thinking about... what loser stayed with mike the longest...
It wasn't bev, bev left among one of the first, she had an aunt she could live with, a future outside of Derry, a future Alvin couldn't intrude on. They all were happy to let her go, they all thought that this town held her back, they all hoped that it was for the best, even if it broke their hearts.
A year later Sonia decided to get Eddie closer to his aunts, and they had to let him go too, knowing that it wasn't hopeful for him. Eddie leaving left them all lost and uneasy.
Ben is the next to go. He hates it, he hates the idea of being the new kid again, and they can all feel the terrifying emptiness of his absence, even before they hug him goodbye. The clubhouse stops feeling like home when he's gone.
Bill leaves unexpectedly, almost hurriedly. They suppose that it was something Denbroughs wanted to do ever since fall of 1988, and Bill just never wanted to believe it. Now, it feels like the family is finally shaking itself awake. Bill feels like they are trying to leave something behind. He thinks back to the cold space between him and his parents of the big living room couch, and shamefully thinks that he hopes that this coldness stays in Derry. Mike knows it will.
It is a little while before anyone else leaves. Both Toziers and Urises have a lot in this town, and, now fully teens, the three of them are left to their own devices. Mike feels lonely, but he also feels hopeful. Maybe, if he's lucky, they will stay. They talk, and talk, and talk, and Mike collects and cherishes every word, even as he hopes they will stay, because he knows they won't.
They talk about everything: Birds, music, horror movies, trashy sci-fi Richie likes and decidedly Not trashy sci-fi Stan likes. Mike himself tends to prefer fantasy. Mike improves Richie's music taste, and Richie, in turn, never shuts up about it.
They talk about the others. It feels like a ritual. They talk, and they reminisce, and they keep them with them, one story at a time, one joke at a time. Mike listens. Mike remembers.
And then Richie leaves. Richie leaves, and there's nothing they can do. None of them know exactly how it works, but they know that something happens, when you leave Derry, and they know it's something stronger than them, something they are powerless to stop.
Before Richie leaves, they talk trough the night. They stumble around Derry, around the Canal, trough the Bassey Park. They talk, and it's not like they say anything new, but Mike still clings to every word, because he needs this, he needs to remember, he needs to keep this with him. Richie, as always, seems happy to talk. Maybe, Mike thinks, he needs to get it all out, so that Mike can have it for safekeeping. So that Mike can use it when Richie won't be able to.
Stan doesn't talk as much. Or, maybe, he talks plenty, but it just doesn't feel the same when it's his quiet, unbearably adult and knowing voice, and not Richie's manic ramblings. What Stan says is purposeful. They both know what's happening.
They sit together for hours, sometimes on the clean floor in Stan's bedroom, sometimes on a bench near the Canal, sometimes near the birdfeeder near the Memorial, sometimes just in the grass in the Barrens. Each story Stan tells feels like a gift, like a treasure. Stan talks about them as kids, talks about Bill being wary of cars and Eddie being in love with them, talks about 7 year-old Richie eating dirt, talks about the first western they all saw and how Bill instantly fell in love with them, talks about Eddie getting Richie and Stan himself hooked on X-men, talks about Bev in the laundramat, and Ben privately asking Stan if zebra-cakes were kosher because Richie was talking out of his ass again, about Bev outplaying him at checkers, about everything, all at once. Old, childish memories, that would seem unimportant, if they were brought up by anyone else. When it's Stan, it's different. Stan does everything he does for a reason.
The sun is setting, golden and bright, and it makes Stan look ethereal and even more somber. They are sitting on the grass, Kenduskeag runs by them. It's the same spot. They are just all that's left pf the circle.
"The Turtle couldn't help us."
Stan sounds content. Mike feels the same wave of absolute, ultimate understanding they all had when they were together, the whole Lucky Seven. He realizes that this is what Stan is sharing with him. He makes him understand.
"We were stronger than him. We were more. We are still more."
Mike looks in his eyes, serious, serene, simultaneously childlike and unfathomably old.
"You just have to keep us."
Stan doesn't need Mike to make a promise. They don't make a pact, they don't cut up their palms. They both know that it's not necessary, that Mike is already here, and he already remembers. He is already part of the circle. They all are.
Mike doesn't need Stan to tell him that he is leaving too. They don't say a word, and Mike is the only one hugging him goodbye before the Urises get in the car and drive off, out of Derry, out of Maine, out.
Mike misses them. All of them.
He will keep them safe. He will keep them near. He will love them. And he will remember.
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