@ OATHMADE.

SIDEBLOG / AESTHETIC TO @OATHMADE

[brotherworn]

          “Duh-duh-don’t,” Bill said. “I-It’s g-g-gone, R-R-Richie. It’s gone.” Richie saw the empty street where nothing moved and suddenly burst into tears. Bill looked at him for a moment and then put his arms around Richie and hugged him. Richie clutched at Bill’s neck and hugged him back. He wanted to say something clever, something about how Bill should have tried the Bullseye on the Werewolf, but nothing would come out. Nothing except sobs.

“D-Don’t, R-Richie,” Bill said, “duh-duh-duh-h-h—” Then he burst into tears himself and they only hugged each other on their knees in the street beside Bill’s spilled bike, and their tears made clean streaks down their cheeks, which were sooted with coaldust.

[brotherworn]

* voicemade‌  —  richie  tozier.

       “—well, o’ course, i got my license in my homeland. beautiful england!” toodles says, dropping his hand from bill’s forehead and tucking his hands down into his pockets. his spine straightens, his chin lifts, and suddenly toodles is no more. he likes doing his voices, but there’s something about bill in particular that makes him want to be more genuine.

       “hey, billy,” richie says, slinging a long, thin arm around bill’s shoulders, “you ever think… what would henry bowers look like if we shaved off his fuckin’ mullet?” now he’s grinning from ear to ear, his other arm extended out in front of them as if there’s a display of what this might look like. 

       just  the  image  alone  had  him  howling,  and  bill  was  good  at  imagining  things.  he  near  doubled  over  in  a  fit  of  laughter,  trying  to  gasp  his  breath  so  he  could  tell  richie  the  HILARIOUS  vision  inside  his  head,  “  h-hh-e  would  look  like  pr-pro-ff-professor  x  and  l-l-lex  luthor  had  a  fuh-fuh-king   ug-ugly  dis-dis-as-ster  b-b-baby !! ”  his  laughter  interrupted  through  his  voice,  colliding  unnaturally  with  his  stuttering.  his  face  was  even  turning  red  as  he  tried  to  describe  this  ugly  creature.

[brotherworn]

* voicemade‌  —  richie  tozier.

       ah yes, deflecting: richie knows it well. he doesn’t do it the way bill does, calmly turning the question back on richie ( who, as bill probably knows in the way he does, isn’t doing as well as he says he is ) but instead with a loud, obnoxious voice in an attempt to make someone laugh. laughter is the best medicine, folks! heal your insides with a spoonful of chucks and all your worries will fade away! he’d known the risk he was putting himself in when he’d dropped the bullshit in favor of really checking on his friend, so he’s not surprised when bill insists that he’s fine.

       “me?” richie asks, a distinguished southern accent trying to cover up his richie voice. colonel buford kissdrivel is here. “why, son, i just doan know what you’re talkin’ about! i’m FAHNE, honest ta god, i am! i swear it, on jesus name, i do. nevah bettah!” now everything feels normal again, now that the seriousness has faded from between them, but richie allows his shoulder to bump against bill’s in a silent reminder that he’s here. right here. and he’s not going anywhere.

      it  does  the  trick,  but  it  hardly  makes  bill  feel  any  better.  only  a  fraction  of  his  anguish  is  washed  away,  hidden  away  beneath  the  cackle  he  lets  out.  his  hands  flex  uneasily  across  his  kneecaps,  as  it  fades  again  into  the  silence,  between  them.  and  the  chirping  of  crickets  is  all  he  hears  for  a  moment.  how  could  he  just  say  that  he  wasn’t  alright  ??  it  wasn’t  LIKE  him.  but  he  knows  he’s  not  okay,  he  knows  just  last  month  he  had  went  careening  into  main  street’s  traffic  half  cocked  and  almost  hoping  to  get  hit.  he’d  be  in  control  of  that,  unlike  everything  else  that  happened  around  him.

