Richie rather disagreed -- he had nearly two decades worth of catching up to do when it came to jokes about Eddie's mom. But he only offered a lopsided smile over Stan's dependable sort of response to it. Stan had always been good about being unimpressed with Richie's most idiotic comments. Not mad, but disappointed came to mind. It was nice to see some things hadn't changed.
"Yeah. Eds," he said when Stan asked, and he was trying to be like... cool about it, even though his own anxieties were threatening to flare up. Because -- there were a lot of factors here, a lot of stuff that he'd worried about as a kid and then later as an adult and it was one thing to be with Eddie in a town full of bizarrely supportive strangers. But this was Stan, one of their best friends, and -- yeah. Of course he worried, even if he felt sort of sick about thinking that way. "He -- we." Richie wasn't sure what to say just yet, but then only shrugged. "He's sleeping." This wasn't and shouldn't have been the focus anyway. Stan needed pants. Stan had just or had been planning on killing himself. He didn't need to worry about what Richie and Eds were getting up to.
He rummaged through his clothes when they got to his room -- maybe it was just Stan's room now, though. If he wanted it -- and then tossed a pair of sweats onto the bed for him. They'd probably fit, considering so few things fit Richie properly without divine intervention. "So," he said, awkward. "I'll open the floor for questions now."