Who: Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak What: Just a couple of young punks Where: The Loser’s Club (House) When: October 6th, ass o’clock AM.
Richie woke with a start, which wasn’t completely uncommon because even though he was thirteen he’d Seen Some Shit and was still sort of getting used to the idea of not waking up with his heart in his mouth and the concept of something Bigger Than Him and The Rest of the World on his mind.
The first week had been kinda hard, after everything. But after that, it’d felt a little bit like super weird smooth sailing. Not that Richie had ever gone sailing but he —
Actually, scratch all of that. He blinked up at a very dark ceiling in a very undecorated and also dark room and wondered for a good long moment where all the tacked up Street Fighter and David Bowie posters had gone off to. Sure, he couldn’t see for shit in the dark, particularly not without his glasses, but even he could tell this wasn’t his room.
Except — it was? He sat up, felt around on the floor near his bed in order to find his glasses and then stuck the embarrassingly large and unfitted frames onto his face. “What the fuck,” he said, trying to sort through the cloudy thoughts in his brain. There was something about a — town? A house? His house? His —
“Eds?” He called, and god, it was high pitched and loud. Loud enough to wake the dead but all Richie really needed was Eddie. And if yelling wasn’t enough, he decided that a visit was going to have to happen too — the floors were cold against his bare feet so obviously the only way to fix that once he’d busted into Eddie’s room was to climb directly into his bed. “Oi, matey-mate, wakey wakey, top of the morning,” he said in a Voice that was possibly a little jumbled with many voices but it was early so who the fuck really cared?