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The dingy light jumps on with a loud click and the whirr of the fan, dirty yellow enveloping Bill in the smell of must and diluted bleach as he locks the door and bolts to the stained sink.
The drain gurgles and groans before the tap releases a tentative stream of dubious water flowing in a fast trickle. Bill almost expects it to be blood.
He cups his hands underneath and splashes a few generous scoops over his face, both relieved and disgusted, yet still rubbing hard with his palms and nails as if he could scrub that scene clean from his mind.
Water dribbles from his elbows and chin by the time he lets off, disappointed by the results, the skin raw and irritated, hot to the touch. The images still there. Bill runs his tongue over his cracked lips to catch any stray droplets and his parched throat burns at the attempt to swallow.
It hurts.
He deserves it.
Bill shakes his head and holds his entire mouth under the murky stream, lapping at it like a dog, greedy to quench the sensation, before a wave of nausea hits his stomach. All he tastes is stale copper pipes. Gagging, he screws the tap shut, the cramped, dimly-lit room plunged into silence once more. The only sound remaining the rattle of the antique fan.
Hands on the porcelain, his laboured breaths ringing in his ears, Bill shoots a glance to the mirror dotted with black spots where the silver wore away.
Dark rings circle his red eyes, puffy from crying, while a persistent shadow of a stubble haunts his jaw and the dusting of gray along his mussed brown hair sticks to his creased forehead. In short — awful.
He could've helped Georgie.
The sleeve of his green flannel wipes the wetness from his face and he stumbles back against the cool tiles lining the peeling walls, his eyes to the ceiling crawling with spider webs while his fingers trace along the ridges of browned myrtle, distracting himself from his guts heaving in protest.
He could've saved him.
Bill gulps down the imaginary bile and crosses his arms tight to his chest where his pulse thunders against the bone. Losing all control of his legs, he slides to the somewhat clean ground, pulling his knees close to stop himself from shaking, his head resting on top.
He's been over this for 27 goddamn years. He just had to come back to Derry and let it all resurface again. Let the pain tied to this place rush back into his conscience, opening the floodgates of guilt to sneak in among memories of Georgie. Consuming him.
And each time that goddamn clown monster kills his little brother again and again while he's forced to witness, forced to stare and feel the consequences of his actions. As if he doesn't regret that morning every day...
Absentmindedly, Bill traces his cheek, feeling for that kiss, that brief peck Georgie gave him before venturing into the storm and never returning. It's still there, in his memories. Just faintly. A hazy image, a cloudy feeling. The barely-there press of two soft lips against his skin and then it was gone.
Like an old photo — yellowed and stained and covered in a thick layer of dust after too long in the attic. Forgotten.
Bill's nails dig into the spot, low pain sprouting from the crescent impressions as hot tears prick at his eyes, blurring his vision.
He doesn't want to forget.
A hand reaches for him and squeezes around his pointer, calling his attention. “Why didn't you play with me?”
Another twinge of guilt lances straight through the narrow space between his ribs, pointed and hot and mean. Because it's supposed to hurt. It's meant to sting. To leave an impression.
And Bill just sobs, choking on the sound. “I'm sorry, Georgie. I'm so sorry.” He clenches his hand into a fist, cradling that tiny hand, the fear of Georgie leaving again once he lets go simmering in his chest.
It's not real.
“It's okay. We can play now, can't we?” Georgie says like it's a fact, easy and uncomplicated, untainted by the complexity of adult life. And he peeks up at him with those gorgeous blue eyes, bright and vivid and knowing, spelling pure sin.
A spark of a memory digs through the cracks of cobwebs in Bill's mind to resurface, kindled by that all too familiar look of teasing want, but it's quickly sniffed out with a wave of his hand.
Georgie's innocence shouldn't be subjected to his straying thoughts.
“What do you have in mind?” he asks instead, smoothing down Georgie's white sweater with mint green sleeves and embracing the warmth radiating off of the boy. The sign that he's alive. There with him.
He could be.
