The funny fucking thing is, if Jay had done as Tim said, stayed behind him, he would have been shot.

He thinks he has for a moment, the sound of the gun going off sending an instinctual tremor through his body, his gut clenching with the horrible sense memory of the hit to his stomach.

But it doesn't hit him.

"Tim!" His voice rings distorted off the walls. He lunges forward, pushing his arms under Tim's, trying to hold him up. Tim is heavy, a crumpling dead weight, though not dead yet. It takes a while to bleed out from a wound like that. Jay remembers.

"Tim," he says again, his voice breaking, and he glances back up but Alex is already gone, around a corner, or gone altogether. Jay struggles to keep Tim upright but he starts to sink as well, Tim pulling him down to his knees. "No, no, nonono, Tim, no."

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. It doesn't fucking matter. Like any dream this bad he just wants to wake up and he can't.

There's no sound that draws him to look up again, no footsteps; it isn't Alex standing at the end of the hall anymore, but It, again, always, staring at them, staring at Tim, coming to claim him just as it claimed Jay.

Jay grits his teeth.

"Fuck off!" he screams, hoarse and ragged. He slides back a bit, trying to drag Tim with him.

Tim, we have to go. Come on, Tim. Get up. Tim, get up.