[Oof. To be fair, if someone else were spoon-feeding him the platitudes he'd be unlikely to swallow them too. At any age, for that matter.
Richie's fingers twitch. The kid's fixing tea, but what he really wants is a smoke. He avoids lighting up when he's over, it's impolite and the cushions and the curtains soaked up cig smoke like a Hoover in a field of hairballs. He curls his fingers back around the underside of the counter, supporting his lean but really just disguising the itch. It had been so nice for those last years, that when the urges nudged and life got shaky he went for a pack of gum or threw on some tunes, threw himself into his work. He'd picked up smoking again nearly the minute he'd gotten Mikey's call. Hadn't put them down in the few months he's been here. Nothing's been smooth sailing, and there's so much to beware of, so much he couldn't begin to understand that facing it all without that little roll of tobacco and paper is a prospect that could wilt him flat.
After, after. He'll at least see that Yusuke goes back to his paints, and he'll slip outside to make his ash.
He snorts. A little derisive, though none of it's directed at the boy.] Not much, at least.
[He presses his lips thin and regards the kid a second time. It feels...important. Suddenly it feels monumentally important that it's Yusuke here talking to him, and not any of the other kind folk he's met thus far. Byerly was a snoop and a crusted asshole to boot. Steve couldn't do much, for all his well meaning and his savior complex. Couldn't shake the soldier out of him if you turned him upside down and swung him by the ankles. It's hopeless there, he's too old. Richie's too old, but it was also too late to count on all those extra years to save him. Yet the thought of trying to pass off the task makes him want to upchuck the whole long link of his digestive system. Nobody deserved it, not anyone. He wasn't sure it could be passed in the first place, with all those otherworldly nudges and coincidences and the way the seven of them together seemed like links in a chain.
But Yusuke was, in a way, at risk. Maybe on the cusp of getting out of it, growing boy that he was, but close enough.
Richie pulls the hair back from his forehead. At the border of the roots, faint and small enough that he has to angle his head to catch the moonlight streaming through the window, is a slash of a scar. No longer than a thumbnail.] Almost got ripped off the back of Bill's bike when we were making a break for it. My jacket split down the middle, thank god, or I wouldn't be here putting dents in your couch. Fucker tried to knock me off after and split my head. Gave me a concussion. [He releases the hair and fidgets on the spot. Unsure of how to proceed.]
We were pretty fucking stupid. Eleven years old and sneaking daddy's pistol out of the drawers, thinking we were gonna take care of things the way they do in all those comics we burned through on summer nights. But we kept trying, you bet your fur. We tried until we thought it was gonna be done. We did something right eventually, but I still can't remember it all. That happens once in a blue moon, strange but true. Especially if you're really young at the time. You go through something livid crazy and your brain pumps the brakes and says whoa now, I ain't riding with that in the cab. So it locks it in the trunk and it keeps on driving. Real great for keeping the gears grinding.
So...even after all that, we never saw his face. Not his real one. Every time, he was wearing something different. Made it real nice and personal for you, and it kept everyone's stories from jiving up.
[Nebulous truths, all cherry picked to make sure that what he comes away with is the lie. A man with many masks is the easier assumption to make, and it would be a smarter way to kill. Kept the delinquints from telling the cops, and how sensible would distrust of the grown folks sound to a teenage vigilante?] Save for one thing. You know, a calling card of sorts. There was always something orange. Usually like a pompom. Sometimes it was harder to notice at first, but...
[Richie trails off, staring at shadows cast on the wall opposite. No return on this. They'd weaved through the stone maze and were getting close, far too close to the minotaur in the middle. But Yusuke had to understand. Just this one thing.]
The point is, just before the world ended, I got a call from our guy Mikey. We all did. He was, ha ha...the only one that stuck around Derry. Never moved once and never made riches. You've got three guesses as to what he was calling for, but I bet you'll only need the one.
no subject
Richie's fingers twitch. The kid's fixing tea, but what he really wants is a smoke. He avoids lighting up when he's over, it's impolite and the cushions and the curtains soaked up cig smoke like a Hoover in a field of hairballs. He curls his fingers back around the underside of the counter, supporting his lean but really just disguising the itch. It had been so nice for those last years, that when the urges nudged and life got shaky he went for a pack of gum or threw on some tunes, threw himself into his work. He'd picked up smoking again nearly the minute he'd gotten Mikey's call. Hadn't put them down in the few months he's been here. Nothing's been smooth sailing, and there's so much to beware of, so much he couldn't begin to understand that facing it all without that little roll of tobacco and paper is a prospect that could wilt him flat.
After, after. He'll at least see that Yusuke goes back to his paints, and he'll slip outside to make his ash.
He snorts. A little derisive, though none of it's directed at the boy.] Not much, at least.
[He presses his lips thin and regards the kid a second time. It feels...important. Suddenly it feels monumentally important that it's Yusuke here talking to him, and not any of the other kind folk he's met thus far. Byerly was a snoop and a crusted asshole to boot. Steve couldn't do much, for all his well meaning and his savior complex. Couldn't shake the soldier out of him if you turned him upside down and swung him by the ankles. It's hopeless there, he's too old. Richie's too old, but it was also too late to count on all those extra years to save him. Yet the thought of trying to pass off the task makes him want to upchuck the whole long link of his digestive system. Nobody deserved it, not anyone. He wasn't sure it could be passed in the first place, with all those otherworldly nudges and coincidences and the way the seven of them together seemed like links in a chain.
But Yusuke was, in a way, at risk. Maybe on the cusp of getting out of it, growing boy that he was, but close enough.
Richie pulls the hair back from his forehead. At the border of the roots, faint and small enough that he has to angle his head to catch the moonlight streaming through the window, is a slash of a scar. No longer than a thumbnail.] Almost got ripped off the back of Bill's bike when we were making a break for it. My jacket split down the middle, thank god, or I wouldn't be here putting dents in your couch. Fucker tried to knock me off after and split my head. Gave me a concussion. [He releases the hair and fidgets on the spot. Unsure of how to proceed.]
We were pretty fucking stupid. Eleven years old and sneaking daddy's pistol out of the drawers, thinking we were gonna take care of things the way they do in all those comics we burned through on summer nights. But we kept trying, you bet your fur. We tried until we thought it was gonna be done. We did something right eventually, but I still can't remember it all. That happens once in a blue moon, strange but true. Especially if you're really young at the time. You go through something livid crazy and your brain pumps the brakes and says whoa now, I ain't riding with that in the cab. So it locks it in the trunk and it keeps on driving. Real great for keeping the gears grinding.
So...even after all that, we never saw his face. Not his real one. Every time, he was wearing something different. Made it real nice and personal for you, and it kept everyone's stories from jiving up.
[Nebulous truths, all cherry picked to make sure that what he comes away with is the lie. A man with many masks is the easier assumption to make, and it would be a smarter way to kill. Kept the delinquints from telling the cops, and how sensible would distrust of the grown folks sound to a teenage vigilante?] Save for one thing. You know, a calling card of sorts. There was always something orange. Usually like a pompom. Sometimes it was harder to notice at first, but...
[Richie trails off, staring at shadows cast on the wall opposite. No return on this. They'd weaved through the stone maze and were getting close, far too close to the minotaur in the middle. But Yusuke had to understand. Just this one thing.]
The point is, just before the world ended, I got a call from our guy Mikey. We all did. He was, ha ha...the only one that stuck around Derry. Never moved once and never made riches. You've got three guesses as to what he was calling for, but I bet you'll only need the one.