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The air in the Wheeler basement, despite Mike’s best efforts at ventilation, still held a faint, metallic tang. It was August 1985, two weeks after the Starcourt disaster, and the feeling of aftermath was heavy and constant, like humidity that wouldn’t break. They were all trying to pretend things were normal, but the absence of Hopper was a silent, aching void, and the looming move of the Byers family to California in October cast a shadow over every shared moment.
Mike was slumped on the sofa, aggressively editing his latest D&D campaign module with a red pen, muttering darkly about plot holes caused by "real-life communist incursions." Will sat nearby, trying to sketch in his notebook, but his pencil kept drawing the same thing: Mike's face, earnest and slightly frustrated, overlaid with an undeniable confusion in his own heart. He was supposed to be drawing his character, but all he felt was this persistent, confusing ache that he'd always labeled as 'Mike.' It was the kind of feeling that demanded he protect the Party, preserve the status quo, and ensure Mike always looked at him with that deep, shared history.
Upstairs, the quiet hum of domesticity was suddenly shattered by a loud, insistent pounding on the front door, coupled with the frantic jingle of the doorbell.
"Mike, get that, please!" Nancy called from upstairs, her voice strained. She was already busy enough trying to decide which college to apply to, and frankly, pretending that Jonathan is inside her bedroom.
Mike groaned, tossing his pen onto the map. "Why me? Why can't Mom get it? It’s probably just Dustin with a new theory about Russian cryptography."
"Prolly because you're closer to the door," Will retorted, and Mike heard the distinct sound of Nancy shouting for his name again. He trudged towards the front door, his sister still shouting on top of the still ringing doorbell.
"Fine! No need to get your panties in a bunch, Nance! It's not like the Russians are back and they're bringing a giant—"
"That's not what your mom told me when she was on top of me last night!" a voice boomed from the other side of the door. The volume and the content were so wildly inappropriate that Mike froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
He knew that voice, that specific, grating, aggressively sarcastic cadence. He pulled the door open, bracing himself.
Standing on the porch was a taller, slightly lankier version of himself. Same dark, slightly unruly hair, the same pale skin, the same shape of the jaw. But where Mike wore a perpetually anxious frown, this person wore a triumphant, self-satisfied grin. And the glasses—thick, black, coke-bottle frames—magnified his dark eyes, giving him the appearance of a gleeful, loud-mouthed owl.
It was his cousin, visiting from Derry, Maine.
"Richard! You made it!" Karen Wheeler swept in from the kitchen, bypassing Mike entirely and engulfing Richie in a massive, suffocating hug.
"Aunt Karen! The hug felt like a hug from a bear who just drank a bottle of cheap wine and told me I was handsome," Richie managed, but he hugged her back with enthusiasm. "And don't worry, Mike. I got the door. You look like you're about to write a very sad poem about the futility of life. Which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened in Hawkins, right? You should save that angst for your secret diary, Michael. It’s too much for the general public."
"Still not giving up on the comedy, I see," Karen commented, eye twitching slightly despite the ever-permanent smile plastered on her cheeks, "Why don't you go hangout with Mike while I prepare dinner?"
Mike glowered. "Shut up, Richie. Just... shut up."
"Aww, look at my little twin," Richie cooed, nudging Mike's shoulder. "Except, you know, I look so much better with a 50% higher chance of scoring with anything that moves. And I don’t wear terrible, ill-fitting jeans. No offense, Mikey, but those look like something your dad—"
"Stop!" Mike grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the basement stairs. "Just come down and shut up. Just try to act like a person who hasn't been institutionalized."
Richie paused dramatically at the top of the stairs, adjusting his glasses. "Normal? Mike, that’s like asking me to stop breathing. But fine. Lead the way, my smaller, less successful clone. So, is this where you keep the good stuff? The comics? The smuggled VHS tapes? Because I am starving for entertainment that doesn't involve old people complaining about the price of lettuce."
Mike shoved him down the steps, Richie landing with a theatrical thud next to Will’s campaign notebook.
Will looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion. He saw the striking resemblance to Mike, but this version was sharper, louder, and somehow more chaotic. Will’s nervous system instantly went into alert mode.
"Alright, alright, gather around, peasants!" Richie announced, scrambling up and throwing his arms wide, striking a pose like a bad superhero. "I'm Richie Tozier, the better, funnier, and significantly more well-endowed version of Mike Wheeler, and I'll be your entertainment for the next month. Don't worry, I won't charge extra for the privilege of basking in my glory. But seriously, who are you? You look like you just saw a ghost, and not in the fun, cartoon way."
Mike, red-faced, jumped in. "Richie, this is Will. He’s... my best friend. Will, this is my cousin. I’m sorry. I really am."
Richie ignored Mike, focusing entirely on Will. He walked over, his magnified eyes scrutinizing Will's face, his posture, and the notebook scattered with sketches of knights and monsters.
"Will, huh?" Richie repeated, dropping his voice to a surprisingly intimate level. "You're the one who was lost and came back. The boy who came back to life. I like that. You got those big, sad eyes. Like you’re carrying around a secret that weighs eighty pounds. Tell me, Will. Are you the one who gets all the good comic books? I’ve been looking for the original run of Swamp Thing."
Will flushed, stammering slightly. "I... I read some comics. I like fantasy."
"Fantasy!" Richie crowed, throwing his hands up. "See, Mike? This guy has culture! You're stuck on dragons and dice, Will’s out here appreciating the truly complex narrative structures of The Watchmen or Hellblazer. You look like the kind of guy who knows exactly what he wants, but is too polite to grab it. That's hot."
The last word hung in the air, sudden and sharp. Will’s internal monologue—the endless loop of Mike, Mike, Mike—snapped, replaced by a dizzying, immediate focus on this loud stranger. Will’s heart did a confused, frantic flutter.
Mike looked genuinely horrified. "Richie! Stop being gross! You just got here!"
"What? I’m complimenting his restraint, Mikey! That's a good quality! It shows he's not easily impressed. Unlike your mother, who was easily impressed when she saw my—"
"That's your Aunt, asshole. Dustin and Lucas are coming over later!" Mike yelled, desperate to change the subject. "And Max and El! Just... unpack your stuff and stay in the guest room!"
Richie winked at Will, a knowing, theatrical gesture. "See you later, Lost boy. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about the time I just ruined your quiet sense of denial. That’s our secret. Now, where's the food? Because that's not what your mom told me when she was looking for a snack after—"
Mike physically propelled Richie up the stairs, leaving Will alone in the basement, his heart pounding a rhythm that was entirely new and alarming. He picked up his notebook, the knight sketch now completely overshadowed by the thick, black silhouette of a pair of glasses.
