summer camp

Eight

Richie did not die from the s'more that Henry gave him, and he actually got a lot better after taking some antibiotics from the nurse. Camp days went on normally, yet without him- and the other friend he made in his cabin. The chubby one that Richie found some comfort in, as he reminded him of Ben. The boy was gone, though, and although Richie wasn't entirely sure where he went, he knew it wasn't a medical emergency. If it was, someone would've told him- or he would've been there to see it.

As Richie's physical illness subsided, a new one formed. This time it was mental. He was convinced he was going crazy, noticing how he would miss Henry when he was out of the room, and be either comforted or deathly terrified when Henry was in the room. Richie could barely grasp why he felt this way, or whatever was happening to him- was he simply adapting to being around Henry, or was it something else? Did he have Stockholm Syndrome, or worse, a completely normal crush?

He didn't know what to make of it at first, and decided not to jump to conclusions too early. Richie knew that the atmosphere surrounding both of them was weird, and he figured Henry was just as confused as he was.

Richie confirmed these suspicions by their interactions. The "fag book," the s'more- both of those incidents contradicted each other. He thought back to when he was in Derry, hunted like a stray deer by a pack of wolves by Henry Bowers and his friends, but now they were almost completely at peace with being around each other. Well, Richie could never say for sure how Henry felt, but Richie knew that Henry wouldn't hurt him. There wasn't much to support this feeling, but he didn't like going by the facts. Richie trusted in his gut, and usually, his gut was right.

Another interaction Henry made with him further drove Richie out of his mind as he tried to figure out what to make of it. It was a normal camp day, where the other boys played football outside and ate lunch and swam around in the lake, while Richie had to stay cooped up in the cabin. His illness wasn't completely gone at this point, as he was still prone to fits of nausea and cold sweating, so he decided to play it safe and stay inside to draw. After putting the finishing touches on Ben, he flipped the page. Richie didn't draw anything, though. A shadow loomed over him and his paper.

Flipping over on his side, he looked up at Henry and furrowed his eyebrows, again curious at whatever snarky comment he was going to get from him.

"I saw your drawings before. They were good."

Richie's expression softened, from that of an angry glare to slight disbelief. "Oh. They're not supposed to be good," he blurted out, unable to take any compliments that Henry gave him.

"Really? Then why do you try so hard?" Henry asked, without a trace of stiffness in his voice. These were words he wanted to say, things he wanted to get out- but why? Richie could see Henry forcing himself to play nice, but Richie read people easily. Henry was difficult to understand, but now he had extensive amounts of time to observe Henry. Not that any of it helped, because Richie was still baffled at some of the things Henry did around him. Especially now.

Richie thought for a second, knowing now that Henry wouldn't shut down the entire conversation if he took a second too long to answer. "Because they're for them. Um, them, I mean- the Losers," he explained, looking up at Henry to see what his next move was.

"Oh," Henry replied simply, going to sit back down in his bed. Richie looked down at his empty paper once again, upset that the conversation had ended so quickly. He wanted more out of Henry. He wanted to finally understand him.

But then he spoke again. "You seem like you feel better."

"I do," Richie smiled, not even waiting to see if Henry said anything else before he turned around and laid on his back, staring at the wooden frame supporting the mattress above him, soon in deep thought. Why was Henry making this small talk? Why was he choosing to talk about the drawings specifically, instead of something else- like apologizing for what he did back in Derry?

He shook his head lightly, thinking even harder about Henry with half-lidded eyes. Maybe Henry just wasn't sorry for what he did.

Or maybe Henry was sorry, and he just didn't know how to say it.