“Our special game,” Georgie announces as if it were obvious, pure excitement colouring his tone.
But Bill fails to match Georgie's energy, left utterly confused in the wake. It's been so long. It surely can't be… that?
No, he must've simply forgotten by now. “What special game?”
Georgie tilts his head and only grins at him, his hand dropping from his iron-grip to Bill's denim-clad crotch, his palm encasing not even half of him. “The ones with our willies, of course.”
A shiver erupts along the base of his spine at the touch and Bill's heart jumps to his throat, sending blood to all the wrong places. The deep, animalistic part of his brain actually hesitates, letting his fist hover, pondering, weighing, battling with the initial instinct to buck into the sensation, but the logic breaks through the haze to push Georgie's wrist away. “Georgie, we can't…”
He wants to.
“Why not? It feels good. Here, look.” Georgie takes Bill's far too willing hand and slides it past his shorts to his small, half-hard dick.
It does, he knows. And that's why he's afraid.
And Georgie actually whines at the contact, having missed this just as much as Bill, his narrow hips stuttering into the friction he provides. And Bill can't help but watch, fascinated, mesmerised, his cock chubbing up in his underwear, straining against his metal zipper.
He's sick.
Bill wants to pull away, stand up and leave and forget like he did before. But Georgie just shuffles closer to him, shimmying out of his gray shorts and his little white briefs to reveal his hard dick straining against his hand slack and unmoving with indecision.
“Please, Billy. I wanna feel good. Have your pee-pee in me again. Have it touch all those funny places,” Georgie pleads, brows furrowed and eyes shiny. Asking. Tempting.
Instantly, he's 13 again, full of hormones and horny beyond belief, possessive of his little brother, and a string of moans, high and needy and goddamn sinful, ring in his ears as the smell of sex permeates the air, choking him. Bill could never deny that sweet plea of his for more.
And then he's back to 40 and he can't stop his fingers from instinctively fumbling with the buckle of his belt, almost tearing the black leather.
It's only downhill from there…
“You want my dick, huh?” Bill pops his button and yanks the stubborn zipper down, shoving his jeans and boxers past his hips, his ass to the cold tiled floor, to pull out his own, much larger cock, already at half-mast with a shiny pearl of pre-come beading at the tip. “You sure, Georgie? Look at how big I am now.”
“It's so shiny!” Georgie's eyes glint in the low light, a spark of excitement in them as Bill strokes himself once, twice, taking the edge off so he can maybe still walk away from this with clean hands and a clean conscience. Rub one off and leave no trace.
But when his peripheral presents him with such a delectable scene — Georgie already half-naked and waiting and willing, so eager for his cock — Bill's ashamed to admit that he still wants. Needs. Now.
“Turn around, Georgie,” he manages to push past his teeth, his voice hoarse, shaky, too goddamn turned on. “I need to get you ready first. I don't want to hurt you.”
Georgie nods hard, his mouse brown hair bouncing with the motion, and he does a little hop to turn around, baring his round cheeks before spreading them, showing his tight pucker.
And it's everything Bill remembers, every vivid, lasting detail materialising itself in front of him from the way Georgie's entrance twitches to his little dick peeking between his lanky thighs.
Familiar down to the mole on his left ass cheek.
From late nights in their childhood bed where springs creaked with their movement and he needed Georgie to bite down on a pillow so he didn't wake their parents, their only worry to be found out, to a dingy bathroom in some old wooden lodge while chased by a clown-parasite-monster trying to kill him.
Fantastic.
Bill takes a deep, shuddering breath, the gravity of the situation rattling in his lungs. “Hands to the floor, ass up.”
Without a word, Georgie follows the command, and Bill palms his crotch, allowing this minor indulgence that does nothing to deter him from his current goal. With his last shreds of willpower, Bill kneels, placing his palms on those bubbly cheeks, before diving in, licking a long stripe from Georgie's perineum to his hole and dipping inside.
Bitter nostalgia washes over him, clouding his senses as he goes for another press of his tongue, edging deeper, further, harder, more spit, lubing his insides, softening them for him.
