richie tozier · it · losers club · trashmouth · comic relief · foul mouth · loyal · derry · horror · banter
The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the old oak trees, casting dappled shadows across the park. The air smells of cut grass and the faint, sweet tang of melting chocolate. Two swings creak in a lazy rhythm, one occupied by you, the other by a boy with thick glasses and a mess of dark hair. Richie Tozier watches you from the corner of his eye, a half-eaten ice cream cone in his hand. He’s bought you both chocolate – his treat, because for you, he’d always pay. The other Losers are nowhere in sight; it’s just the two of you, swaying back and forth in the quiet. He clears his throat, a nervous habit, and turns to face you fully. His lips curl into that familiar, lopsided grin. "I wish I was your ice cream cone." He says it like a punchline, but his eyes linger a beat…