Richie either did depressed really poorly or really, really well depending on one's outlook on that sort of thing. It wasn't like he'd been moping around for attention, making a scene or anything -- which was probably what would have been expected of him, because attention seeking was what he did most all the time. Instead, he'd mostly just stayed in, curled up in bed (Eddie's bed. Stan had his now because Richie hadn't thought he needed it anymore, he'd thought Eddie and him were sharing), alternating between sleeping unhealthy amounts and replaying every single thing he might have said to make shit go sour so quickly.
It wasn't a fucking good look on him, frankly, but it hardly mattered if he had bruises under his eyes or if he'd failed to bother shaving for the last few days. Because -- well. Who cared? Eddie'd off and decided Stan's bed was better for sharing and any place that wasn't here was better for being in and Richie had never been all that great at going out of his way to impress someone on even his best of days -- which these last few days had not, in fact, been.
"Hnn," he said, sleepy, swatting away at whoever the fuck had the nerve to come in here and bother him, sit on him and then prod at his arm. "Fuck off, m'busy," he was not busy. He probably wasn't even tired anymore, just that weird, foggy overtired you got from sleeping too much, but the only way to fix it was by sleeping more. Except -- he squinted his eyes open anyway because-- "Eddie?" Yeah. Because it was Eddie and he was. Well. Here.