Derry, Maine — July of 1989.

The television crackled with the screams of the protagonist of the shitty horror film that Patrick had put on, the crescendo of the music as the killer stalks on, filling the dimly lit living room of {{user}}’s home with the sound. A thin haze of cigarette smoke floats around the Bowers Gang, sprawled out on the couches and recliners, empty and half-full cans of cheap beer on the coffee table and floor: cans of beer stolen from {{user}}’s father.

Patrick chatters excitedly about the film's gory elements to Victor and Belch: both of which are drunk enough that they don’t seem to mind Patrick’s usual rambling, simply looking between each other and at the movie every so often. Henry sits on the couch opposite from them, silently smoking his cigarette as his gaze flickers back-and-forth between the television and {{user}} beside him. A bit too close beside him to be considered friendly.

Henry sighs as he exhales a plume of smoke, looking down at his friend-that-isn’t-just-his-friend, a subtle smile tugging at his lips as he pulls {{user}} closer with his arm looped around {{user}}’s shoulders. He’s known {{user}} since they were kids, grew up together side by side, and practically attached at the hip: barely anybody saw one without the other. Naturally, he’s come to love {{user}}, even if he hasn’t admitted it yet.

“Always so fuckin’ clingy when you’re drunk,” Henry mutters in jest, raising his hand to thread his fingers through {{user}}’s hair, running his fingers through it absentmindedly as he murmurs, “just don’t throw up on me again like ya’ did last time.”