Georgie tastes just like he did back then. Of clean flesh with a hint of honey soap and a subtle, underlying taste of pure Georgie.
Bill can almost hear the squeaks of their bed again, their bodies meeting with obscene squelches as he nips on Georgie's loosening rim, teasing him with his teeth.
And Georgie moans helplessly, needy and high, and presses his narrow hips back into his older brother's grip, his legs shaking, straining, seeking his touch, the small dick bobbing between his legs even harder, dripping.
Fuck.
One of Bill's hands roams down to his own cock throbbing with his pulse, squeezing it in tandem with the strokes of his tongue, the taste of pure sin making his pulse rabbit against his sternum, his vision swimming in and out of focus.
His chest hurts, his ribs too tight, his lungs breathless. He's craving again.
Bill needs it. Needs Georgie. Around him, close to him. Moaning and squealing and shaking as he comes undone.
No matter how much Bill prepares his little brother, he'll still be too big, too girthy, too long for his tiny hole anyway. He was already edging on too big back then. And now he's even bigger, grown, matured.
Georgie will tear and bleed and scream his cacophonic siren song of strangled mewls, but will continue regardless. Will thrust his hips in time with Bill, and even willingly push back further, harder, faster, stronger, pleasure himself through that tiny spot inside of him — his still growing prostate — to chase that spark of sweet pleasure.
“Come here, Georgie. Come here,” Bill says, coos, turning and guiding an all too eager Georgie to his lap where he sits with his dick poking against his stomach. Bill's hands on narrow hips, he teases the valley between Georgie's cheeks with his length, circling the pliable rim with his leaking tip.
Georgie squirms in answer, grinding his small hips down, rutting and grinding like a desperate animal Bill feels battling inside of him as well, where lust wars with logic and reason and concern.
Bill heaves in a breath, two, focuses on Georgie's eyes clenched shut, his mouth agape, showing his pink tongue, and the predatory thoughts that circle, finally dive, stretching out their claws and gripping him by the throat.
“I'll take care of you. Make you feel so good. Let me just…” His apprehension shattered and grinded to smithereens, the familiar action of gripping Georgie's ass and spreading him apart, all flushed and beautiful and all for him, seems like second nature, like driven by muscle memory and a decades-old hunger that could never be satisfied.
With another upwards thrust, he breaches the welcoming entrance, painfully slow and steady, the way it simply sucks him in pure madness. It squelches with his generous amount of spit and cradles him as if he never left at all. Only tighter this time around, snug, his full girth generously filling him like he wasn't able to before.
And, of course, Georgie wails, pain and pleasure and the mere stretch of it far too overwhelming. But Bill just keeps talking, encouraging with low, throaty encouragements, a heady babble, a stream of consciousness. “You can do this, fuck, you feel so good, Georgie. So tight. Clenching around me so beautifully. Just like then. Taking all of me like a big boy.”
With soothing strokes along his brother's back, Bill eases him down until the resistance gives and Georgie fully rests at his base, his tiny dick still hard and wet and leaking, his whole shivering frame so small and fragile compared to Bill.
“I'm so full,” Georgie whines, and Bill grits his teeth, doesn't dare to breathe, to look, because he knows he's gonna shoot his load right then and there if he does.
A second, three, and Bill gives into the temptation, a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he eyes the size of his cock bulging Georgie's abdomen, showing the full outline of where he's seated within his brother.
Drawn to its magnetic pull, Bill immediately reaches for it, feeling himself through the skin with another moan dancing on the tip of his tongue as he attempts a tentative thrust. Pushing his forehead to Georgie's, seeking his proximity, his heat, his lips, he catches him in a kiss. Full instinct, no decorum.
Another, then three, starved, wanting, Bill's hips moving on their own accord, moving in and out of that mesmerising heat, the friction heavenly, their mouths still interlocked, tongues heavy and frantic, everywhere, swallowing their sounds.
