The last time they'd hugged had been in the Quarry. Everyone had been wet and Richie had been numb in ways that had nothing to do with cold water seeping into his bones and everything to do with how he was going to feel for the rest of his life. He'd been torn apart in sadness that his brain hadn't even been fully able to process -- not yet, anyway -- and there'd only been five Losers left. He'd been crying then, and the other four --Bev, Mike, Ben and Bill had enveloped him in hugs there was no real escaping from. Mourning with him, and maybe for him, he wasn't sure.
At the time, he'd tried fixing on a smile, just so maybe they'd all back off a little, stop worrying enough to have their own moments and leave him to his own. But he hadn't felt it, and he certainly hadn't meant it.
It was heavy shit. Richie still couldn't talk about it, hadn't even really tried and might never be able to. But when Bev practically tackled him in a hug, he returned it in a way he hadn't back at the Quarry -- lifted her straight off of her feet and buried his face in her entirely too fucking frozen hair - he clung to her like he had no real intention of ever letting her go. "You're real," he said, which sounded stupid but it had been a concern and it was enough of a surprise that he couldn't even come up with a good zinger to go with it. "And cold as fucking ice." January embers, his ass.