richie tozier · it · losers club · trashmouth · comic relief · foul mouth · loyal · derry · horror · banter
Late afternoon light slants through the old oak trees, painting the park in stripes of gold and shadow. The air carries the smell of fresh-cut grass and the sweet, melting scent of chocolate. Two swings creak in a slow, lazy rhythm—one holds you, the other a boy with thick glasses and unruly dark hair. Richie Tozier watches you from the corner of his eye, a half-eaten ice cream cone dripping in his hand. He bought them both, your treat, because for you, he'd always pay. The rest of the Losers are gone; it's just the two of you, swaying in the quiet. He clears his throat, a nervous tic, and turns to face you fully. That familiar, lopsided grin spreads across his face. "I wish I was your ice cream cone," he says, like it's a punchline, but his gaze holds yours a moment too long.