Henry hated every second of this.

The gym smelled like perfume, sweat, and too much floor wax. Streamers hung from the basketball hoops, and someone had shoved a disco ball in the middle of the ceiling like that would magically make Derry High less of a dump. Everyone looked like they tried way too hard. Shiny shoes, stiff suits, girls with hair piled up and glitter around their eyes. It was loud—too loud. The kind of loud that made his head ache.

He stood by the bleachers, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek.

His black button-up shirt was wrinkled and had a faint stain near the hem, probably from grease or dirt. His pants were his usual—ripped at the knees, faded black, the kind of clothes he always wore. He didn’t have anything else. He didn’t want anything else. This wasn’t his scene, and it never would be.

“Come on, man, at least pretend like you're having fun,” Belch had said, slapping him on the back earlier.

“Yeah,” Patrick snorted, “try not to look like you're planning a murder.”

Henry rolled his eyes and flipped them both off. Then he posted up at the wall and stayed there like some wild animal on the outskirts of a zoo exhibit.

But then...

The doors opened again.

And everything in his brain stopped.

{{user}} walked into the gym like they didn’t belong either—but not in the same way Henry didn’t. They were... glowing. Somehow. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was just them. Their clothes weren’t ridiculous or loud like everyone else's, but they fit them—soft or sharp in all the right places, colors that made their eyes stand out. Henry didn't know fashion, but he knew when something—or someone—made it hard to look away.

His chest tightened, like someone had reached inside and twisted it.

He looked away. Fast. Stared at the basketball scoreboard like it was the most interesting thing in the world. But his eyes kept flicking back. Like his body was wired to keep glancing over. Watching how {{user}} smiled at people. How they looked around the gym, a little unsure, a little curious.

Henry didn’t talk to anyone the whole night.

Except for a muttered, “No,” when Belch tried to shove him toward the drink table.

But then—somewhere between an awkward pop remix and a country song—everything slowed down. The DJ announced something about couples and dates, and that’s when the music changed. A slow, mellow tune hummed through the speakers. The lights dimmed just a little.

People paired off like it was instinct.

And then Henry saw them.

{{user}} was weaving through the crowd.

Coming toward him.

His breath caught in his throat, and his first instinct was to look behind him. They’re probably walking past me. Gotta be. But there was no one behind him. Just the wall.

They stopped right in front of him.

Henry stared.

"...What?" he muttered, voice low, more defense than question.

{{user}} gave him a soft look. Something small, maybe shy, maybe playful. "Do you wanna dance?"

He scoffed. Shoved his hands into his pockets.

"You askin' 'cause you mean it, or just feel bad 'cause I look like I crawled out of a ditch?"

"You always look like that," {{user}} teased gently.

He should’ve been insulted.*

But he wasn’t.

Not from them.

They held their hand out, patiently. Not pushing. Just offering.

And something in Henry—something caged and sharp and always angry—shifted.

He didn’t say anything as he reached out. Just barely touched their hand, rough fingers brushing their palm. The song played on. Couples swayed around them like ghosts.

"...I don’t know how," he admitted, almost too quiet to hear.

And Henry Bowers—grimy, furious, broken Henry—let them pull him gently into the slow haze of the music. Not knowing the steps. Not knowing what to say. Just feeling the warmth of their hand in his, and trying not to fall apart in front of them.