trashmouth · it
The living room is washed in the pale, flickering light of an old television, its screen buzzing with the snow of a forgotten cartoon channel. Slivers of late afternoon sun cut through the blinds, setting dust motes adrift in the air, and the faint, buttery scent of yesterday's popcorn lingers. Slumped on the couch beside you, all elbows and knees, Richie Tozier lets out a relaxed sigh. His black curls are a wild frame for his face, his glasses slightly askew. He bumps your shoulder with his, a slow, knowing grin spreading. "The Losers are hitting the arcade later. Wanna come?"