Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I swear to god, if you don't stop chewing like a fucking cow, I'm gonna shove this fork so far up your—"

"Richard," Karen cut in sharply, gripping her wine glass like it was the only thing keeping her from strangling her nephew.

"Language." Ted added, the dining room table fell into that tense silence that only happens when someone's about to crack—either into laughter or violence.

"Mike is literally eating like he's trying to inhale the mashed potatoes," Richie muttered, stabbing his own fork toward his cousin's plate.

"Buzz off." Mike shot back, potato flecks spraying onto the checkered tablecloth.

Ted glanced between the two, eyes twitching slightly as mashed potatoes clung to his favorite tie—

the dirty yellow one that Karen always said made him look like a divorced dad trying too hard. Which, to be fair, was accurate.

"That's enough," he sighed, flicking a glob of potato off his lapel. "Dinner's supposed to be civilized."

Richie snorted into his glass of grape juice—the cheap, off-brand stuff Ted bought in bulk—and nearly choked when Mike kicked him under the table.

The contact was sharp enough to rattle Richie's bones.

Karen pressed two fingers to her temple like she was counting down to an explosion, Holly stared wide-eyed at the carnage, and Ted just... wilted.

Like a houseplant left in the sun too long, Nancy was dissociated in the corner, swirling her fork in circles through her peas.

Richie heard her friend—barb—had died, but he didn't know how to bring that up, he wasn't going too.

The ceiling fan clicked ominously above them, pushing stale air through the room.

Mike leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression daring Richie to say something else.

The mashed potatoes were practically fossilizing on his plate now.

Richie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—Karen's horrified gasp was almost worth it—and grinned. 

'You know, Wheeler, if you ate any faster, you'd start digesting your own fingers."

"How about you shut up?" Mike snapped, but there was no real heat behind it—just exhaustion, the kind that came from biking all afternoon.

His knee bounced under the table, rattling the silverware. Richie watched a pea roll off Nancy's plate and onto the floor; she didn't even flinch.

The house felt like it was holding its breath.

"Mom," Mike tried again, softer this time, "Can—Can Will come over?" He asked, voice quieter than it's been all night.

"I don't know Micheal, it's getting late." Karen hesitated, glancing at Ted, who was now meticulously scraping potato off his tie with a butter knife.

He didn't respond, always useless, one time Richie saw him try to fix the sink and ended up flooding the whole kitchen.

"Please?" Mike pressed, fingers gripping the edge of the table.

Richie watched Nancy's fork pause mid-circle in her peas—something flickered in her eyes, something alive beneath the dissociation.

This was also the first time Richie heard Mike say the word 'Please,’ usually he just barged in and out of rooms slamming doors.

"You always let Nancy have friends over late," Mike muttered, kicking the leg of the table again.

This time, Karen's wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Nancy's head snapped up—her fork clattered against her plate.

"Don't drag me into this," she said, rolling her eyes, but she knew it was true.

Jonathan had been sneaking in, well, not really sneaking in—not like Steve who climbed through her window—

He just... walked in, and Karen let him, because she liked Jonathan, unlike Steve who didn't "look trustworthy" whatever that meant.

Karen sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I don't know if Joyce would let him, you know she's been—" She cut herself off, glancing at Nancy,

Then at Richie, who suddenly found the ceiling fan fascinating.

Richie would have made some stupid joke, but even he knew when to shut his trap, and he always wanted to watch this unfold.

Mike was practically vibrating in his seat. "But," she started, and Mike basically lit up, sitting up straight like a dog who just heard the word "treat".

"I'll give it a try, okay?" She added, standing up and heading toward the phone in the kitchen,

Ted finally gave up on the tie and just pulled it off, throwing it over the back of his chair like a surrender flag.

The moment Karen disappeared around the corner, Mike kicked Richie's shin again—this time on purpose.

"What the fuck?" Richie hissed, rubbing his leg under the table.

"Language," Ted muttered absently, now fully committed to dissecting his meatloaf like it held the secrets of the universe.

Mike leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "If she says yes, you gotta disappear." Richie blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Go to the living room. Or the basement. Or literally anywhere that isn't *In my room*," Mike said, fingers drumming against the tablecloth.

