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Summary
“You have to come home, Richie.” He said, voice short like he’d practiced this a thousand times through.
Of course.
There was that sharp reminder that it hadn’t been long enough. It had been seventeen years since they’d fought IT last, and if Ben had been correct then it would be twenty-seven years. So what had changed? Now of course his friends would probably have a few thousand theories, though most would end in him tied to a chair in the basement to prevent him from trying to be some sort of sacrifice all over again. He’d show, of course, which meant leaving suddenly without telling his friends.
It still hadn’t been long enough though. He was twenty-eight, he lived alone in his apartment and barely visited where he was from anymore before it carried things he hadn’t been able to handle for the last twelve years of his life.
Nothing he’d done since he was eleven had been normal, which maybe made this better than it had been back then. He was more prepared at least.
But he wasn’t supposed to be, was he?