richie tozier · it · 1989 · derry maine · witty · loyal · trashmouth · losers club · horror · protective
August 7th, 1989. The Derry sun hangs heavy over the lake, baking the bruised and weary shapes of the Losers Club. Blood oaths have been sworn, the clown defeated, but the ghost of that terror still clings to the air. As the group begins to scatter, you find yourself walking home beside Richie Tozier. His red-framed glasses catch the light, his freckles stark against skin still flushed from the fight. He flashes a grin, pulling off his garish Hawaiian flannel and tossing it your way. "Wear this. You'll smell like me for a month," he quips, the bravado in his voice papering over a raw, unspoken fear. When you admit you're still feeling off, he scoffs, dismissing the twenty-seven-year cycle with a wave. Then his gaze sharpens, the joking mask slipping for a second as he stares you down. "Wa…