Richie scoffed. "Wow, way to make a guy feel welcome." But he could hear the muffled rise and fall of Karen's voice from the kitchen

—Yes, Joyce, of course—No, it's no trouble—He's been asking all week—

And suddenly, Mike's knee was bouncing hard enough to shake the salt shaker off the table.

Who was this Will guy anyway? Richie wondered, watching Nancy finally push her plate away.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, excusing herself silently, walking upstairs to her room.

Richie leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "Who's Will, and are they single?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Mike shot him a glare that could've melted steel. "Will is a boy," Ted grumbled, like that was the most offensive part of Richie's joke.

The chair legs hit the floor with a thud as Richie snorted.

"No shit uncle Ted, I was kidding—" which was somewhat true, but Mike's reaction was way too interesting.

The way his ears went pink, the way he suddenly found his napkin fascinating—Richie noted that for later.

Because who was Richie to just ’disappear’, especially not now. "Why don't you introduce us?" He grinned, ignoring Mike's panicked whisper-shout of NO.

"You'll annoy him," Mike muttered, fingers twisting the napkin into a tight spiral.

The phone receiver clicked back into place in the kitchen, and Karen's footsteps padded closer—

Mike's entire body tensed like a rabbit hearing a predator. Richie grinned wider. "He can't handle jokes? Damn, is your friend that fragile?"

"He's not fragile. He's just—just shut up," Mike exhaled, eyes darting toward the kitchen doorway as Karen reappeared, her smile a little too bright.

"Joyce said yes,"

Mike practically rocketed out of his seat, his chair screeching against the linoleum.

Richie watched, fascinated, as Mike's entire posture shifted—shoulders loosening.

fingers unclenching like he'd been holding onto something invisible, "She's dropping him off in ten,"

Karen added, already grabbing plates to clear, "And Richie—" She paused, leveling him with a look that said don’t make me regret this. "Behave."

"Oh I see how it is, target the new guy in town, classic," Richie drawled, flicking a pea off his plate with practiced precision—

It hit Mike's forehead with a wet plop. Mike didn't even wipe it off, too busy vibrating out of his skin as he bolted upstairs.

Presumably to "clean" his room, which, from what Richie had seen earlier, involved kicking dirty laundry under the bed.

Karen sighed, stacking dishes with the resigned air of a woman who'd long accepted everything when she had her third child.

"There's something wrong with our son," Ted muttered, picking at his meatloaf.

Karen glared at him, "there's nothing wrong with showing affection towards a boy."

Ted shook his head, "Yes there is." He muttered, stabbing his fork into the last bite of meatloaf, as if personally offended by the concept of Mike having friends.

Richie rolled his eyes so hard he saw his own brain; he needed to get out of here.

He could already feel his brain cells dying with each second spent listening to Ted's bullshit.

His stood up, just in time with the doorbell ringing, he looked up stairs, hearing the shower running, Mike was taking a shower now?

Richie snorted, was it that serious? "Richie, could you get the door?" Karen asked, carrying a stack of plates toward the sink.

"Sure, thing auntie!" Richie grinned, pushing his chair in dramatically, bowing toward Ted.

He didn't even notice, or he did but refused to acknowledge him.

He bounced toward the door, throwing it opens with a flourish. "Welcome to the Wheeler residence, where dreams go to—"

He froze, blinking at the kid on the porch, he was small, like, smaller than Mike, with soft brown hair and wide doe eyes.

They immediately darted away from Richie's face like he'd been caught doing something illegal.

"Mike?" The kid—Will—called for Mike, but he was looking directly at Richie.

"Your eyes must be deceiving you, I'm far too handsome to be Mike," Richie said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

Will's cheeks flushed pink—not the embarrassed kind, but the kind that suggested he was one snarky comment away from bolting.

Behind him, Joyce Byers hovered by the car, keys jingling in her hand like she wasn't sure whether to stay or go.

"Mom—" Will started, but Richie cut him off with a dramatic gasp before he cleared his throat.

"O-okay? I'll see you later, and remember—" Joyce started, voice carrying across the lawn, but Richie was already ushering Will inside with an exaggerated bow.

"He's in great hands," Richie called back, "Mostly cause my hands are spectacular."

