They all probably needed to get some things off of their chests -- and maybe some of the Losers were more stubbornly idiotic than others, but the fact of the matter was that they'd all grown up in Derry, and no matter what they'd remembered or forgotten, it was practically a deep seated tradition to repress just about everything negative. It was, perhaps, just a way of Maine that had very little to do with Dancing Clowns.
Richie wasn't exactly easily tricked -- Eddie had a point when he said that Richie was smart, smarter than most, in fact, even if Rich liked to deny it pretty much constantly. But this wasn't really a trick, was it? She'd had little heart to hearts with everyone, kind of. Beverly wanted only the best for her people, and Richie was rather tired of being repressed about anything these days.
Plus, well. Pot. He really fucking liked pot. And it felt like it'd been forever now since he'd had a chance at any. "You sly little vixen," he complimented, eyeing up that one lone joint -- which would be more than enough to do it, considering how long it'd probably been for either of them. "I can definitely help with that. Not outside," he said, because it was fucking cold out and Richie was tired of that nonsense, no amount of growing up in Maine made up for the fact that he'd grown weak on sunny summer and always days in California the last several decades. "Your room is fine. Or the basement?" Which was a practical clubhouse these days, magically. But no one would yell at them for eating Cheetos in Beverly's bed.