You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes downcast as the aroma of sesame and frying oil became stronger, nearing the Chinese restaurant where you and the other Losers had agreed to meet.
God, had it really been twenty seven years?
You wished it were a reunion under different circumstances.
You could still remember the glittering water of the Quarry, the raucous laughs that filled your days as a child, and most vividly, the boy with the wide glasses and horribly patterned shirts that you loved with an ache in your chest.
Pip pip cheerio, my lady!
Oh quit it, Richie!
What, you don't like my accent?
Suddenly, someone bumped into you in the midst of your thoughts, and at the same time you blurted out apologies, glancing up.
"Oh, I'm sorry—"
"Didn't see you there—"
You both cut off as you recognized one another with surprise.
"Richie?"
"Y/N, wow," he stammers, nearly dropping his cigarette as he twirls it absently. "Hey."
"You still smoke like a chimney." You grin amusedly, and he laughs.
"Nah, just... when I get nerves."
His gaze flicks to the door of the restaurant and you nod.
"I get that."
"You... you look really good." He offers almost bashfully and you smile.
"So do you."
You both feel like the awkward kids you once were, flushing while your shoes scuffed the pavement.
"Shall we go in?" He holds out his arm, and you take it.
"We shall."