he  flexes  his  hands  again,  uneasy.  and  he  knows  he  shouldn’t  feel  like  this,  least  of  all  around  a  friend,  especially  a  friend  as  fast  as  richie  was.  but  still,  bill  was  the  strong  one,  the  one  without  fear,  that  would  come  up  with  ideas  and  everyone  for  one  reason  or  another  went  along  with  it.  he  didn’t  even  know  why,  honestly.  but  he  inhales  and  shrugs  his  shoulders  before  knocking  back  into  him.  screw  it,  he  thought,  wetting  his  lips  before  speaking  again,  “  c-can  i  tell  you  suh-suh-homething  ?? ”  

[brotherworn]

* voicemade‌  —  richie  tozier.

@oathmade —— BILL DENBROUGH / DRY THE TEARS FROM YOUR EYES.

       “—big bill?” he’s been uncharacteristically quiet and, when he does speak, he sounds just as uncharacteristically mature. there’s no voice to be found here except for his own ( the voice which, as he gets older, tends to fade into something continuously confident and charming whether it’s because he’s famous or because he’s hiding something ) and he shifts closer to bill as if he thinks someone is going to overhear even though they’re alone.

       “you’re— i mean… you’re doin’ okay, huh?” he knows he’s not. it’s only been a few months since the untimely death of georgie denbrough and richie knows that if it’s still on his mind, it’s absolutely still on bill’s mind. still, he wants to ask, wants to let bill know that he’s here, that he’s watching and listening. 

        his  eyes  were  cast  darkly  with  internal  grief.  how  many  tears  had  he  shed  in  the  solitude  of  his  room ??  how  many  times  had  he  winced  as  he  screeched  his  chair  behind  him  and  fled  from  the  cacophonous  clinking  and  clanging  of  silverware.  and  he  didn’t  know  what  was  worse.  were  his  parents  just  too  hurt  inside  to  engage  with  him  ??  or  did  they  coolly  regard  him  with  a  hate  as  if  he  were  responsible  for  it  ??  he  tried  not  to  think  of  it,  but  bill  always  thought  too  much;  imagined  too  deeply.

he  keeps  quiet,  not  wanting  his  voice  and  his  stutter  to  betray  him.  simply  humming  in  a  positive  tone,  he  nods  his  head.  his  arms  are  resting  atop  their  knees  as  the  pair  of  boys  relegate  the  better  part  of  the  afternoon  to  just  mindlessly  sitting  near  the  barrens. but  he  realizes  suddenly,  it’s  not  much  like  richie  to  invade  with  concern  ??  most  he’d  do  would  be  to  BREAK  tension  with  a  joke,  or  a  voice.  at  once,  bill  wished  he’d  distract  this  topic  with  one  of  the  classics.  “  a-aa-ah-are  you  ??  oh-oh-’kay,  ri-r-r-richie  ?? ”

[transbilliam]

bill denbrough is the essence of drinking milk straight out of the carton

[brotherworn]

              friendly  reminder  that  richie  was  the  first  person  to  tell  bill  that  it  wasn’t  his  fault  that  georgie  died.  he’s  the  first  one  !!  it  was  him !!  this  kid  has  gone  literal  months  just  overthinking  about  how  it’s  his  fault  his  little  brother  is  dead,  how  his  parents  hate  him  and  blame  him  too  for  it  and  all  it  took  was  richie  saying  “  you  didn’t  want  to  hurt  him,  you  just  wanted  the  kid  to  have  a  little  fun !! ”  and  bill  then  can’t  hold  it  back,  he  bawls  violently  in  front  of  richie,  feeling  a  sort  of  relief  come  over  him.  it’s  not  his   fault,  he  knows,  and  he  feels  it.  but  he  had  to  hear  it  from  someone  else.  

and  bill  is  constantly  exuding  this  strength.  i  think  most  of  the  kids  forget  he  too  is  a  kid  inside  and  he  has  an  incredible  amount  of  untapped  grief  and  sorrow,  blame  and  guilt  inside.  it  translates  to  anger  so  easily  because  that’s  SAFER  to  feel  than  the  fear  inside  his  own  heart.  it’s  easier  to  aim  the  pain  and  the  hurt  at  the  world  and  at  pennywise  because  if  not,  it  turns  back  in  on  himself  and  he  would  get  swallowed  whole  by  it.

