It wasn't what Stan was processing that was boring, Richie was sure -- the guy had offed himself and left a lot behind. He'd made a big (bad) decision, and now he had to live with it. But it was the how. Listen, spreadsheet presentations couldn't be made interesting in any world. That was a fact.
"It's too much," Richie agreed quietly, looking down at his hands, long awkward fingers and boney knuckles. It was too fucking much and it wasn't even all of it, wasn't even half, and Richie didn't know what to do. Because of course he was happy Eddie and Stan were here, and he loved them. He loved them more than anything, more than himself. But sometimes it just really hurt to look, too. And he knew that shouldn't be the case. Maybe it was because Richie had always just had a hard time being happy, had struggled with the concept for about as long as he could remember.
"I know why you did it." Richie said after a beat. "And I might have done the same thing, if I'd remembered before I showed up in that fucking restaurant like an absolute naive idiot." An idiot who'd stood in the doorway and watched Eddie full blast chatter at the other Losers and remembered more than he'd bargained for in two seconds flat. It'd made him stupid from the get go. "No one blames you. I don't. But you didn't see--" He stopped himself, swallowing up words and feeling a little like he ought to be twisting to the side to maybe throw up. He didn't, once grimaced for a second before shaking his head. "We shoulda kept talking about fucking alligators, man."