"Okay Mike," Joyce hesitated, fingers tightening around her keys. "Call if—if anything—"

"I'm not— Mike." Richie clarified, watching as Will's shoulders tensed slightly, like he was bracing for impact.

The kid smelled like fabric softener and pencil shavings—oddly comforting, like a library with good lighting.

Joyce lingered by the car for another heartbeat before nodding and climbing in, the engine coughing to life.

Will swallowed hard, fingers twitching at his sides. "Why do you look so much alike? Are you his brother?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Which he immediately shook his head at the thought, because if Richie was Mike's brother, Will would know.

"Nah, just cursed with the Wheeler genes," Richie grinned, stepping aside to let Will fully in.

The kid moved like he expected the floorboards to bite him—careful, quiet. Richie could hear Mike thundering around upstairs, probably trying to shove every piece of laundry into the closet at once.

"So, you're the infamous Will," Richie mused, shutting the door with his hip. Will's head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Infamous?"

"I've heard a lot about you," Richie said, leaning in conspiratorially.

The words hung in the air, ripe with implication—and Will's ears turned pink so fast Richie almost laughed.

From upstairs, a muffled crash sounded, followed by Mike's frantic Shit— and the unmistakable thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

Will's gaze flicked toward the noise, his lips quirking in a barely-there smile.

"So, you're like his cousin?" he asked, toeing off his sneakers with practiced precision.

Richie nodded, looking at the boy in front of him, this small quiet thing that made Wheeler lose his damn mind.

And honestly, he was starting to get it—Will had this thing about him, like he was always halfway into another world, and you just wanted to follow.

"I'm richie—his cooler cousin," Richie announced, spreading his arms wide like he was unveiling a monument.

Will's nose scrunched up, but then he let out a small chuckle, warm. "Cool," he muttered.

Richie would bet his entire stash of stolen Playboys that Will had never sounded less convinced in his life.

"So, where is Mike?" Will asked, glancing toward the stairs where the ruckus had abruptly stopped.

Richie was thinking of jokes to make, but somehow—maybe it was the way Will's fingers curled around the strap of his backpack,

Or how his eyes kept darting to the kitchen like he expected something to pop out with a shotgun—he decided to just shrug.

"Probably freaking out upstairs."

He was probably being boring right now, but, this boy—this Will—was interesting.

Richie could see why Mike went full puppy-dog around him; Will had this way of tilting his head slightly when he listened, like every word mattered, even Richie's dumbass jokes.

The silence stretched just long enough to be awkward before Richie clapped his hands together.

"Your mom is hot," he blurted, because subtlety was for cowards.

Will's eyebrows shot up—his mouth opened, then shut with an audible click. "What?"

"Your mom," Richie repeated, grinning as Will's face cycled through about twelve emotions in two seconds, visibly thrown.

But he just laughed, shaking his head—

Richie could practically see him filing the comment away under ignore this idiot—and stepped further into the house, glancing toward the stairs.

"Mike?" he called, voice lilting upward in a way that made Richie's grin sharpen.

"Two seconds!" came Mike's muffled shout, followed by another crash—this time distinctly book-related.

"He's going through puberty," Richie stage-whispered to Will. "It's tragic. Yesterday I caught him staring at his reflection in the toaster."

"Really?" Will whispered back, biting his lip to stifle a laugh—his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made Richie feel weirdly accomplished.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and Mike skidded into view, hair still damp from his rushed shower, his shirt buttoned crookedly.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice soft, soft in a way Richie had never heard before.

Mike's fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out but didn't know how—

Richie watched, fascinated, as Mike's gaze flicked over Will like he was checking for damage.

"You okay?" Mike asked, voice low, urgent. "I'm okay," Will murmured, shifting his weight—his sneakers squeaked against the linoleum.

"Is Richie being annoying?" Mike asked, finally acknowledging Richie's existence with a glare.

"Oh, always," Richie sighed dramatically, draping himself over the banister. "But Will here loves me. Right, Byers?"

Will glanced sideways at Richie, lips twitching. "He's... definitely something," he conceded, and Richie clutched his chest like he'd been shot.