What the hell was that?
The ache he felt for Mike was familiar, a comfortable, slightly painful glove. But Richie was a raw, electric wire. And Will had just accidentally touched it.
When the rest of the Party arrived—Lucas, Dustin, Max, and Eleven—the reaction was identical to Will’s: stunned silence followed by confused laughter at the visual paradox of two Mikes.
"Whoa," Dustin breathed out, consulting his pocket protector. "The genetic resemblance is statistically improbable. You look like the evil twin that got a pair of glasses."
Richie grinned, high-fiving Dustin. "My man. Finally, someone with an eye for aesthetics. I’m Richie Tozier. I’m here to lower your collective GPA and teach you all a few things about actual, worthwhile forms of escapism—like arcades, comic book collecting, and skipping class."
"You're loud," Eleven observed simply, clutching Mike’s hand.
"Thank you, sweetheart! That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Except for that one time your mom told me I had the stamina of a champion racehorse, but that’s a story for another time," Richie shot back, instantly drawing a scowl from Mike.
"She knows mama?" El whispered. Mike immediately started explaining how it's a joke while his cousin pointedly ignored them. Instead, Richie’s eyes landed on Max, who was wearing an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.
"And you, red. You look like trouble. The good kind of trouble. The kind that gets you detention and a secret admiration from the teachers," Richie said, tipping an imaginary hat.
"I like him," Max announced to no one in particular, pointing. "He’s like the better version of Mike even funnier when he’s insulting people."
Lucas, however, was immediately suspicious. "Look, Richie. We’ve been through a lot. Real stuff. So keep the mom jokes to a minimum. We’re just trying to have a serious D&D campaign."
"Dungeons and Dragons!" Richie scoffed, dramatically throwing his head back. "Look, I love fantasy as much as the next guy who spends too much time inside, but you guys need to get with the times. Have you heard of G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero? That’s where the action is! But fine. Lead the way, my vertically-challenged friends. Let’s slay some dragons."
The attempt at a D&D session was a rapid failure, exactly as Mike had feared. Mike, desperate to prove their bonding rituals were superior to Richie’s cynicism, tried to lead the module, which involved a treacherous journey through the 'Misty Peaks.'
"Alright," Mike began, trying to project the DM's authority. "You stand at the foot of the Misty Peaks. It's a grueling ascent. A blizzard howls around you, and a deep, unsettling silence has fallen. You hear nothing but the wind."
Richie, who had reluctantly rolled a character (a Paladin named 'Sir Thrust-a-lot,' much to Lucas’s enduring horror), immediately interrupted. "Wait, silence? That's boring. I cast 'Vicious Mockery' on the wind. I shout: 'Yeah? That's not what your mom told me when she was blowing hot air on my—'"
"Richie! No!" Mike slammed his hand on the table.
"It’s what my character would do!" Richie protested. "It’s a morale booster! It’s called 'aggressive character development,' Mikey. Look it up. Will, what do you think? As a fellow fantasy enthusiast, don't you think the wind deserves to be roasted?"
Will, who had been focused intently on his sheet, felt the familiar pull of Richie’s eyes. He managed a shaky, nervous laugh. "I... I think the wind might be resistant to emotional damage, Richie."
Richie grinned, leaning back. "Details, details. See, Mike? Will gets it. Will understands the power of the narrative. What’s your character, Will? You look like you’d be a Fighter, always fighting the good fight."
"He's a Cleric," Mike supplied quickly, preempting Will’s response, his voice tight. "He specializes in healing and strategic defense."
"The Sorcerer," Richie repeated, his eyes locking onto Will. "A healer, huh? Someone who’s always watching everyone else’s back. That’s noble. But sometimes, Lost boy, you need to worry about your own back. Especially when I’m standing behind you."
Will’s breath hitched. That simple, loaded phrase—watching everyone else’s back—was so accurate it hurt. He was always worried about Mike, about the Party, about the world. He never worried about himself.
Dustin, oblivious, consulted his rulebook. "He's right, Mike. The Cleric's defense rating is through the roof. Will is always prepared."
"Exactly," Richie said, not breaking eye contact with Will. "Prepared for everything except the unexpected intrusion of a loud, honest idiot. Mike, this game is boring. Let’s ditch the dice. I saw a commercial for the new issue of The Amazing Spider-Man on TV. It's probably at the General Store. Let's go buy comics, get some terrible food, and then hit the Palace Arcade. I need to assert my dominance on Dig Dug."
"The Arcade?" Mike groaned. "Richie, we’re bonding! We have to defeat the—"
"You’ll defeat the final boss on the Joust machine, you dork," Richie announced. "Now, come on, Lost boy. You look like you need to trade in that heavy chainmail for a light jacket and some neon lights."
The D&D materials were shoved aside. The transition was immediate and driven entirely by Richie’s forceful personality. The group made their way to the Palace Arcade, smelling of burnt sugar and old carpet; it was Richie’s natural habitat. He moved through the crowded room with a confident swagger, his thick glasses somehow lending him an air of knowing exactly where he was going. He was a magnet for chaos and attention.
Will, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin were left in his wake, occasionally exchanging bewildered glances. Max and El were the only ones who seemed unfazed—El was curious, and Max was visibly enjoying the spectacle.
"Lucas, watch the master," Richie commanded, throwing a quarter into the Donkey Kong machine. "This is a classic. A true narrative of heartbreak and industrial sabotage. Unlike your mom's soap opera, which is just about heartbreak."
While Richie successfully set an impressive score on Donkey Kong, Will found himself drifting toward the Galaga machine, a game he usually ignored. He needed the mindless repetition to process the seismic shift in his emotional landscape.
Richie, however, was a force of nature. He quickly tired of Donkey Kong and gravitated towards Will.
"Galaga? Seriously, Lost boy?" Richie scoffed, leaning against the machine next to him. "That’s like, a game for people who hate themselves. Why don't you try something that requires actual hand-eye coordination? Like Dig Dug? Or maybe, I don't know, trying to avoid my incredibly good looks?"
Will tried to focus on the screen, but his cheeks were hot. "I like Galaga. It’s... simple."
"Simple is boring," Richie murmured, his voice low enough to be intimate, cutting through the synthesized noise of the Arcade. "Look at you, Will. You're always choosing the simple, quiet option. You're always trying to disappear into the scenery. Why?"
