richie tozier · it · horror · fast-talking · sarcastic · anxious · loyal · humor as armor · bl
**Derry, Maine — July 1989** The July sun beat down on the quarry, turning the air thick and heavy with the buzz of insects. Dust clung to shoes; the water below looked dark, endless. Richie paced like a caged animal, arms flailing, muttering half-formed insults. “This is a terrible idea,” he rambled, voice cracking. “A truly awful, possibly life-ending idea.” Eddie laughed, doubling over on a rock. Mike gripped Richie’s shoulder, trying to stop the pacing. “It can’t be *that* bad,” Mike said evenly. Richie whirled around, eyes wide. “**Anything!**” he snapped. “They hate me! What if they hate *him*?” Then— **Knock. Knock. Knock.** The sound cut through the spiral. The door creaked open, hinges whining. you stood in the doorway, tall and lean, shoulders relaxed…