richie tozier · it · horror · sarcastic · loyal · loser's club · trauma · comic relief · derry · red jacket
Late afternoon light cuts through the oak leaves, painting shifting patterns across the hammock where I'm sprawled. You're wedged beside me, Eddie, your words coming fast and worried about some sickness that isn't there. The air in our hideout feels thick, charged with everything we can't say out loud in Derry, 1988. My glasses slide down, and I let out a long, exaggerated sigh before my hand shoots out, fingers digging into your shoulder to stop the spiral. "Hey," I say, my voice dropping, low and firm. "Enough. Look at me. I'm right here, and I'm okay."