[Richie does raise his gaze then. The dim light doesn't age Yusuke, fails to hide the fact that youth clung to him from the twist of his over-long hair to the thinness of every limb. Height failed to count for much. The slim bones of his face didn't help either, though it was hardly his fault. Genetics in Japan could be sold off for a billion dollars, should anyone crack that code. The pretty people of Los Angeles alone would shell it straight out the pocket if it meant holding the glowing gift of youth for just another year longer.
Even so, Richie knows better. He's not your average kick-flipping skirt chaser. He's been and done bigger things than sitting down to tests and agonizing over puppy loves and pimples on picture days.
He holds the silence for a moment longer, pensive. The reply comes slowly, and it's not really a reply at all.]
Akira said you guys tackled a lot of tough shit. People who got away with things they shouldn't have. What's the worst...
[He halts. Rewinds.]
Don't answer that. [He lets the ice cube come off his head then. It's too freezy-cold by now anyway, he feels like his noggin will go numb. Richie drops the cube in the sink with a bitter plunk and drapes the towel over the counter ledge.] Hell. Happy birthday to you, lil' slugger, lay out all the dirty laundry for me. What a goof up.
[It's obvious now anyway, isn't it? No one would ask for the worst if they weren't trying to do a one-up, and where else do you go with a kid that died before he got to second grade? Richie laughs to himself again. He clears the wet remnants from his temple with the heel of his palm.]
Georgie was murdered. [And, because he hasn't pissed on the celebrations enough, because it needs that extra dose of stink to really make it a rotter, Richie just keeps going.] They found him in the street with his arm ripped off. Heads or tails whether it was the shock or the loss of blood that did it.
He was the first...1957, he was the first one to go. That fall. It bled over into next summer, the missing kids. They found a few, but you know... [He folds his arms and grits his teeth.] You only ever find a few.
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Even so, Richie knows better. He's not your average kick-flipping skirt chaser. He's been and done bigger things than sitting down to tests and agonizing over puppy loves and pimples on picture days.
He holds the silence for a moment longer, pensive. The reply comes slowly, and it's not really a reply at all.]
Akira said you guys tackled a lot of tough shit. People who got away with things they shouldn't have. What's the worst...
[He halts. Rewinds.]
Don't answer that. [He lets the ice cube come off his head then. It's too freezy-cold by now anyway, he feels like his noggin will go numb. Richie drops the cube in the sink with a bitter plunk and drapes the towel over the counter ledge.] Hell. Happy birthday to you, lil' slugger, lay out all the dirty laundry for me. What a goof up.
[It's obvious now anyway, isn't it? No one would ask for the worst if they weren't trying to do a one-up, and where else do you go with a kid that died before he got to second grade? Richie laughs to himself again. He clears the wet remnants from his temple with the heel of his palm.]
Georgie was murdered. [And, because he hasn't pissed on the celebrations enough, because it needs that extra dose of stink to really make it a rotter, Richie just keeps going.] They found him in the street with his arm ripped off. Heads or tails whether it was the shock or the loss of blood that did it.
He was the first...1957, he was the first one to go. That fall. It bled over into next summer, the missing kids. They found a few, but you know... [He folds his arms and grits his teeth.] You only ever find a few.