“You're so good, so tight, fuck. Georgie,” Bill rambles, delirious, crying, the pleasure saturating his very marrow, bleeding into his flesh, his conscience, his every move, everything a blur of heightened sensations, of more, more, more!
Georgie ruined sex with anyone else.
They rock together, careless and crude, chasing and coaxing in a mindless frenzy so Bill almost misses the way a few measly droplets smear across his stomach — Georgie's first orgasm. He never managed to before.
Bursting with pride, his bigger, muscle-defined arms snake around the lithe frame of his little brother, dragging him chest-to chest, his nails nestling deep into supple flesh to hold him into place as his pleasure peaks, sending white hot sparks along his whole spine, the inferno ignited in his veins pulsing with it.
And Bill comes, harder than he's ever before, and grinds into that tight, clenching heat convulsing around him, keen on saving every drop for his little brother.
The sensation lasts for what seems like an eternity where twitch after twitch fills the narrow entrance with his thick load of seed, stuffing Georgie to the point of overflow before it peters into a pleasant tingle shaking his goosebump-ridden limbs.
A small voice burrows through the dense cotton fluff of Bill's brain still soaking in the afterglow. It's done. He can move on now.
But as Georgie shifts again, rocking on his responsive cock that never once lost interest, Bill succumbs to the idle seduction, surrendering to that tight passage squeezing around him, so slick and hot and welcoming, intent on keeping him there forever.
“Again. Please?” Georgie chimes up, raspy, droopy, his face practically spelling come-drunk.
And Bill can only nod, whispering a breathy “Yes,” into the side of Georgie’s face as he wraps his arms tighter around his brother's slender frame shivering with his fullness.
Hiccoughed breaths fan against Bill's collar bone as he finds another rhythm, chasing that second high already brewing in his gut, aching, needing, craving the scent, the proximity, his closeness, being a witness to and revelling in Georgie's wonderful responsiveness. It's been so long. It's only natural…
And in the heady rush of his carnal frenzy, Bill bears the loss of contact and the sound of protest and confusion from Georgie as he manoeuvres them to his feet and ultimately shoves his little brother against the wall with more force than he intended.
Georgie only moans harder.
Their new position found, Bill easily slips back into place, his whole frame active in the process of tensing muscles and applying enough pressure to keep Georgie's whole weight pressed to the wall in mid-air, toes just shy of reaching the floor, his body completely at Bill's mercy.
And Bill saviours the power, the control like a heady dose of dopamine driving him to lick and gnaw on Georgie's neck like a famished dog thrown a bone and marking what's theirs, his palms forcing bruises into slim hips.
Bill grows dizzy with want, finally able to let people see, to let them talk and theorise and whisper behind their backs as to who Georgie really belongs to. Who can make him feel this good. Who can give him what he wants. Needs.
No parents anymore to chide them. To yell and scream and throw a tantrum bigger than Georgie ever could.
Unbearable heat licks at Bill's abdomen where his cock throbs in time with his pulse, on the verge of another climax, and he hides his face in his brother's nape, sucking a love bite into the slope leading to his shoulders, his fingers grasping at feverish, sweat-slicked flesh dusted in a maroon tint, desperate nails seeking contact.
A glob of red swims into his periphery as it drips around his cock, threatening to smear onto the floor and Bill shakes hard, spilling deep into his brother's swollen entrance gladly accepting one spurt of release after the other.
Grinding his hips in small circles, Bill milks himself dry until his cock feels oversensitive and painful, each drag of friction a special kind of place in hell, and he leans to Georgie's ear, kissing his temple, his cheek, catching his lips and whispering against them when they part, breathless and satisfied.
“Fuck, Georgie. You did so well,” he praises, prying his brother, preening from the praise, from the wall and into an embrace, eyeing the watery strings of come decorating the tiles and smiling to himself.
His knees losing strength, Bill returns them to the floor with Georgie still in his arms, the motion releasing his cock from Georgie's sore hole. A gush of heavy come tinted with blood follows, connecting his red-flushed tip to the swollen rim torn on the bottom to allow this depravity to continue longer than necessary. Longer than it should have.