Will stopped playing, turning to face him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you're obviously not simple," Richie said, adjusting his glasses and pointing a finger at Will’s chest. "You’ve got a whole mood happening here. Sad. Artistic. Probably holding a thousand secrets. And you’re hanging out with Mike, who’s nice, but is about as complicated as a wooden block. You should be hanging out with me. I’m complicated. I’m an actual psychological disaster."
Will blinked. He was used to people treating him like he was fragile, like something that might break if handled too roughly. Mike and Lucas was always protective, and Dustin kind but often oblivious. Richie was the first person who seemed to treat his quietness not as a weakness, but as a deliberate choice, and an interesting one at that.
"Why are you so loud?" Will asked, feeling a strange boldness spurred by the chaos around them.
Richie laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Why? Because I’m terrified of being quiet. If I’m quiet, someone might actually ask me what I think about Derry, or my parents, or—" He stopped abruptly, and for a fleeting second, the noise fell away, and Will saw a flicker of real, raw vulnerability behind the thick glass lenses.
Richie immediately snapped back to his persona, leaning in close, smelling of sweat and cheap cologne. "Or, you know, I’m just loud because that’s what your mom told me she liked when she was screaming in the—"
"I knew it!" Mike’s voice cut across the room. He had stalked over, looking suspicious and possessive. "Richie, stop harassing Will! Let him have fun!"
"Harrassing? Mike, I’m giving him the gift of my magnetic personality! You should try it sometime. Your personality is currently set to 'Slightly Damp Cardboard.'" Richie turned his attention fully to Mike. "Look, Mikey, I know you want to monopolize the Lost boy, but he’s clearly starved for some proper, high-quality trash talk. Go play Joust. You’re terrible at it."
Mike hesitated, shooting Will a questioning, slightly desperate look. Will gave a small, non-committal shrug, avoiding his eyes. The feeling for Mike was still there, but it felt suddenly flat, pale in comparison to the electric, confusing energy radiating off Richie.
Mike walked away, grumbling, and Richie turned back to Will, his grin triumphant.
"See? He’s easy. You, Lost boy, are going to be a challenge. Which is why I like you," Richie whispered. He threw a quarter into the Galaga slot. "Here. Let me show you how to play this thing like a person who has something to live for."
Richie started playing, his fingers dancing over the joystick and fire button with surprising grace and focus. He was intensely good, his usual manic energy channeled into the game. Will watched, mesmerized by the sudden seriousness, the sheer concentration.
"So," Richie said, not looking away from the screen as his ship decimated a wave of aliens. "I heard you and your family are leaving. When? Where?"
"October," Will replied, his voice soft. "Soon. In Lenora."
"California, huh? Sunsets and stupid beaches. That sounds like a waste of your talents. You need gloom, Will. You need a setting that matches your intensity. Like Derry. Or maybe a graveyard."
"Thanks," Will chuckled, genuinely amused.
"Don't mention it," Richie said, finally losing a life and stepping back. "Look. When you get to California, you're going to realize that all the reasons you thought you needed to stay here—the Party, the comfort, the Mike of it all—were just excuses to avoid change. You're trying to cling to the past. And I'm here to tell you, the past is boring. It smells like old pizza and regret. The future, however... the future smells like me, and I smell amazing."
He punctuated the statement with a dramatic spritz of cheap body spray he pulled from his pocket. Will choked on the scent, but he was smiling wider than he had in months. Richie Tozier is a different kind of person altogether.
So when the Party decided to escape the oppressive heat by going to the quarry the next day Will had a lot to think about. Still processing the shift of the day before, found himself cycling next to Max. The only person who seems to actually see past Will's defenses.
"So," Max started, not looking at him, her tone deceptively casual. "What’s the deal with your new boyfriend?"
Will almost swerved his bike off the road. "He is not my boyfriend, Max! He’s just... Mike’s cousin!"
"Yeah, but he’s looking at you like you’re the last scoop of cookie dough ice cream on earth," Max pointed out. "And you’re looking at him like you just figured out the entire meaning of life. Don’t lie to Max, Will. We’re both experts in repression. I’m just better at hiding it behind a foul temper."
Will sighed, the defense melting away. He trusted Max implicitly. She was the one person who seemed to understand the complexity of his feelings without requiring him to define them in neat, straight lines.
"I don’t know, Max," Will admitted, feeling miserable. "It’s just... when I look at Mike, I feel... safe. Like, if I can just keep us all together, everything will be okay. I've always thought that was it."
Max nodded, slowing her bike. "Sounds like love, Will. Perhaps brotherly love or best friend love. But it sure sounds more like comfort. The way you look at Richie though, you look like you’re having a low-grade panic attack. That's the real stuff. The 'oh my God, I might die of embarrassment and also joy' kind of feeling. Which is what I feel when I think about kissing Lucas, sometimes. But less loud. Don't tell him that."
"It's terrifying," Will confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "He's so loud. And he keeps making those terrible jokes. He just bulldozes over everything, and I don't know how to react."
"Yeah, he’s a bulldozer," Max agreed. "But he’s not malicious. He’s just honest. That’s why he’s so loud. I think it's because if he ever stopped shouting jokes, he’d probably have to say something real. And that’s scary. You like him because he’s a massive threat to the status quo you've built around Mike. You like him because he's forcing you to stop being just 'The Lost boy' and start being Will."
Will felt a jolt of recognition. Max was right. Richie was the anti-Mike—the reckless abandon to Mike's cautious planning. The loud, proud chaos to Mike's repressed, anxious order.
They arrived at the quarry. The Party immediately started scrambling down the dusty embankment toward the water. Mike and Eleven walked ahead, still holding hands, their silhouettes framed against the bright August sun.
Will stopped, watching them. The usual ache surfaced, but Max’s words had given him a new perspective. Comfort, not love.
Richie, who had been carrying a massive boombox blasting Tears for Fears, stopped next to Will. He turned the music down, his face uncharacteristically serious.
"You done staring at the golden couple, Lost boy?" Richie asked, but without any malice, just a quiet observation.
"They're not the golden couple," Will mumbled, still watching Mike.
"They might be," Richie insisted, taking off his glasses to polish them on his shirt—a gesture Will now recognized as a precursor to genuine sincerity. "And that sucks for you. But you know what? You're too interesting to waste time pining after a guy who thinks 'a single organism' is a relationship goal. You deserve someone who's going to make you feel like your whole chest is going to explode, and then immediately tell you a joke about your mom."
Richie put his glasses back on, the vulnerability instantly shielded.
