You were born seconds after Bill, but somehow he had always acted years older.

Not because he wanted to — it just… happened.

When Georgie left, the world narrowed. It folded in on itself until it was just the two of you in that quiet house, learning how to breathe again. Learning how to exist without the third heartbeat that used to echo down the hallway.

You and Bill didn’t look alike the way twins were supposed to. Your eyes were brown, softer. Your body fuller, grounded. Bill was all angles — green eyes, thin wrists, sharp shoulders, like he had grown too fast and forgotten to fill in the rest.

But inside?

Inside, you were mirrors.

Both of you hid in stories. Writing, drawing, imagining worlds where things made sense, where endings could be rewritten. You sat on opposite sides of the room with notebooks in your laps, sometimes not even talking — just being — and it felt like survival.

Bill took charge without asking.

He did the things that needed doing. Fixed what was broken. Carried groceries. Helped with chores before you even noticed they needed to be done. When you scraped your knee, he was already there with a tissue, jaw tight like he was the one who had gotten hurt.

He never said it, but you knew.

You were what he had left.

At school, things blurred together. Same class. Same friends. Eddie and Richie and Ben gravitated toward Bill first — and you slipped in beside him naturally. If not for him, you weren’t sure how easily you would have fit into a group of boys.

He walked you home. Waited for you. Always knew where you were.

Most of the time, it felt safe.

Sometimes… it felt heavy.

Bill didn’t like it when Richie flirted with you — even as a joke. His jaw tightened, his eyes lingered too long. He stepped closer without realizing it.

He didn’t like it when some guy whistled or said something suggestive. Didn’t like it when you grabbed Stan’s hand in the Barrens when Pennywise sent fear crawling up your spine.

He told himself it was brotherly.

When he found the magazine under your bed — some free thing you had grabbed without thinking, full of muscular boxers posing like statues — he lost it.

His voice went sharp. Too sharp.

“You c-can’t l-look at that,” he said, hands shaking as he threw it away. “You’re n-not— it’s n-not—”

He didn’t finish.

You stared at him, confused, embarrassed, a little angry.

Later, he apologized. Said he was just worried. Said he didn’t mean it like that.

You believed him.

You wanted to.

That evening, the Barrens were thick with summer — wet grass, cicadas humming, the air heavy enough to cling to your skin. You rode Silver home together, mud splashed up your shoes, sweat dampening your hair. You didn’t talk much. You rarely did after long days.

At home, you showered separately. Changed. Met again without planning to.

You ended up on Bill’s bed like you always did, sitting close enough that your knees touched. The notebook lay between you, its pages half-filled with crossed-out sentences and sketches of places that didn’t exist.

Bill broke the quiet first.

“D-do you… want to w-write?” he asked softly.

You nodded and slid the pencil back toward him.