"But.... he's kind of funny," Will added quietly, and Richie didn't miss the way Mike's shoulders stiffened at that, his fingers curling into loose fists at his sides, before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

Richie on the other hand, grinned like he'd won the lottery, draping an arm around Will's shoulders—

the kid stiffened for half a second before relaxing into it, which was fascinating.

"See, Wheeler? Your friend has taste," Richie crowed, shaking Will slightly for emphasis.

"I can tell we're gonna get along great," Richie added, winking at Mike, who looked like he was debating whether homicide was worth the jail time.

Mike grabbed Will's wrist—gently, Richie noted—and tugged him toward the stairs.

"C'mon, let's go—before Richie infects you with his stupidity," Mike muttered, shooting Richie another glare over his shoulder.

But Will—hesitated, glancing back at Richie with something unreadable in his expression.

Richie followed, because one—of course he did, and two—this Will kid was cute, like really cute, and Richie had spent enough summers in derry to know when someone was batting for his team.

His gaydar was going off, and not just for Will—Mike was acting beyond suspicious.

The stairs creaked underfoot as he trailed behind them, watching Mike's grip slide from Will's wrist to his hand, fingers interlacing for just a second before Mike seemed to realize what he'd done and jerked away like he'd been burned.

Will didn't react, just kept climbing, but Richie caught the way his shoulders hunched slightly—like he was bracing for rejection.

"Mind if I join?" Richie asked, already pushing past them into Mike's room before either could answer.

"Yes, I do mind," Mike snapped, trying to shove Richie back toward the door, but Richie was already collapsing onto Mike's bed, kicking his feet up onto the Star Wars sheets.

Will lingered in the doorway, fingers tapping nervously against the frame. "Don't worry, Wheeler," Richie said, folding his arms behind his head,

"I won't interrupt whatever weird shit you two get up to—"

Mike's face went scarlet. "We don't—shut up!" he hissed, shoving Richie again, but Richie just rolled off the bed and landed with a thud, popping back up instantly.

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," he said, ruffling Mike's hair—which earned him another shove—but Will laughed quietly,

finally stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Will was easy to make laugh, maybe that was what's making Richie feel so drawn.

Or it could be the way his nose scrunched up when he tried not to smile, or his big eyes—Richie was staring, definitely.

"So," Richie flopped backward onto Mike's bed again, arms spread wide,

like he was making snow angels in the mess of crumpled comics and half-finished homework.

"What do you guys do up here? Braid each other's hair? Share secrets? Cry about girls?"

He waggled his eyebrows at Mike, who looked seconds away from committing fratricide.

Will, meanwhile, had migrated to Mike's desk chair—perched on the edge like he wasn't sure he was allowed to sit—and was fiddling with a frayed thread on his jeans.

"We—uh—play D&D," he offered quietly, glancing at Mike like he was asking permission, "Sometimes."

"Dungeons and dragons?" Richie snorted, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his hands.

But his smirk faltered when he saw Will's face light up.

"You know it?" Will asked, leaning forward slightly—his knee bumped Mike's, and neither of them moved away.

Richie blinked. "No, not really." He admitted, watching as Mike's fingers twitched toward Will's arm before aborting the motion

—like Will was made of something fragile and electrifying all at once.

"You should teach me," Richie added, because the look on Mike's face—pure horror—was too good to pass up.

Mike shook his head frantically, but Will was already grinning—suddenly animated, like someone had flipped a switch inside him.

"Really?" he asked, leaning forward so fast the chair legs squeaked.

Richie watched as Mike's expression cycled through panic, resignation, and something dangerously close to fondness in the span of two seconds.

"So, there's different classes," Will started, his hands sketching shapes in the air—clerics, fighters, something called a "paladin"

that Richie immediately decided sounded like a glorified hall monitor. Mike groaned, collapsing onto the bed next to Richie with the grace of a dying giraffe.

"My character is a cleric, Will the wise" Will was saying, fingers tapping excitedly against Mike's knee—a habit, Richie noted, that Mike didn't even flinch at.

"He's got, uh—healing spells and stuff." Will's voice dipped quieter, like he was embarrassed, but his eyes were bright, darting between Richie and Mike like he was waiting for judgment.

Richie grinned, "Will the wise? Really?" He teased, nudging Mike with his elbow, "Creative."

Will's grin faltered, just for a second—his fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans.