"Look, Will," he said, leaning in. "I’m an idiot. I’m loud, I’m lewd. I'm a complete train wreck. But I’m also here, and I’m looking at you, and I’m telling you, straight up, that I think you’re worth the effort. I’m not saying you need to date me. I’m just saying you need to admit that what you feel for Mike is real, and what you feel for me could real-er. Y-know, the good stuff, Will. The panic attack stuff. The 'I can’t breathe' stuff."
Will stared at him, his entire body humming with nervous energy. The truth was inescapable. Richie was forcing him into the light.
"I’m scared," Will finally confessed, his voice trembling.
Richie’s face softened. He reached out and gently took Will's hand, his large, warm hand completely enveloping Will’s cold one.
"I know," Richie said, gently. "But if you’re scared, that means you care. And if you care, that means you’re alive. Now, come on. We need to go swimming before Mike accidentally drowns trying to write a sonnet to the algae."
Richie pulled Will along the path, holding his hand openly until they reached the edge of the water where the others were stripping down to their underwear. Will let go, but the ghost of the contact lingered, hot and undeniable.
He was right. Richie was right. The confusing ache for Mike is real. But it was replaced by a sharp, terrifying clarity: he like Mike Wheeler, his best friend, but he also like Richie Tozier. And, oh God, he was gay.
The three days following the trip to the quarry were marked by a tense, electric atmosphere in the Wheeler house. Richie had shifted his entire focus. He was still loud, still telling jokes that should have earned him an immediate exile from Hawkins, but the target of his attention was singularly Will, and the nature of his attention had changed.
Richie’s new approach was brilliant in its simplicity: he never pressured Will to define his feelings for Mike, or to break free from his past. He simply made his own feelings—and the fact of Will's immediate, terrifying appeal—a constant, undeniable force.
Richie would look at Will across the D&D table, not with Mike’s familiar, needy gaze that begged for affirmation, but with an open, hungry curiosity that said, I see you, and you are mine to discover. Oh Will knew he’s undeniably fucked. But hey— who's to blame him if he likes the new attention he’s getting?
One morning, Will was sitting alone in the basement, trying to concentrate on a book, when Richie came downstairs, dramatically throwing himself onto the floor beside Will’s armchair.
"Lost Boy," Richie announced, pulling a well-worn copy of Watchmen from his backpack. "I have a theory. You know why you’re so good at D&D? Because you spend all your time thinking about what other people need. Healing, defense, strategy. It’s all about the Party. You never cast a spell on yourself."
Will lowered his book, surprised by the sudden insight. "It’s a Cleric’s job to support the group."
"Yeah, and it’s a Cleric’s job to wear chainmail," Richie countered, adjusting his glasses. "But you’re sitting here in a T-shirt that looks suspiciously like something your mom bought in 1979. So clearly, Clerics are allowed to break the rules. The point is: I’m here to cast a high-level buff spell on you. It's called 'Richie’s Unending Attention,' and it has a high chance of causing severe distraction, confusion, and possibly accidental kissing."
Will flushed, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "You don't have to... do that."
"Yes, I do," Richie stated firmly, sitting up and resting his chin on his knees. "I’m operating on a very tight timeline, Byers. You’re leaving in two months. I’m leaving in three weeks. That means I have exactly 72 hours to convince you that I am more fun than Mike’s meticulously planned five-year relationship schedule so we can date for the rest of summer before we become the epitome of star-crossed lovers."
"Mike doesn't have a schedule," Will mumbled, though the phrase rang terribly true.
"He does," Richie insisted, leaning closer. "He wants the Party, he wants El, he wants college, and then he wants a nice, quiet life where nothing ever changes and his best friend always draws him pictures of knights. You are a comfort object to him, Will. I'm a natural disaster. And you, my quiet little artist, deserve the disaster."
He reached out and gently traced the line of Will’s jaw with his index finger. Will’s breath hitched, and he stared, mesmerized by the sudden, intense physical contact.
"I like you, Will," Richie whispered, his voice dangerously low. "It's simple. It’s loud. It’s definitely inappropriate. And I’m going to make sure you know it, even if you spend the next three days drawing pictures of Mike’s stupid, earnest face. No judgment. Just... pure, unadulterated exposure to the alternative."
Richie then pulled back, instantly reverting to his loud persona. "Now, are we going to sneak out and watch a midnight screening of A Nightmare on Elm Street 2 or are we going to let Mike bore us to death with a two-hour lecture on the subtle nuances of El's emotional development?"
Will was utterly lost, caught between the comfort of the old and the terror of the new. He appreciated the clarity of Richie's attention. With Richie, Will didn't have to figure anything out—Richie had already done it. All Will had to do was choose whether to step into the blinding light or stay in the familiar shadow.
"Midnight movie," Will said, his voice shaky, but determined. "But we have to be back before Mrs. Wheeler wakes up."
Richie’s grin was blinding. "That's my Lost boy! Taking risks! It's important you know I just stopped myself from saying a highly inappropriate mom joke just now because I think it's not a good time. That's saying a lot."
And so Will and Richie started spending more and more time together and less and less time with other people. Mike, sensing the shift in Will's attention—or perhaps just the sudden, constant presence of his cousin near Will—grew increasingly anxious and possessive. He clung to Will in ways that used to be comforting but now felt suffocating.
During a bike ride to the General Store, Mike purposefully rode between Will and Richie, forcing Will into the shadow of his shoulder.
"Richie, stop making those jokes around Will," Mike ordered, his voice tight with defensive protectiveness. "He doesn't like that."
Richie, riding on Will's other side, didn't miss a beat. "Oh, is that what Will told you, Mikey? Because I'm pretty sure he just laughed so hard at my joke about your dad’s haircut that a little bit of snot came out. And guess what, cousin? I thought it was adorable! That’s called embrace the mess, Mikey! Something you wouldn't know anything about, since you wear clothes that are approximately three sizes too small just so you don't wrinkle anything."
Will felt a surge of loyalty towards Mike, the muscle memory of their friendship demanding he defend him. But he also felt a deep resentment toward Mike's assumption that he knew Will's boundaries better than Will did. Richie, sensing Will's internal struggle, simply reached across the space, his fingers brushing the back of Will's neck in a light, non-committal way that Mike couldn't possibly see. It was a silent, private communication: I know you're confused, but look what you're missing.
Will’s confusion intensified. Mike was safe. Mike was history. But Mike was also making Will feel like a glass figurine he needed to keep on a high shelf. Richie was chaos, but he was demanding Will step into his own power.
Later that evening, Mike cornered Will in the basement while Richie was getting soda upstairs.
