Sure, they used to be in each other personal spaces constantly, pressing up or leaning against each other, or Eddie being an absolute dbag and sticking his feet right into Richie's face (Richie had made faces, but had thrived on those interactions, all that attention just for him).
But now there was nearly twenty seven years and a whole lot of death standing between them. Ritchie was a pile of nerves, so damned close to a break down he wasn't even sure how he was standing there, not sure how he wasn't shaking apart.
Then again, he also wasn't sure how Eddie was here, in front of him. Alive.
"Well, how was I supposed to know?" He asked, and it came out miserably. "Fuckin'. Sorry, dude. I'm all -- fuck." He wrung his hands a little and then gestured vaguely to the fence bit that Eddie had dropped, because he should probably just keep it on him, and then ducked into the door, and if he was waiting for Eddie to come along to (he was) he used looking around as an excuse.
Probably he should meet and introduce himself to the guy behind the bar -- Peter, Richie thought a little belatedly. He'd introduced himself before everything had gone wrong on the phone thingie. But now wasn't the time, and if the stories of this place were true, he'd have time for it later. For now, he just needed something strong in a large quantity.