Richie watched Mike's entire body tense like a live wire, his mouth opening to say something sharp.

"Shit—no, I mean—" Richie backpedaled fast, sitting up abruptly. "No, it's cool! Like, seriously cool. Will the Wise sounds badass."

He knocked his knee against Will's, grinning when the kid blinked up at him with startled eyes.

"You're telling me you can heal people? Like, magically?"

He didn't know why he was leaning into this, but Will's face was doing this thing—this soft, hopeful thing—that made Richie want to keep talking.

"Yeah," Will said, hesitant at first, then firmer. "And—and Mike's character is a fighter. A paladin."

His fingers sketched something invisible in the air—a sword arc, maybe—and Richie didn't miss the way Mike's cheeks darkened when Will said his name.

"What's my character? Make me something cool," Richie demanded, flopping onto his stomach and kicking his feet in the air like an overexcited kid.

Will blinked, then glanced at Mike, who looked like he'd rather chew glass. "An sexy elf, maybe?" Richie added, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Well, no," Will said, biting his lip to hide a smile, "Elves are—"

"Will," Mike groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. "Don't encourage him."

But Will was already leaning forward, eyes bright—Richie could practically *see* the gears turning.

"You could be... a bard," Will decided, and Richie barked a laugh. "A what? Like, a musician?"

"Sort of," Will said, warming to the idea, fingers drumming against his knee.

"They use charm and wit—mostly to distract enemies." 

"Or annoy their own party members." Mike groaned into the pillow, muffled but emphatic.

"Perfect," Richie crowed, sitting up so fast he nearly headbutted Mike. "So I just talk shit? Already mastered that."

He winked at Will, who laughed—a real, startled sound—and Richie felt something weirdly triumphant settle in his chest.

"Could I seduce the cleric?" he asked, half to watch Mike's head snap up, half honest, watching Will's face go instantly pink.

"I—uh—" Will stammered, glancing at Mike—who looked like he'd swallowed a bee—before clearing his throat. "Bards... can try."

Richie cleared his throat, getting into character with an exaggerated flourish. "O mighty Will the Wise," he crooned, batting his eyelashes, "your robes are so healing—"

Mike launched a pillow at his face with deadly accuracy. "Stop," he hissed, face burning. But Will was laughing—a quiet, breathless sound

—Richie could see the way Mike's glare faltered when Will's shoulder bumped his, the tension in his jaw softening despite himself.

Richie grinned, rolling off the bed just as Mike swung another pillow. "Whoa," he yelped, dodging behind Will like a human shield.

Will blinked, startled, but didn't move—just let Richie clutch his shoulders dramatically, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt.

"Protect me, oh mighty cleric!" Richie stage-whispered into Will's ear, delighting in the way Will's neck flushed pink. 

Will shook his head, stepping aside—but he was smiling, small and private, and Richie caught the way Mike's eyes lingered on Will's mouth before snapping away like he'd been burned.

The bedroom door creaked open suddenly—Nancy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

"Mom says stop throwing things," she announced, glancing pointedly at the pillow still clutched in Mike's death grip.

Then her gaze flicked to Will, softening imperceptibly. "Hey, Will."

Will brightened instantly, shoulders relaxing. "Hey, Nancy."

Richie gaze flickered to Will he watched Will shift his weight, toes curling slightly in his socks like he was physically restraining himself from moving around.

Nancy had closed the door behind her, but the tension in Mike’s shoulders remained—

His fingers were flexed around the pillow like he was considering smothering Richie with it.

"Anyway," Mike muttered, tossing the pillow aside with more force than necessary,

"We’re—uh—actually gonna study. Like, now." His voice pitched upward slightly, eyes darting to Will for confirmation.

Will blinked, then nodded quickly—too quickly, "Study? Right. Yeah."

Richie snorted, draping himself over Mike’s desk chair like a starfish. "Oh, sure. ‘Study.’ Wink wink."

He made an obscene gesture with his hands, grinning when Mike’s face twisted in horror.

"We're actually studying," Mike hissed, shoving a textbook toward Will, it nearly sliding off the bed.