"Will, you're being weird," Mike accused, his arms crossed, the concern in his voice genuine but laced with fear. "You're always laughing at Richie's gross jokes. And you haven't sketched anything for our campaign in two days. Are you... are you okay? Is it because you're leaving?"
Will felt the pressure of Mike’s expectation—the expectation that Will’s entire emotional world revolved around their group and his impending departure.
"I'm fine, Mike," Will said flatly. "I'm just... tired. And I'm allowed to laugh at a joke. Richie’s actually kind of funny, when he’s not trying to make you angry."
Mike looked genuinely hurt. "But he's just... so mean. And loud. We've always been... quiet. You and me. That's always been our thing."
"Maybe I don't want quiet anymore," Will whispered, the words surprising even himself.
Mike stared, his mouth slightly open. Before he could formulate a defense of the quiet, the door burst open and Richie tumbled down the stairs, narrowly missing his head.
"The Diet Coke is trying to kill me!" Richie yelled, waving an exploding can of soda. "It’s carbonated terrorism, I tell you! Anyway, what were you two lovebirds talking about? Was Mike trying to tell you how deep his feelings are? Because I don't think that's supposed to happen yet, I give him about 5 to 7 more years—"
Will looked at Mike's panicked face, and then at Richie's theatrical, joking mask, and he finally understood. Richie was offering him a way out—a distraction, an escape hatch. Mike was offering him a gilded cage. Will took a deep, shaky breath, and, for the first time, he chose the noise. He made his way to Richie, idiotic grin on his face.
"You say too much, Tozier." Richie just winked at him.
That night was the final turning point. After Mike went to bed, Will and Richie stayed awake in the basement, the single desk lamp illuminating a chaotic pile of comics, drawing pads, and empty bags of chips.
Richie had been talking about Derry. Not about the horrific, world-ending thing he refused to name, but about the specific, mundane misery of the town. He was cleaning his glasses again, a nervous tic that signaled his complete seriousness.
"Everyone in Derry is quiet, Will," Richie said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. "They walk around with their heads down, pretending they don't see the missing posters, pretending they don't smell the sewers, pretending they don't hear the silence that's louder than any scream. They want everything to be simple, like your little knight. But life isn't simple."
Richie looked up, his eyes direct and vulnerable without the distorting glass. "You and me, we’re not built for simple. We’re both walking around with holes in our timelines. You were gone, and when you came back, you were different. I had... an experience. And now, we both know something the other kids don't. We know that everything can break, and sometimes, the only way to put it back together is to be louder and messier than the world that broke you."
Will had never heard Richie speak for this long without a joke. It was the longest silence he’d ever shared, and it was devastatingly intimate.
"What was it like?" Will whispered, thinking of the Upside Down. "The experience. Was it... lonely?"
Richie gave a small, humorless laugh. "Lonely? Not at first, no. But then it ended and it was the loneliest I’ve ever been. The worse part was coming back and realizing everyone else is moving on. And they wanted me to play along with it as if our history did not just define the rest of our lives."
"I know that feeling," Will admitted, a sudden, powerful empathy flooding him. "It feels like... pretending to be normal is harder than fighting a monster."
"Exactly," Richie breathed out, leaning forward. "And that's why you're not Mike. Mike wants to believe that if you just close your eyes and hold hands, the monsters go away. You and I know that the monster is in the silence, Will. It's in the quiet spaces you refuse to fill. And I am here to fill them. With noise. With trash. With me."
He reached out and took Will's hand again, lacing their fingers together deliberately. This time, Will didn’t pull away. He squeezed back.
"I’m still so confused," Will confessed, his gaze locked on their joined hands. "About Mike. About... this."
"I know," Richie said softly. "But here’s the thing, Lost boy. Mike needs you to be the answer to his question: Are we still friends? I don't need you to be anything. I just need you to be here, for three weeks. I'm not asking you to forget you feelings for him, I'm asking you to see me. Just let yourself be selfish for once."
Richie traced a line on Will’s wrist with his thumb, sending a shiver up Will’s arm. "So here's the deal. I’m leaving September first. We have approximately three weeks left. I'm not asking you to throw away your knight or your history. I'm asking you to be Will Byers, the complicated, sad, artistic kid who deserves something loud and terrifying and immediate. Let's just... date. For the summer. Or what’s left of it. No labels. No promises about California. Just... you and me. Let me make you laugh until you forget about your own darkness, and let me look at you until you forget about the basement."
Will looked up, meeting Richie's earnest, magnified gaze. He saw the genuine offering beneath the usual bravado—a reckless, honest invitation. It was the most tempting, most dangerous thing he had ever been offered.
"Okay," Will whispered, the word sealing the deal. "For the summer."
Richie’s face broke into a glorious, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Good. Because I'm terrible at long-term planning, and even worse at silence. You're going to love this."
The decision made, the tension in the room snapped, replaced by an unbearable closeness. The silence that followed wasn't the lonely quiet of Hawkins, but the heavy, expectant quiet of two people who had just made an agreement they knew would change everything.
Richie didn't move immediately. He held Will’s hand, his thumb still tracing slow circles on Will’s wrist, waiting. He gave Will all the space in the world, now that the decision was Will's.
Will swallowed hard, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs. He still felt the fear, the terror of stepping into the unknown, but it was overshadowed by a desperate, physical need. He was done being the Cleric; he wanted to be the adventurer.
"Richie," Will managed, his voice barely a rasp.
Richie immediately dropped the jokes. His face was pure, focused attention. "Yeah, Lost boy?"
Will took his hand away from Richie’s, only to use it to gently grasp the thick frames of Richie's glasses. "Take these off," he instructed softly.
Richie didn't argue. He carefully lifted the glasses off his nose, placing them on the sketchbook next to him. Without them, his eyes—dark, startlingly warm, and suddenly huge—were completely exposed. He looked younger, more vulnerable, and overwhelmingly handsome.
"Better?" Richie whispered.
"No," Will breathed out, inching closer. "Worse. More distracting."
He closed the final space between them, leaning in and pressing his mouth against Richie’s. It was slow, searching, and deliberate. Will was the one initiating, the one asking the question.
Richie responded instantly, tilting his head and deepening the kiss, his hands coming up to cup Will’s face, holding him gently but firmly, as if Will might break or float away. The kiss was open-mouthed, messy, tasting of mint and the cheap, sugary soda Richie had exploded earlier.
