"It's fucking something," Richie agreed -- but then, he'd never been quite as adventurous as Bev. He'd wanted to spend his summers doing normal things with his friends; hiding out in the arcade and punching at the buttons until his fingertips were bruised. He'd wanted to read comics and sit in back alleys with Bev, sneaking cigarettes in the dark, and crammed into a theater next to Eddie, Bill and Stan watching whatever the fuck was playing. He'd never wanted killer space clowns and everything that came after.
The doors made him uncomfortable after a few run ins with Bad Shit, but he still went through them if he found he needed something enough.
"Fuck you, I'm getting there," he said, almost cheerfully as he passed her a cigarette and they stepped out the door of the shop, Richie's fingers already flicking at his lighter and offering Beverly the first of the fire before he moved on to lighting his own. "Don't tell Eddie," he warned of the smoking after he'd taken his first drag -- it somehow helped with the acid in the back of his throat even though he knew it shouldn't have. "He'd fucking kill me just to prove a point." Well. That was one way of spilling the beans. Doing it all civilly over a cup of coffee had never really been in the cards.