Who: Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak What: Making sure they both exist. Where: Pancho’s Bar. When: September 27th.
I know you feel like you are breaking down. I know that it gets so hard sometimes. Be calm.
Eddie was dead.
D-E-A-D.
All caps or no caps made zero difference at all because dead was dead and there was no coming back from something like that. Richie was an absolute wreck about it. He’d cried terrible ugly tears for the loss of his best friend, who he’d only just remembered so many important things about, in front of the other Losers, and then had somehow wound up here later that same night and it’d only been worse since then. This place was distracting and terrible and horrifying, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t spent an entire night camped out in the bathtub of his new and completely empty house kind of losing his shit about it all over again.
And look, this place was fucked. He’d made one poorly thought out your mom joke and goth, teenaged, David Copperfield had shown up and done some real magic or some shit and had pretty spectacularly beat the shit out of him. Richie wasn’t even embarrassed that he’d lost that fight, that he had bruises at the side of his mouth, neck and fucked up ribs for his trouble. It’d sucked, but it’d been a pretty nice distraction from what had really been on his mind.
But now this place was fucking with him all over again and Figment-of-his-imagination-Eddie or It or Ghost Eddie was posting things on the dumb Void Message Board that only Real Eddie would know and say and it was…
Richie really couldn’t take any more of this. He couldn’t. He’d just gotten the blood out of his glasses.
But here he was anyway, standing outside the only place in this godforsaken town that could have possibly been the bar. Hope wasn’t really something Richie thought he could have again, but there was something in his chest that was tight, something in his jaw that wouldn’t relax and he knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he didn’t show up just to know.