What about the inhaler? Richie frowned thoughtfully for a moment before lifting his shoulder into the air helplessly. He didn't think Eddie needed it, really. But he had seen him get all -- panicky. The bad kind where he had to lean over and put his head between his knees, and Richie got to let himself get away with touching, petting slow comforting circles onto his back in order to feel like he was helping.
But those didn't happen that often. Not after It. So they'd probably be fine without one, if Eddie didn't have one. Speaking of other things Richie thought he'd be fine without, he reached out to pat Eddie's face gently. "What's that for anyway? Take it off. Let's see."
He flipped Eddie off for even suggesting he might look like Mrs. K, but kind of put the idea of using some string for his glasses on the back burner for now. He might actually have to do it for how liable he was to fuck them up in a situation like this.
The rest of the house was just as empty or worse, Rich realized as he looped the belt tight around his waist, and tripped barefooted over the ends of his pants (he didn't care about socks the way Eddie did). "Why do we live like this?" He asked, and it felt like a question that shouldn't have made sense but it still kind of did, weirdly. Richie frowned and yanked the front door open to daylight and a town courtyard.