[brotherworn]

it  was  all  in  front  of  him  now:   his  stutter,  his  dad's  blank  hurt  eyes  as  he  puttered  around  his  garage  workshop,  the  terrible  sight  of  the  dust  on  the  closed  piano  cover  upstairs - dusty  because  his  mother  didn't  play  anymore.  he  wasn't  anyone  but  someone  who  cried  and  got  scared  and  wanted  his  muh-muh-mother.

[brotherworn]

        summer  has  terrified  him  all  year.  it  was  never  at  the  forefront  of  his  mind  no,  he  had  buried  himself  in  school.  it  wasn’t  like  him,  staying  after  school  studying,  reading.  he’d  busy  himself  until  the  librarian  would  tell  him  it  was  time  to  leave  or  if  he  saw  the  sun  setting.  he  had  to  be  home  by  dark,  that  he  knew.  but  he  also  knew  it  didn’t  matter.  that  the  house  was  as  empty  of  a  shell  as  it  was  in  the  light  of  day  as  the  dead  of  night.  and  he  dreaded  it.  now  with  eight  hours  of  distraction  GONE  from  his  schedule,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  standing  before  an  empty  void.  but  he  was  still  determined,  more  than  anything.  his  fear  and  terror  turning  into  an  anger  that  fueled  him.

the  plans  that  bill  made  were  concrete.  and  starting  tomorrow,  they’d  begin  their  OWN  investigation  NO  MATTER  how  many  rebuttals  and  hesitations  he  heard.  they  were  going  to  the  barrens,  they  were  going  to  search  ALL  DAY,  possibly  everyday.  he’d  get  sunburn  before  he’d  go  home,  not  eat  all  day,  and  return  only  when  exhaustion  would  have  his  face  planting  instantly  into  his  pillow.  a  place  to  sleep,  that’s  what  HOME  was.  and  as  he  watched  his  friends  peel  off,  heading  into  their  own  homes  bill  felt  himself  slow.

he  could’ve  been  home  five  times  faster  if  he  rode.  and  he  was  truly  known  for  his  speed.  but  now,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  dragging  cinder-blocks  tied  to  his  ankles.  prolonging  his  time  away  from  those  four  walls.  envious,  he  was  when  he  saw  each  of  his  friends  eagerly  head  into  their  houses.  sure  they  each  had  their  own  reasons  for  not  finding  HOME  hospitable,  but  ever  since  george,  bill  felt  as  though  his  house  were  a  ghost.  

there  was  no  engagement,  no  spark  from  his  parents.  every  time  he  entered  the  house  he  allowed  himself  time  and  time  again  to  eagerly  approach  his  mom.  ‘ hey  mom,  how  are  you  ?? ’    hoping,  praying  that  this  was  DIFFERENT.  that  today  she’d  look  at  him.  and  every  time,  he  was  denied.  his  father  was  worse,  coming  home,  and  they’d  both  veg  out  in  the  living  room.  some  MINDLESS  program  keeping  their  own  minds  from  drifting.  sometimes  bill  felt  invisible,  sometimes  he  felt  that  his  parents  blamed  him,  so  they  IGNORED  HIM.  sometimes  he  felt  that  they  too  had  died  that  day.

and  it  had  been  that  way  for  months.  so  terrible  that  bill  didn’t  expect  anything  differently  anymore.  and  that’s  why  his  feet  slowed  as  he  reached  his  street.  he  just  stood  there,  hands  sweating  underneath  the  june  sun.  even  for  maine  it  still  felt  warm,  but  his  sweat  came  more  from  the  doom  he  felt  in  his  heart.  there  was  nowhere  for  him  to  go  now,  no  school  in  the  morning,  no  study  hall  to  take  up  the  hours  between.  for  bill  even  with  how  HORRIBLE  school  still  was, at  least  it  was  better  than  the  silence  at  home.

