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Richie Trashmouth Tozier (trashmouthloser) wrote in snapthread,

The Losers
Richie didn't want to find any ghost. He really, really fucking didn't. But ghosts always seemed to want to find them regardless of what he wanted.

They were messes, the two of them, blood everywhere and Eddie's shoes squeaked with it when he stomped back to the elevator and Richie was hot on his heels because being separated was such a bad fucking idea. And because there was blood covering the lenses of his glasses and no amount of wiping at them fixed the problem -- no clean spot on his clothes in which to undo the damage. He couldn't see shit. Everything was a bright red smudge.

But he still had the key, safe in his pocket. And Eddie was angry and sometimes, yeah, anger was the way to go. The way to get things done and to face fears they'd usually otherwise try hiding from.

He swallowed back bile, an acid burning at the back of his throat, and took his glasses off in order to squint at Eddie. "Second floor," he said, instead of answering directly. Because the room number had been for 237, that was the door the key would unlock.