If Eddie liked getting the attention, Richie sort of thrived on giving it. Or, well, he thrived on those reactions he got sometimes. The cute ones where Eddie smiled like he was actually happy, or giggled like Rich'd actually said something funny. Different jokes got different reactions after all, and Richie was more used to the ones that got glares and yelling from Eddie and put upon sighs from Stan.
It was hard work, entertaining the masses.
And anyway, when he joked about Eddie being cute, he got to say stuff he really meant without being taken seriously. Richie kinda felt like he'd been doing it for so long now that it was just a part of him instead of some weird, messed up secret that he ought to be keeping from everyone and maybe even himself. It wasn't stuff that he liked to focus on too much though. Eddie wasn't the only one who could trip into a spiral of nerves -- Richie was just better at hiding it behind stupid jokes and thick framed glasses.
When Eddie grabbed hold of his sleeve, Richie twisted his hand a bit so that he could do the same thing, thin fingers twisting into the material of Eddie's way too fucking big shirt. "I dunno," he said. "I just feel like that's familiar. Like Bill lives at a place with a red door." He didn't. Obviously he didn't. Bill's house had always been a boring off-white almost grey color, but that didn't mean it wasn't a detail still stuck in Richie's mind for whatever reason.
The place wasn't big. It didn't feel like they'd have much trouble finding the place in question. "Who the fuck names a coffee shop COFFEE?" He asked, squinting at a building and trying to ignore his cold feet. They'd been through a hell of a lot worse than this, lately.