sweets | richie tozier

"wishful thinking"

"he...he hurts me. he hurts me really bad, grace" — beverly marsh

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When I woke—only two hours later—the only person I wanted to see was Richie, and it didn't take a genius to guess why. I tossed and turned in my bed with a bag of frozen peas resting on the left side of my face and another bag under my shirt to rest on my ribs, and yet I could think of nothing else but him. Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier. The stupid nerd who told immature jokes, had dorky glasses, wore funny beach-shirts and played guitar. The funny kid with the awkward limbs and elbows. The 14-year-old boy who made my heart go BOOMBOOMSPLATCRASHOHMYGOD just by smiling.

Bloody smiling.

I didn't know when, or how it happened, but I knew with so much certainty that Richie was more than just Richie, now. He was still the intelligent guy he was the day I met him. He was still immature and arrogant—snappy and a show-off. But I realised then, with a start, that he wouldn't be Richie without these little things. His silly little habits and annoying little traits, Richie simply wouldn't be Richie if it was taken away and replaced with something else. I realised—again, with a start—that I wouldn't ask him to change a single thing about him, because I liked him just how he was. His flaws were him, his mood-swings were him. His recklessness that he often mistakes for bravery was him, and I wouldn't change any of it for the world.

I sat up in my bed, wincing as the sharp pain in my ribs stabbed through me like a knife. God, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see Richie.

I jumped up and ran to the door but was stopped by the presence of my brother. Will took one look at me and immediately, he was onto me. He pushed me back into my room, slammed the door shut, and began to swear.

"Who the fuck did this?! Grace? Who is fucking responsible for this?!"

I took a deep, chilling breath, and tried my best to calm Will down. "Hey, relax. I'm fine. It's just—"

But Will didn't want to hear any of it. His icy eyes bore right into me with worry and anger. It was the most livid I'd seen him be. Well, lately anyway. "Grace, you tell me who did this right fucking now," Will said slowly, breathing harshly through his nostrils. "Just give me the name. One name, and I'll rip that little fucker's hands from his wrists."

"Will!" I scolded harshly, jabbing a stern finger into his chest. I was touched at his protectiveness, but half of me felt that he wasn't talking figuratively. "I do not want you to get involved. This is my shit. I brought it onto myself, so I'll sort it out myself. The last thing we need is a repeat of last year, right?"

Will's face changed the moment I brought up the...incident that occurred last year. The momentous event that changed the entire course of our lives. The very day in which our father was torn away from us and our mother had made us run. Will stared at me and I could tell he was reliving that day; could tell he was hearing gunshots and screams, seeing blood—so much blood—and feeling me tugging at his sleeve and looking at him for guidance. For answers.

"Will? Do we run?"

"Run for your life, Gracie."

Those were the only words we spoke to each other that day. To be completely honest, those were the only words we spoke to each other for a long while. Ten months later, there we were: living in Derry as dropouts, each of us working for shitty money and each of us pretending to be happy for the others' sake. We never spoke about our life a year ago—to bring up those memories would break our mother's heart more than it already is. But despite us never speaking of our past lives, I could still see the cracks of the person we each were before we came here. I saw it the day I stole from that candy store right after smiling in the shipowner's face. I saw it that first day my mother snapped at me in the car after driving back from the Hanlon's, and I'm seeing it right now with Will.