It wasn't a conversation that Stan was meant to be having, that was true. But he'd be having it anyway, and Richie would be there to listen. And eventually, probably, it would all be better than it was now. There were a lot of things that weren't supposed to happen -- Eddie wasn't supposed to be here either, wasn't supposed to be the guy who Richie got to stare at like he hung the moon because somewhere else he was dead. Stan too. And for a fleeting second, Richie wondered if there was something he didn't know about himself. If he'd finished carving their initials into the Kissing Bridge, stepped back to admire his handiwork and then was hit by a car or. Maybe just couldn't handle all that loss and went the Stan Uris route? Maybe he was dead too, and that's why it was the three of them now -- three out of four of the original Losers.
Maybe it didn't matter at all. They were here and alive. And Stan was giving him one hell of a hug, and Richie hadn't realized quite how much he'd needed it until it was happening and he thought maybe Stan needed it too, so he squeezed back tighter yet until they were all wound up in each other and his nose was pressed all stupid in Stan's hair and he was glad he was holding his glasses instead of wearing them because they just would have been in the way and he didn't need to see anyway.
"Fuck you," he said, but it was in that fond way he had, where he couldn't find the right words and so he swore instead because that was just the Trashmouth way of things. But he didn't want Stan to feel bad, he really didn't, because Richie got it. At least, he thought he did. If he'd have known what he was walking back into in Derry, he might have considered another way out, too. "The only thing you gotta be sorry for is if you spring a boner on me, man. Christ, we need to get you some pants."