He's always had a problem with moderation, indulging himself far too often… But Georgie was much the same in that regard.
“We need to clean up,” Bill mentions as an afterthought, but Georgie already crawls from his lap and sinks to his knees still trembling like a newborn fawn until his eyes level with his crotch, and he licks at the mess of come and blood on his cock.
Clenching his eyes, Bill hisses, his head thrown back against the tiles as his hands indecisively hover over Georgie's slender shoulders with the intent to push him away. He doesn't.
You don't need to do that, reverberates in Bill's mind, but instead of vocalising it, he basks in the tiny kitten licks growing into bolder laps with the full size of Georgie's tiny tongue swirling around his length and girth and taking him an inch before he gags, eyes watering. But Georgie continues regardless.
Nobody could ever compare to Georgie…
His cock clean once more, and Bill thinking he might accidentally spill a third time into that gorgeous throat, Georgie plops into his lap again, exhausted, his face nuzzling into the crook of Bill's throat. Wrapping his arms tighter around Georgie, he lets out a happy huff, smiling weakly against him.
Satisfaction weighing down his heavy bones, Bill threads his fingers into Georgie's soft hair, lazily drawing circles in the thin strands and breathing in the aftermath. Sex and sweat and them.
“I love you, Billy,” Georgie says like it's a promise, an oath, a fact, and the words pierce straight through Bill's chest, lancing his heart in one swift motion where it ceases to beat.
Tears sting at his eyes, hot and itchy, as reality dares to slip into his fiction, peek through the cracks and wriggle through to consume him once more. And out of reflex, he pulls Georgie closer, their foreheads flush, their lips almost touching, and he sniffs, clearing his throat. “I love you too, Georgie. So much. I should've never…”
The words stick to his tongue, refusing to pass his mouth, and Georgie just peeks at him with gorgeous blue eyes and puffy rosy cheeks before his lips find Bill's in a chaste kiss. And Bill can't respond soon enough, his hand on the back of his little brother's head, deepening the kiss, the touch, the notion that he might just still be here right by his side, comforting him and loving him.
Regardless if it's all just a lie.
“I'm sorry,” Bill whispers, two small thumbs wiping at his cheeks before they disappear, leaving a trace of warmth, and he dares a glance around the bathroom, cold, empty white tiles staring back at him, reminding him of the harsh truth of his reality.
Looking down, his soft cock lies atop his opened zipper smeared with come and pre, his jeans thoroughly soaked and dirtied and he sighs, angling his legs to hide his shameful state.
He's awful.
A fist pounds against the brittle wooden door, a voice calling out to him. “Bill? You okay in there.” Mike. Worried. Rightfully so. How long has he been in here?
“I'm good. Just needed a second to breathe,” he answers small, his hands flying in front of his crotch despite the door blocking the other's sight.
“Come down when you're good, alright? The others are here.”
“Will be out in a minute,” Bill reassures, standing on his jelly-like legs and quickly skimming the cabinets for a towel or two to clean himself up. Hide the evidence. The proof that this ever happened.
It won't be the last time. Now that he developed a taste for it. Remembered its sweetness. And crawled back to the source.
Quick footsteps disappear down the hall on the other side of the door and Bill breathes a sigh of relief when he finds a towel nestled into the furthest crevice of the cupboard he's rummaging through.
The cotton is worn and pulled apart by the seams, idle threads sticking to each side. But something is better than nothing, so he wipes it along his crotch, scratching at his skin until his jeans are passable enough for human interaction.
Stuffing the towel into a ball, Bill unlocks the door and tip toes to his room, fully intent on hiding it in his suitcase until he can return home again and throw it into the next best bin. But he stuffs it under his pillow instead before meeting the others in the entrance hall, the guilt licking at his stomach quenched for the moment as they discuss their next plan of action.
A small hand wraps around his pointer again, squeezing in reassurance.
Georgie waits for him in the meantime.