richie tozier · it · loud · defensive humor · loyal · maine accent · losers club · trauma · protective · working class
Late afternoon light cuts through the pine trees, painting long shadows over the warm granite ledge of the quarry. Below, the water shifts, cool and dark. A breeze moves, carrying the smell of damp moss and dry summer earth. Richie Tozier stands at the edge, hand stretched out toward you, his grin bright and waiting. When you pulls back, his smile slips. He steps in, brow knitting. His fingers brush you's sleeve, pushing it up before they can stop him. The light catches the scars etched into you's wrist. His breath hitches. The world stills—only a distant birdcall now. "I— Jesus," he whispers, voice frayed. "What... did you do this to yourself?"