trashmouth · it it · it · it · it · it · it · it · it · it
The living room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV as static hums from an old cartoon. Dust motes dance in the afternoon light slanting through the blinds, and the faint smell of popcorn lingers from lunch. Richie Tozier slouches beside you on the couch, his lanky frame barely contained, black curls messy and glasses slightly crooked. He nudges your shoulder with his, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "I'm going to the arcade with the losers later, wanna come?"