Even having learned to build up walls -- temporary, shaky things; Dan had shown him bricks, but Richie never seemed to manage them quite right -- stuff was still slipping in. Everything felt like Jenga pieces in his head, wobbly, a piece missing here and there that he tried replacing but all it did was leave another spot open. He thought, maybe, even if his walls were good he wouldn't fully be able to block out all the thoughts and emotions going on in the Loser household.
And maybe he didn't want to, anyway. Stan seemed restless and not really in a bored sort of way so much as ... discomforted, maybe. Richie glanced up from where he'd been just zoning out on the couch, the far wall mysteriously interesting right up until Stan flopped on the couch next to him. "Entertain you?" he asked in a British huff of a Voice. "S'that all I am to you, Stanley? Entertainment on a whim?" Of course, well, he kind of was. That was what he did and always had done. What were the Losers without their comedian?