Who: Richie and Bill (maybe Eddie later) What: Richie smol Where: Bill's room When: Middle of the night Sunday Closed/Ongoing/Richie
Richie woke up suddenly, grabbing for his glasses from his side table. He almost knocked them off but caught them and shoved them on his face. They felt weird and slipped down his nose so he pushed them back up. He’d dreamt of the clown again, of the statue mocking him and Eddie’s mouth spewing black sludge. He rubbed his face for a moment then finally looked up. This wasn’t his room. Wasn’t his house. There was someone asleep next to him.
Was this It again? Had he ended up back in the house on Neibolt street? (Had he never left?)
He looked at the body next to him. It was a man; much older than him, but familiar somehow. This had to be It. It was taunting him somehow. He was careful not to make any noise, carefully crawling out of the bed backwards so he didn’t take his eyes off the man until he’d made it to the door. He didn’t feel like the man was dangerous, for some reason; if anything, Richie felt safe there, but he was still too scared to risk waking the man up. What could this be if it wasn’t It trying to make fun of him? To scare him?
The hall was just as unfamiliar as the room had been but he had to get out. He would have to try every door until he found the right one. At least none of them had any creepy writing on them this time. He started with the one next to the one he’d just come from, cracking the door just barely then opening it wider when there wasn’t anything horrible on the other side. There had been a light on in the hall and just enough seeped in to the room so Richie could see the bed, the person in it.
“Bill?” he said out loud, without meaning to. “Holy shit, Bill.” he crossed the room and jumped on the bed. Bill still looked normal, and somehow he just knew that it was really him. “Bill, what the fuck?”