacherously slippery. Every step felt like stepping on ice. You felt like you were about to do the splits and fall flat on your face, but you couldn't stop, because people were pushing you from behind—not on purpose. Everyone was crowding, shoulders bumping against shoulders, impossible to tell who was who.
You heard someone fall behind you. Water splashing. A muffled grunt.
You looked back instinctively. Ben had fallen. His hands were braced on the ground, his face covered in muddy water. He struggled to get up, but the ground was too slick; his legs slipped out from under him again, unable to find purchase.
Patrick had somehow already made it to his side. He bent down without hesitation, grabbed Ben's arm firmly, and hauled him up like a sack of potatoes. Fast. Unhesitating. No wasted movement.
Ben steadied himself, staring blankly at Patrick, and then let himself be pulled along as they kept running.
That was the only word left in your brain.
The way in hadn't been long. But getting out felt like running for an eternity.
The light began to brighten—real light, seeping down from above, the harsh sun that belonged only to Derry. You saw the exit. Saw words spray-painted on the concrete wall. Couldn't read them. Didn't care.
When you burst out, the sun was so bright it stung your eyes.
You doubled over, hands on your knees, gasping for air. The air was hot, but it was ten thousand times better than that damp, rotten stench from the drain. Your legs were shaking. Your hands were shaking. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might leap out of your throat. For the first time, you realized hot air could smell this good.
One by one, they crawled out of that black hole. Someone collapsed directly onto the ground. Everyone was panting.
Richie was the first to speak. He was crouched on the ground, hands on his knees, head down. "What... what the hell was that?"
"Even Mike ran," Eddie said. There was mud splashed on his face, but he didn't bother wiping it off. "I thought he saw something, and then all of you started running. I didn't know what was happening, so I just ran..."
Yeah. Even the steadiest one in the group had been scared out of his wits. What had he seen?
Mike leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Ben sat on the ground, his expression complicated.
Patrick was the last one out. He walked out slowly, still with that unhurried stride, as if nothing had just happened. His shirt was soaked through in a large patch, his hair plastered to his forehead. He wasn't out of breath—at least, not nearly as bad as the rest of you.
"You idiots. There was absolutely nothing in there." He looked pretty annoyed, and you had a feeling you might know why.
Richie stood up, patted the mud off his pants, and suddenly started laughing—tilting his head back like a fool and laughing at the sky.
"We totally scared ourselves over nothing," he said, laughing between breaths. "We ran like we'd seen a ghost."
Eddie shot him a glare. "Weren't you running faster than anyone?"
"That was a strategic retreat."
Patrick pushed his wet hair back from his forehead, exposing it, and shook off the water. His gray-blue eyes looked lighter than usual.
"You pulled someone back there," you said to him.
He shot you a resentful glance. "You're seeing things."
Bev leaned against the wall, looking at you, then at Patrick. You weren't sure what that look meant, but you got the feeling she was smiling.
Mike's complexion was terrible. He kept staring at the drain entrance. Finally, your curiosity got the better of you. "What did you see back there?"
The others also turned to look at him, waiting for an answer.
Mike rubbed his temples. "Nothing. Maybe carbon monoxide or something. Just a hallucination." You nodded vaguely, not fully understanding, and didn't press further.
Bill stood at the front, looking at that dark, gaping entrance, for a long time.
"Let's go. That's, that's enough for today. Thank you, everyone," he said, his voice a little hoarse.
On the way back, you still hadn't fully recovered. Patrick walked beside you quietly, hands in his pockets.
The afternoon sun was fierce. You wiped your forehead, slick with sweat. Your hair was damp too, a few strands sticking to your temples.
"You're hot?" His voice came from behind you.
He didn't repeat himself. He just tilted his chin toward the convenience store. "Come on."
He was already walking ahead, so you quickened your pace to catch up.
At the convenience store door, Patrick pulled open the cooler and looked at the drinks inside. Then he turned his face sideways to look at you. "What flavor?"
You were still slow on the uptake. Automatically, you said, "Whatever."
He frowned, like "Whatever" wasn't an acceptable answer.
"Vanilla," you quickly added.
"It's a little embarrassing to freeload, but since he's offering, it'd be rude to refuse, right?" you rationalized to yourself.
He grabbed two vanilla ones, paid, stuffed the change in his pocket, and handed one to you.
"Next time, you're buying," he said with a crooked grin, tearing open the wrapper and taking a bite.
You sat on the edge of a flower bed not far from the convenience store. The tips of your shoes were still a few centimeters off the ground, and you couldn't be bothered to reach any further, so you just let both legs dangle. Patrick sat to your left, one leg hanging down, the other bent with his foot resting on the edge of the flower bed. He propped his elbow on his knee and leaned to one side, like a tree that had grown crooked.
The two of you ate your ice cream in peaceful silence. The sunlight felt warm on your skin—a world apart from the dark, damp drain from earlier.
He finished faster than you. Once he was done, he crumpled the wrapper into a ball, wound up, and tossed it far away—who knew whose head it would land on. Then he shifted positions, turning to look at you.
You were only halfway done. His staring made you a little uncomfortable. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, but he didn't look away.
You thought he was being weird, so you lowered your head and kept eating. A little bit of ice cream got on the corner of your mouth.
Patrick suddenly reached out—like his hand was faster than his brain—and wiped it off with the pad of his thumb.
His touch was cold. His fingers were always cool to begin with, and after holding the ice cream, they were even colder.
He pulled his hand back and looked at his fingertip. There was a small dab of white ice cream on it.
Your heart skipped a beat. The sight of his breezy, unbothered expression, contrasted with your own flustered, deer-in-headlights feeling, ignited a small, irrational anger inside you.
Then he wiped his finger on his pants and tucked his hand back into his pocket.
"Let's go." He tilted his shoulder slightly, slid off the edge in one smooth motion, bent his knees as he landed, and hit the ground almost silently.
You shoved the last bite of ice cream into your mouth, pushed off the flower bed, scooted forward, and jumped down too.
Patrick stood at the岔路口 (fork in the road), watching her figure disappear into the alley.
He didn't actually like sweet things. Sweetness belonged to other kids. Patrick had never deserved any of that.
But she wanted vanilla, so he just picked the same one. He wanted to know what it tasted like to her.
He rubbed his index finger.
He used to think other people were fake. Their喜怒哀乐 (joys and sorrows)—all of it was fake.
And now something real had barged into his life.
Every time she said "goodbye" to him, he didn't want to leave. That was real too.
A dark thought flickered through his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment and pushed it back down.
"Fuck you, Patrick," he muttered to himself, and turned to walk away.
