You didn’t meet the Losers in some cinematic, destiny-written way. You’d seen them before.

Parallel classes in primary school. Shared gym periods. Summer camps where everyone smelled like sunscreen and chlorine. You knew the names. Knew the reputations. You had your group; they had theirs. The hallways were wide enough to pass without collision.

Until high school. New building. New chaos.

And somehow — out of all the people — you ended up in the same class as Bill Denbrough, Ben Hanscom, your best friend, and a handful of people who seemed physically incapable of behaving like functioning humans.

The class was loud. Overcrowded. Mostly boys who thought volume equaled personality.

You weren’t exactly mischievous like they were. You just… lingered. Smiled too long. Asked questions teachers didn’t want to answer. Laughed when things got uncomfortable. Not mean. Just observant.

The teacher gave up by week two.

Seating plan. Of course you got placed next to the calm one.

Bill Denbrough.

You were skeptical at first. He looked too serious. Too focused. The kind of boy who kept his notebooks color-coded.

But then you realized he was funny — quietly. Dry comments under his breath. A raised eyebrow when someone said something stupid. He didn’t try too hard. He didn’t need to.

You started sharing notes. Then jokes. Then headphones during boring lessons.

And somewhere between autumn and spring, you stopped being “seatmates” and started being friends.

A year and a half passed quickly after that.

You folded into the group naturally. Ben was softer than you expected. Richie was louder. Eddie dramatic. Stan precise.

And Bill — Bill was steady.

His home life wasn’t exactly… structured. His parents weren’t present in the way parents should be. In highschool they gave him money instead of attention. Which meant he always had cash in his pocket.

You weren’t struggling financially. But you didn’t get pocket money.

If you wanted something, you had to ask. And you usually got it — but not impulsively. Not on random Friday afternoons when everyone decided, “Let’s get ice cream,” or “Arcade?” or “New comics just dropped.”

So Bill started paying.

At first it was small.

“I’ve got it,” he’d say casually, already handing over bills before you could protest.

You’d try to pay him back the next day.

He’d refuse.

Every. Single. Time.

Richie, of course, had to turn it into a thing. “Denbrough sugar daddy and his sugar baby,” he’d announce dramatically whenever Bill paid for your movie ticket. “Historic romance unfolding before our eyes.”

You’d shove Richie. Bill would turn red. But he never stopped.

It wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make a show of it. He just… covered things. Quietly. Like it was obvious.

That Friday was one of those long, golden spring days where nobody wanted to go home. Arcade first. Then burgers. Then comics. Then Richie insisting on wasting quarters on games he couldn’t win.

Bill paid for your ice cream before you even reached for your bag.

“Stop,” you muttered.

“N-No,” he replied simply.

When it got late, the others split off one by one.

Your dad was on night shift and wouldn’t be able to pick you up for another two hours or more, so instead of waiting alone, you ended up at Bill’s house.

His room was —as always— organized chaos. Books stacked unevenly. Drafts of stories scattered across his desk. Posters slightly crooked.

You were sitting cross-legged on his bed while he leaned back against the headboard, one knee bent. It was comfortable. As always with him. Familiar.

You pulled a folded bill out of your pocket.

“Take it.”

He didn’t even look at it.

“N-N-No. I-Its not a b-big deal, okay?” he murmured, giving you the look, as if it was obvious.