"I think all nicotine addicts hate themselves to some degree," Richie said - she wasn't necessarily wrong. He didn't have much of a sense of self-preservation, on his end, which those closest to him (John) definitely noticed. It was just that he was so used to no one looking out for him, the fact that someone wanted to now was almost strange. It took a lot to rearrange the furniture of your life, but he was trying.
Probably wouldn't give up on the nicotine though, so. Cigarettes were really hard to quit - he'd cut back, when he had Eddie (or some weird version of him, anyway) around to insist that he ration them, and Russian Christmas cigarettes were bullshit, but now that he had access again? Balls to the walls.
He wasn't sure if he should suggest to John that they try tapering off. They might end up murdering each other two days in.
"Cocoa it is," he agreed, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray, discarded, the smoke drifting. "Or...whatever. Maybe we can just go look at the butterflies. Or fish. Our overlords at least give us shit to do around here."