but  eventually  he  couldn’t  keep  himself  away  from  his  house.  silver’s  front  tire  rode  up  against  the  entry  for  the  driveway,  and  it  was  done.  his  heart  burned  in  his  chest  as  he  leaned  silver  up  against  the  garage,  his  breath  coming  in  frequent  gasps.  into  the  house,  he  made  a  point  to  close  the  door  louder  than  he  should’ve.  BEFORE,  his  mother  was  incessant  on  him  not  slamming  the  door.  he  stood  still  for  a  second,  nothing.  the  quiet  creaking,  the  dust  on  his  mother’s  piano,  the  soft  murmurings  from  HSN  prattering  about  on  some  hair  products.

no.  he  couldn’t  take  it.  no,  his  bag  slid  down  his  arms,  but  he  couldn’t  feel  it.  and  he  could  SEE  his  mother  from  here,  but  she  didn’t  even  look  at  him.  his  eyes  trailed  around  the  house,  and  settled  on  george’s  room,  the  door  closed.  in  a  PERFECT  world,  he  would  be  running  out  to  greet  him,  ‘  BILLY  !!  BILLY  YOU’RE  HOME  !! ’  elementary  school  got  out  an  hour  early,  his  mom  picked  him  up  since  it  was  farther  but  not  far  enough  for  a  bus.  but  there  was  no  greeting,  and  bill  couldn’t  FACE  this  yet.  his  mind  hummed  with  drifting  thoughts,  and  he  turns,  opening  the  door  once  again  into  the  world  outside.  

it  slams  louder,  this  time  but  even  bill  doesn’t  hear  it.  he  runs  to  his  bike,  fumbling  as  he  settles  himself  atop  it  and  he  pedals  out  of  the  driveway.  he  pedals  down  the  street,  towards  the  center  of  town  and  pedals  more.  his  calves  burn  with  exertion,  but  pushes  them  further.  a  wetness  falls  down  his  cheek,  but  it’s  wiped  away  by  the  SPEED  he  reaches.  he  stood  up  as  he  reached  the  top  of  chestnut  street,  and  leaned  forward,  the  wind  tearing  at  his  face.  and  there  were  cars  coming  to and  fro  about  their  business,  but  bill  didn’t  slow.  his  friends  said  he  looked  as  if  he  were  trying  to  beat  the  devil,  and  it  was  true.  the  devil  inside  himself,  the  devil  inside  his  PARENTS,  inside  his  own  house.  and  as  his  lungs  threatened  to  burst  inside  his  body,  he  stopped  suddenly.  

he  could  feel  the  closeness  of  his  own  spirit,  of  georgie’s.  whoever,  whatever  sick  fuck  took  him  away.  he’d  kill  him  himself,  he’d  cut  off  HIS  HEAD,  and  drop  it  in  front  of  his  parent’s  stupid  faces.  they  couldn’t  ignore  that,  or  him  then  !!  resolute  and  reforged  in  his  haste,  he  felt  emboldened.  his  grief  and  anger  he’d  swallowed   down  all  year  to  benefit  others,  his  parents,  and  friends  SWELLED  to  the  front.  he  had  never  wanted  to  kill  something,  or  anyone  before.  but  god,  he  wanted  to  now,  exacting  what  he  felt  was  JUSTICE  for  his  little  brother  who  couldn’t  fight  back.  there  was  a  time  to  live,  and  a  time  to  die.  bill  would  accomplish  NOTHING  by  running  himself  into  traffic,  no.  he  had  to  first  get  this  fucker,  get  him  so  no  one  else  could  DIE  again.  his  knuckles  burn  white  on  his  handlebars,  and  he  thinks  on  returning  home.  not  a  chance  in  hell,  he  thought.  home  was  behind  him,  just  a  place  to  sleep.

[brotherworn]

* voicemade‌  — richie  tozier.