Will felt a jolt of heat and sensation he had never experienced before. It wasn't just the kissing; it was the fact that he was doing it with a boy, with Richie. It felt like breaking a foundational rule of the universe, and the sheer exhilaration of the transgression made his knees tremble. He threaded his fingers into the soft, dark hair at the nape of Richie’s neck, pulling him closer, desperate to merge into the noise.
When they finally broke apart, both boys were breathless. Richie rested his forehead against Will's, his breath warm and uneven.
"Oh, my God," Richie muttered, his voice thick. "I knew it was going to be good. But I didn't know it was going to feel like surviving a car crash and winning the lottery at the same time."
Will couldn't speak. He was gasping, his cheeks flushed crimson. He opened his eyes and saw the pure, undiluted joy and desire in Richie's exposed gaze.
Richie didn't put his glasses back on. He just kept looking at Will, his thumbs rubbing Will’s cheeks. "See, Lost boy? That's what I'm talking about. That's the real life. Mike doesn't know how to do that."
"He doesn't," Will agreed, the confession coming easily now. He finally understood the difference between comfort and chemistry.
Richie kissed him again, softer this time, a playful, lingering brush of lips. "Good. Then let's make the next weeks the absolute best, most inappropriate time of your repressed little life."
The next three weeks became a blur of secret gestures and shared escapes, a perfect, condensed summer romance built entirely on adrenaline and basement shadows. Will found himself living a double life: the quiet, artistic Will Byers who was Mike’s best friend; and the reckless, laughing ‘Lost Boy’ who was Richie Tozier’s secret boyfriend.
The initial week was characterized by sheer excitement and the constant fear of discovery. They mastered the art of non-verbal communication in front of the others—a shared look across the dinner table, a specific way Richie would bump his shoulder into Will’s, a joke that only they truly understood. Still, it feels like they haven't been spending a lot of time alone- not enough.
So when Dustin asked the rest of the Party to visit Steve and robin at family video and maybe convince them to allow them to rent x-rated films, Will took the opportunity.
"I don't think I can make come with you guys. My stomach is... swirling," Will said, clutching his abdomen dramatically.
Mike immediately looked concerned. "Oh, man. Is it the pizza from last night? You should stay here, I'll bring you back some Jolt Cola."
"Don't worry, Mike, I’ll stay here and monitor his swirling stomach," Richie interjected quickly, resting a hand on Will’s forehead in a theatrical show of cousinly concern. "I’m a doctor. Didn't you know? I specialize in—"
"Just shut up, Richie, and be quiet," Mike snapped, oblivious, and then hurried the others out. Will saw Max's raised eyebrow and repressed smile pointed towards him but she didn't say a thing. Instead, Will gave her a wink and she laughed silently while following the others.
The moment the front door closed, Richie grabbed Will's hand and pulled him toward the back door.
"Come on, Lost Boy. I just saw an amazing, terrible sight! The abandoned drive-in movie theater has its projector screen still standing! We are going to paint the biggest, most inappropriate cartoon on that thing before some farmer decides to tear it down."
Will's eyes widened. "Vandalism? Richie, we’ll get caught!"
"Exactly! That's the point! It’s called 'aggressive memory-making,' Will. Now grab those cans I stashed under the porch, and let's go commit a minor felony."
They spent two glorious hours in the dusty, quiet lot of the abandoned theater. Richie was a blur of movement and loud, bad ideas, but he was incredibly focused. He didn’t just paint; he performed. Will, initially hesitant, soon found himself laughing uncontrollably, the spray can heavy and exciting in his hand. He ended up contributing a massive, slightly warped version of a DnD beholder next to Richie's elaborate, grotesque cartoon portrait of a dick with a face.
They sealed the successful mission with a frantic, desperate kiss behind the crumbling ticket booth. It was rushed and intense, their hands fumbling with each other’s clothes, the raw need for privacy almost unbearable. They pulled away, flushed and breathing heavily, leaning against the peeling wall.
"God, Will," Richie whispered, his voice shaky, his fingers tangled in Will’s hair. "You’re going to be the death of me. This is too much fun."
That evening, they met the party at the arcade. The tension was palpable if only because Lucas was forced by his mother to bring his sister along. Erica, still offended her mother thought she wants to spend time with her brother and his annoying friends, was clearly looking for a target.
Richie, oblivious or uncaring, was holding court by the Street Fighter machine, demonstrating a completely inappropriate move to Max.
Erica strolled up, hands on her hips, her gaze locked on Richie’s thick-rimmed glasses.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Erica announced, her voice dripping with superior disdain. "The four-eyed nerd. Did you need those glasses because your eyes got ruined from reading too many lame comic books?"
Richie turned, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He recognized a worthy adversary, and his energy instantly ratcheted up.
"And who might you be, Little Miss Snark?" Richie asked, adopting a posh, theatrical accent. "The diminutive queen of the snack aisle? I bet your parents are very proud. I mean, after the trauma of discovering what they had produced, they must be relieved you can at least count to five. And for your information, Short-Stack, I don't do 'lame comic books.' They are graphic novels that deal with complex issues of societal decay and political corruption. You wouldn't understand. I bet your preferred reading material is the back of a cereal box."
Erica scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. "You make yourself sound like a nerd, but you're just a loudmouth. My brother is a nerd. But he at least has tactical skills. You just have a foul mouth and glasses the size of saucers. Did you have to get those spectacles because your brain's too big for your skull? Or is that just your head trying to grow a second, less attractive face?"
The Party watched in stunned silence. Even Mike was starting to look scared for his cousin.
Richie, however, didn't even flinch. He leaned in conspiratorially. "That's a good one, Short-Stack. I’ll give you points for the originality. But let me tell you something, Little Miss Attitude. My mom told me your mom wears glasses because she likes to see my face up close when she's sucking my wang. And the only thing bigger than my brain is the amount of sugar your dad has to sneak into his coffee just to get through a single conversation with you. Your sass levels are off the charts, but your maturity is still stuck in the toddler stage. Go play with your dolls, before I tell you what your parents told me about your impending bedtime."
Lucas buried his face in his hands. "Oh my God, Richie!"
Erica, however, was no longer angry. Her eyes widened, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across her face. She dropped her arms, the bag of chips dangling forgotten.
"Okay," Erica said, slowly. "Wait. You said 'my mom told me your mom wears glasses?' And then 'what your parents told me about your impending bedtime?' You’re using layered, inconsistent narrative logic to destabilize my authority. That's... smart. You’re weaving narrative threads, Nerd. I like the commitment to the trash talk. You’re not a nerd. You're a high-level dirtbag."
