"I trust you," Richie assured, and he meant that. Pretty much as soon as he'd arrived in Night Vale, and stumbled onto this haven to drink into oblivion and consume crafted Eliot cocktails, he knew he could trust Julia - she exuded a kind of power and confidence that meant he'd be stupid not to. He just had to tackle some other demons first, before he ultimately went toe-to-toe with this one.
He relaxed like she told him to, sinking into the mattress - he remembered what had defeated IT the first time, love and innocence and childhood bonds; he thought of bicycles and ice cream, pictures on a reel, developed in a lab before the era of smartphones.
But it fought back. Whatever was in him, it fought.
So much power. It sizzled and burned, slamming back against Richie on the bed in an invisible wave, but whatever was in him had his physical body fighting. He twisted and thrashed, the sheer blinding white stabbing into his eyes and like knife between each of his ribs; darkness bled out of him, but it didn't come from any wounds.
What looked to be liquid onyx started to pour from his nose, his mouth, and he choked on it because of the sheer amount of it; it was even pouring from behind his eyes, too much.