       “sir, don’t you remember?!” richie ( no, toodles, who just sounds a lot like richie at this juncture ) asks, and there’s a panic in his voice now. the voice wavers— it wasn’t that solid to begin with— and he presses a hand to his chest in a display of dramatic shock. “why, it’s toodles, sir! your mind isn’t sleeping, is it? oh, heavens!”        he reaches out then, grabs onto bill by the head, and uses one hand to steady the base of his neck as the other presses against his forehead. then, after a moment, he flips the hand over, using the back of it instead of his palm. “well, you don’t have a fever! but really, sir, i do worry about you, i do worry so much! you really ought to rest—”

         in  all  honesty,  he  hadn’t  been  paying  attention  last  time.  and  it  wasn’t  due  to  richie’s  poor  PERFORMANCE,  as  if  that  were  a  thing.  no,  bill  couldn’t  think  why  he  couldn’t  recall  him,  maybe  the  voices  blended  together,  again,  not  at  the  fault  of  richie.  EACH  VOICE  was  distinct  as  the  seasons,  it  was  just  there  were  many  of  them.  a  smile,  bigger  now  comes  across  his  face  as  he  shakes  his  head,  stupid  bill.  

but  before  he  has  a  chance  to  shake  off  a  possible  INSULT  towards  his  friend;  he  was  proud  of  said  voices,  of  course,  richie  blasts  forward.  completely  in  character  now,  which  made  bill  laugh.  his  own  hand  goes  up,  trying  to  SWAT  away  the  other’s,  “  oh,  y-y-ye-yeah  ??  and  w-wh-where  did  you  get  yo-your  d-doc-doctor’s  licence,  too-toodles ?? ”

[gayeddiek]

losers club dynamics: bill and mike

he did an odd thing then, odd but rather lovely. he kissed my cheek. god bless, mike. i’ll be around.

[brotherworn]

catch  me  throwing  a  bunch  of  hands  if  the  2019  movie  somehow  has  bill  as  the  engineer  instead  of  the  writer  because  he  is  shown  making  that  mock  sewer  thing  with  his  hamster  tunnels  and  he  doesn’t  “know  much  poetry”  like  he  is  the  writer  stop  making  stupid  fucking  switches  that  don’t  need  to  exist  !!

[brotherworn]

*  voicemade‌   —  richie  tozier.

@oathmade —— BILL DENBROUGH / WE COULD BE HEROES.

       “hey, billy!” richie says, meeting the other boy beneath the bridge that he usually leaves silver under when they go to play in the barrens. richie’s hands move his too-long, loudly printed button down out of the way and he tucks freckled hands into his pockets, grinning from ear to ear at his friend. he always enjoys when he and bill get here first or, in today’s case, when they come alone. he thinks bill’s interesting, and, just as importantly, chuckalicious. he ought to do the voices, richie thinks to himself, just before he releases toodles the english butler.

       “oi! if it ain’t the man of the hour! master denbrough, if you would, please, give us a twirl? i must make sure the tailor did his very best. nothing less for you, sir!”

         a  quiet  calm  came  over  his  demeanor.  even  for  all  the  dread  the  barrens  brought  up,  it  was  was  a  safer  place  than  town,  and  his  own  house.  and  the  infinite  buzz  of  the  wilderness  was  more  tolerable  and  drowned  out  his  incessant  thoughts.  a  light,  but  faint  smile  crosses  his  face  when  he sees  the  other,  BOLD  &  BRIGHT  against  the  summer’s  sun.  and  he  stood  out  in  a  defiance  bill  admired  in  a  way.  

the  voice  cut  easily  through  the  quiet  of  the  barrens,  ringing  out  pleasantly  into  the  warm  air.  “  wh- whi-  which  one  is  th-that  now  ??  does  h-he-he  have  a  n-n-n-na-ame ??”

[w-byers]

meet the losers club;

“you didn’t kill beverly because she wasn’t afraid. we aren’t either. not anymore. now you’re the one who’s afraid.”