Richie grinned back, a genuine, delighted flash of teeth. "I’ll take it! Finally, someone with culture! You've got guts, kid. You and me? We're going to get along just fine."
Richie high-fived Erica, a perfect, vile understanding passing between the two most aggressively rude people in the room.
Will, watching the exchange, felt a huge wave of affection rush over him. Richie wasn't just chaos; he was effective chaos. He used his jokes not just as a shield, but as a sword to cut through pretense. He was loud, but he was powerful. And Will, who had spent his life being quiet and small, found that power intoxicating.
By the second week, the physical tension had become a powerful, constant current between them. Their secret dating progressed naturally to stolen nights in the basement in the pretense of sleepovers. They would wait until the early morning hours, usually around 2:00 AM, when the entire house was silent and the air was cool. Will would sneak out from his sleeping bag in Mike's room and make his way down the basement where Richie will already be waiting for him.
One night, the boombox was playing ‘Close To Me’ by The Cure, the volume barely a whisper. They were lying side-by-side on the sofa, Will’s head resting on Richie’s chest. Richie was tracing the faint scar on Will's arm—a memento from his time in the Upside Down.
"Tell me about it, Will," Richie whispered, his tone serious. "Tell me about the feeling. The other place."
Will hesitated. He rarely talked about it. Mike always tried to change the subject, or turn it into a strategy session.
"It’s cold," Will murmured, his voice muffled by Richie’s shirt. "And it smells like death and ozone. But the worst part... the absolute worst part is the feeling that you’re completely invisible. Like no matter how loud you scream, no one can hear you."
Richie stopped tracing the scar. He simply pulled Will tighter against him, burying his nose in Will’s hair.
"I hear you, Will," he stated firmly. "I hear you, and I see you. I see every stupid, complicated, wonderful thing about you. And I’m going to keep being loud, so you never get quiet again."
That night, they moved beyond kisses. The intimacy was fumbling and overwhelming, charged with the terror and wonder of first attempts. Richie was awkward, but devotedly attentive. He never used a joke; he only used soft encouragements, his hands guiding Will’s, his face etched with pure concentration and desire. He didn't rush or push, always checking Will’s reaction with those sharp, unshielded eyes.
They explored each other with nervous laughter and gasping breaths, finding that the chaotic energy Richie used to shield himself translated into a surprisingly tender intensity when they were alone. It was messy, inexpert, and utterly revealing. They moved from the light of the lamp to the dim, safe shadow of the sofa corner. The music from Richie's boombox, a low cassette of The Cure, provided a constant, melancholic soundtrack to their discovery.
Richie began kissing Will again, moving from Will's mouth to his neck, trailing light, hot kisses that made Will gasp and arch his back instinctively.
"Tell me if I’m going too fast," Richie whispered against Will's collarbone, his voice vibrating deep in Will’s chest. "You set the pace, okay?"
"No," Will managed, gripping Richie's T-shirt tight. "Keep going. Please."
Richie took the permission as an instruction, his hands moving to Will's thin cotton shirt. His long fingers surprisingly steady. He worked slowly, pulling the shirt free from Will. When the shirt was completely removed, Richie didn't immediately touch Will’s skin. He paused, just staring at Will's chest, exposed in the dim light. Will felt excruciatingly vulnerable, his small frame trembling with cold and anxiety.
Richie then gently moved, moving his hand to place his warm palm flat against Will’s ribcage, right over his frantically beating heart.
"You're beautiful, Will," Richie murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss just above where his hand rested. "You’re so much more than a lost boy."
Will felt his eyes well up—a rush of emotion so powerful it threatened to consume him. No one, not Mike, not his mother, had ever looked at him with such intense, appreciative focus. It was a new kind of healing, a physical acknowledgement that he was worthy of desire.
Will reached for Richie's shirt, his own hands fumbling to find the hem of the band t-shirt. Richie chuckled softly, pulling the shirt over his own head and tossing it onto the floor. Now, their chests were close, separated only by the dry, static heat of the air. Richie was lean, his skin slightly paler than Will’s, scattered with freckles. He smelled salty and musky, intensely male.
Will tentatively ran his hand across Richie’s torso, feeling the firm muscle slight flexing to his touch, the warmth of his skin. It was an astonishing, monumental act.
Richie shifted, pulling Will closer, their bare chests finally touching. The contact was shocking, electric, and utterly overwhelming. Will buried his face in Richie’s neck, clutching his back, inhaling the scent of him, desperate to anchor himself to this moment of reckless courage. Richie raised his head then and pulled Will into another kiss.
The exploration continued, driven by mutual curiosity and fumbling desire. They were boys, awkward and inexperienced, following the heat of the moment rather than any practiced manual. They were all hands and soft groans, heavy breathing and trembling limbs, reaching for every part of skin they can touch, laughing nervously at their own inexpertise.
Richie was the one who pulled back, his mouth dry, his voice a ragged gasp. He was holding Will close, his chin resting on Will’s head.
"Wait, wait, baby," Richie whispered, his breath catching. "We need— I need to slow down. I— if we continue I don't think I can hold back and Mike's going to hear us or Uncle Ted. Either way, I am not having that conversation with them."
Will was dizzy, feeling the intense throb of adrenaline. He was relieved, yet aching with frustration.
"Okay," Will whispered back, leaning into Richie's hold, their bare skin pressed tight together. "Okay. But... tomorrow?"
Richie squeezed him tightly, his chest shaking with a silent, relieved laugh. "Yeah. Tomorrow and the next days. We still have a lot of time for debauchery before I have to return to the hellscape of Maine. Now, let’s get your shirt on before Mike decides to come downstairs with a bedtime story."
They pulled apart, quickly getting their clothes back up, their hands lingering on the fabric, a silent agreement passing between them. The air was thick with the scent of their shared tension. Richie fell asleep minutes later, huddled in the corner of the sofa with Will, wrapped in a blanket, sharing a pillow, their secret safe between the two of them and the sleeping house.
Will lay awake for hours afterward, his entire body humming with a new, profound sense of self. He wasn't just 'The Lost Boy' anymore. He was Will, desired, seen, and held.
The final week brought the stark realization of September 1st. The playful tension was replaced by a melancholic urgency. They packed every possible moment with shared secrets.
Mike, meanwhile, had reached a fever pitch of anxiety. The shift in Will was too dramatic to ignore.
"Will, you're not focusing on the campaign at all!" Mike burst out one afternoon, startling the whole group. "You keep wandering off! Yesterday, you missed the 'Bargaining with the Gnomes' subplot! That’s crucial for the Amulet of Zydax!"
