[He's reminded quite starkly of the difference in age between them as J.J. takes false refuge in his shoulder. He nearly tells him to keep quiet before catching himself — the chiding would defeat its own purpose. In lieu of that he tries to stay as steady as he can, not shrug him off or move to startle him.
Then he pulls off. Richie returns the puzzled look with a meaningful chin jut to the crevice entrance. Let's boogaloo junior, and stay light on the feet.
They creep out as one, a four-legged coward armed with a two hammers and buckets of sweat. The light is just enough to highlight the twisting centipede body as it surges and ripples, clawing at nothing and expecting fruitful blood. It goes on and on, traincars of spiny legs and humped segments. Fucking Christ, if he wasn't scared of bugs before Richie sure to fuck scream at the top of his pitch the next time he caught a centipede in the can.
The kid's hand snags his own again and he's reminded all too abruptly of the day they finally went down to the sewers. Seven small ones, knocking at the knees and grasping at each other as they prayed to make it out alive. History repeats and repeats, and never are the lessons learned. Richie squeezes that hand back, just to keep steady, and makes delicate tracks to greener pastures.
That nightmare lingers in flashes and screeches for longer than he'd care to witness, but it does fade. By sight it disappears within thirty feet, when they are forced to make a turn. By sound it takes longer, they've gone through two forks and a thinned portion through which both of them must stoop by the time the sounds die. They still creep and refuse to speak, but their pace quickens.
Soon enough, they are greeted by thin winter light. Richie huffs, grin spreading wide in delirious relief.
The two break free at last. Richie hits the sun and snow like a shipwrecked sailor stumbling onto the beach. He barks out laughter, holding his face in hand. He even drops to his knees, then his back, rolling his mold into the crisp snow as he chuckles out the terror.]
Jaysus son o' wood-shillin' Joseph, oh aye, that was a near nick to the danglers! We were strung up toighter than a cat's gut on a tenny-racket, weren't we laddie? Begosh an' begorrah!
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Then he pulls off. Richie returns the puzzled look with a meaningful chin jut to the crevice entrance. Let's boogaloo junior, and stay light on the feet.
They creep out as one, a four-legged coward armed with a two hammers and buckets of sweat. The light is just enough to highlight the twisting centipede body as it surges and ripples, clawing at nothing and expecting fruitful blood. It goes on and on, traincars of spiny legs and humped segments. Fucking Christ, if he wasn't scared of bugs before Richie sure to fuck scream at the top of his pitch the next time he caught a centipede in the can.
The kid's hand snags his own again and he's reminded all too abruptly of the day they finally went down to the sewers. Seven small ones, knocking at the knees and grasping at each other as they prayed to make it out alive. History repeats and repeats, and never are the lessons learned. Richie squeezes that hand back, just to keep steady, and makes delicate tracks to greener pastures.
That nightmare lingers in flashes and screeches for longer than he'd care to witness, but it does fade. By sight it disappears within thirty feet, when they are forced to make a turn. By sound it takes longer, they've gone through two forks and a thinned portion through which both of them must stoop by the time the sounds die. They still creep and refuse to speak, but their pace quickens.
Soon enough, they are greeted by thin winter light. Richie huffs, grin spreading wide in delirious relief.
The two break free at last. Richie hits the sun and snow like a shipwrecked sailor stumbling onto the beach. He barks out laughter, holding his face in hand. He even drops to his knees, then his back, rolling his mold into the crisp snow as he chuckles out the terror.]
Jaysus son o' wood-shillin' Joseph, oh aye, that was a near nick to the danglers! We were strung up toighter than a cat's gut on a tenny-racket, weren't we laddie? Begosh an' begorrah!