Will felt the familiar, heavy weight of Mike’s need.
"I was just... getting some air, Mike," Will said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"No, you weren't," Mike countered, his voice cracking with hurt. "You were talking with Richie for forty-five minutes! About what? Jokes? Vulgarity? We have real things to worry about! You're leaving in a few weeks, Will! Don't you care about the Party anymore?"
Richie, who had been sitting quietly reading a comic, chose that moment to intervene. He placed his book down with a sharp thwack.
"Hey, Mikey," Richie said, his voice flat, dangerously devoid of any joke. "Lay off, alright? Will doesn't owe you every second of his life. He can talk about Gnomes, or he can talk about The Amazing Spider-Man. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's breathing, and he's allowed to have a life that doesn't revolve around your intricate, obsessive rules."
Mike glared at Richie, his eyes wide with betrayal. "You're ruining everything! You just got here, and you're making him weird!"
Richie stood up, towering over the table. "I’m not making him weird, Michael. I’m giving him permission to be weird. You’ve been trying to keep him in a neat little box since he got back from the other place. And Will, unlike you, is not a comfort object. He’s a person."
"It's not like Will isn't here, Mike. And you guys were the one who started ditching him off first, remember?"
The words hung in the air, echoing the harsh truth of Max’s observation. Will watched Mike’s face crumble, the protective anger dissolving into pure, unadulterated fear.
"I— I didn't mean it like that, Will," Mike stammered, turning to Will, desperate. "I just... I need you to be okay. I need everything to be the same."
Will finally understood the depth of Mike’s desperation. It wasn't love Mike was offering; it was co-dependence, a shield against change. Will walked past Richie, towards Mike, and gently put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I know, Mike," Will said softly, kindly. "You're my best friend. But we're all allowed to change or maybe finally show the true us. I just started to figure out who Will is after all the I've been through."
He removed his hand and turned back to Richie, a silent choice made. The clarity of that decision was the biggest relief of the entire summer. They don't need words, the two of them are way past that already.
The last night was spent in the basement, after a painfully awkward dinner with the Wheelers. They were quiet, the mood heavy with the imminent separation.
Richie was trying to distract Will by reading snippets of terrible fan mail he'd received for a local radio show he once pranked, but his heart wasn't in it.
Will interrupted him. "Richie, stop. Just... talk to me."
Richie put the letter down and took off his glasses. He crawled across the floor and sat facing Will, cross-legged, his hands resting on Will’s knees.
"I wish I could stay," Richie admitted, the sincerity a heavy weight. "I wish I could just tell Aunt Karen that my imaginary dog needs emergency surgery, or some other stupid lie. But I have to go back. I have... things." He refused to elaborate on the 'things' in Derry, but Will didn't press. He understood the unspoken history of trauma better than anyone.
"I know," Will said, reaching out to cup Richie's face, a gesture that had become second nature. "But you promise? About the letters? The phone calls?"
"I promise, Will Byers," Richie vowed, his voice husky. "We just survived three weeks of intense, ridiculous, secret dating under the nose of the world's most oblivious family. We can survive a few months of long-distance. This isn't just a summer fling, Will. This is... an electric wire. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s real, and it’s mine. And you're mine. That's not what your mom told me when she was giving me dating advice, but you get the point."
Richie's attempt at a joke was weak, but it broke the tension. Will laughed, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Richie’s.
"I’m going to miss your noise," Will confessed.
"I’m going to miss the quiet that only happens when you’re next to me," Richie countered.
They spent the remainder of the night in a profound, intimate silence. It was their final, desperate attempt to memorize each other. They curled up on the small sofa, their bodies tangled together under a heavy blanket. The final intimate attempts were slower, more tender, charged not with the adrenaline of secrecy but with the aching knowledge of their impending separation. They were exploring not just each other's bodies, but the depth of the new emotional connection they had forged, sealing their commitment not with words, but with shared, vulnerable touch.
Richie held Will tightly as the first rays of dawn filtered into the basement, kissing the top of Will’s head and whispering reassurances about letters and phone calls that Will knew would be expensive and complicated, but absolutely necessary.
Their final goodbye was agonizingly drawn out. The Party—Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Max, El—was all there, standing awkwardly as the Wheeler family car waited to take Richie to the airport.
Richie, surprisingly, kept the goodbyes mostly clean. He saved his most aggressive farewell for Erica, who was present due to Lucas being dragged along.
"Erica, my formidable foe! Keep that mouth dirty, kid! You’re going places! Tell your mom I said hi!" Richie called, tossing her a comic book he’d been reading.
Erica caught it, squinting at the cover. "A comic? This is beneath me. But I respect the gift. Now, get out of here, Trashmouth."
When he got to Will, he stopped. Mike was standing right there, watching, still completely oblivious.
Richie held out his hand. Will took it, and Richie’s grip was firm, immediate. He didn't let go.
"Well, Lost boy," Richie said, his eyes drilling into Will’s. "It’s been real. I've successfully corrupted you, ruined Mike's life, and figured out how a microwave works. I'm pretty sure I've peaked."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage whisper that only Will could hear. "I’m going to miss you, Will. But this is just an intermission. You're my favorite chapter, and I expect weekly updates. And don't forget the shirt. Wear it when you’re feeling repressed. It’s got a great joke on the back, but I’ll let you discover that on your own."
Richie gave Will one last, fierce hug. Will squeezed him back, holding on for dear life.
"Be safe," Will murmured against his shoulder.
Richie pulled back, his usual grin firmly back in place. "Safe? Boring! I’m going to be loud! Now, get out of here, before I tell you what your mom told me about your impending doom!"
Richie winked one last time, a perfect, messy wreck of a person, and then he was gone, climbing into the Wheeler station wagon.
Will stood there, watching the car drive away, his heart aching, but his head clear. He still had to move to California. He still had to say goodbye to Hawkins and his childhood friends. But now, he wasn't carrying the burden of confusion or denial. He had his truth, loud and clear, packaged in a terrible t-shirt and a promise of long, inappropriate letters from Maine.
He was gay. He liked the trouble. He liked the noise.
He looked at Mike, who was still staring at the empty road, looking deflated.
"He's awful, isn't he?" Mike mumbled.
Will smiled, the most genuine, unburdened smile he’d worn in years.
"Yeah," Will agreed. "He really is."
And in that moment, the knight in his head wasn't standing guard over a broken castle, or looking longingly at a distant princess. He was riding off, finally free, towards a future he finally understood, with a messy, loud, wonderfully terrible Bard waiting for him on the other side.