Will caught it with one hand, his other still gripping the edge of Mike’s mattress like he was afraid it might vanish beneath him. "Algebra,"

Will added helpfully, flipping the book open, "Right. Hey Will, wanna ’study’?," Richie mimicked Mike’s voice, batting his eyelashes.

Will laughed—sharp and startled—before clapping a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. Mike looked like he wanted to dissolve into the carpet,

Richie wanted to be alone with Will, test his theory further—his gaydor theory, and that time came when Karen yelled; "Micheal,"

She called from downstairs, "take out the trash please," Mike groaned, glaring at Richie like he knew exactly what he was thinking.

"If you even think about—" Mike started, but Karen yelled again, "Now, Micheal!"

Mike hesitated, glancing at Will—like he was afraid Richie would corrupt him in the thirty seconds he'd be gone—before sighing dramatically and stomping out.

The second the door clicked shut, Richie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So," he drawled, watching Will fidget with the hem of his shirt.

Will looked up, wary but curious, like he knew Richie was about to say something ridiculous but couldn’t help indulging him.

Richie slung an arm around Will’s shoulders, "Bards and clerics, are they capable?" Will choked, coughing into his fist.

His ears went bright red. "Capable of what?" he squeaked, voice cracking halfway through the sentence.

Richie grinned wider, "You know," he wiggled his eyebrows.

Will shoved him away, laughing despite himself, his cheeks flushed pink.

"No—that’s not—" he stammered, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge the mental image. "They aren't—that wouldn't work, clerics take vows,"

"Oh, so you're celibate?" Richie gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "No wonder Wheeler looks so stressed."

"Virgins these days," Richie sighed, shaking his head mournfully.

Will shook his head, fingers twisting in his lap like he wanted to strangle something—probably Richie.

"You're odd," Will muttered, but there was no real bite to it, just quiet exasperation tangled with reluctant amusement.

"Are you into that?" Richie joked, just as Mike burst back in—glancing around the room suspiciously, like he'd somehow felt the shift in conversation.

"Into what?" Mike asked, eyes darting between them, fingers clenching around the trash bag he'd forgotten to take downstairs.

"Nothing," Will said quickly, pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh—his shoulders shook slightly, betraying him, he folded under zero pressure—

Like he couldn't handle lying to Mike, "Okay, Richie asked if bards and clerics are capable," Will blurted, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe he'd just said that.

Mike's face went through seven distinct shades of red before settling on something dangerously close to purple.

"Oh my god," Mike said, whirling on Richie with murder in his eyes. "You're disgusting."

"Wow, Wheeler, didn't peg you for a cleric purity enforcer," Richie laughed, dodging the trash bag Mike hurled at his head.

Karen marched upstairs herself, "What's going on here?" she asked, arms crossed, Mike froze mid-lunge, his murderous expression smoothing into something painfully innocent.

"Nothing!" he squeaked, voice cracking spectacularly. Will had pressed both hands over his face, shoulders trembling with silent laughter—

Richie could see the pink tips of his ears peeking through his fingers.

"Richie is harassing Will," Mike added pointedly, shooting Richie a venomous glare. Karen sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Richie, honey, behave." she took a deep breath.

"Will, your mom just called, she'll pick you up in twenty minutes," Karen added.

Will's fingers twitched where they'd been gripping the edge of Mike's mattress—His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

Richie caught the flicker of disappointment in his expression before Will schooled his features into a neutral smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler," he murmured, already gathering his backpack with deliberate slowness.

Mike hovered nearby, fingers drumming anxiously against his thigh. "Twenty minutes?" he echoed, voice cracking on the second syllable.

"That's—that's barely any time."

"To do what? 'Study'?" Richie drawled, kicking his legs against Mike's bedframe with deliberate, rhythmic thumps.

He watched Will's fingers pause mid-zip on his backpack—how his knuckles whitened just slightly before he forced them to relax.

Mike's jaw clenched. "We were actually going to studying," he said, but his gaze flicked to Will's downturned face,

lingering there like he could memorize the curve of his cheeks in the fading afternoon light.

"Hey," Mike started, that soft voice again—the one Richie swore didn't exist before today—as he reached out, hesitated, then tapped Will's elbow. "You okay?"

Will blinked up, startled, then nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just—" His fingers curled around the strap of his backpack.

"We didn’t even finish the campaign notes."

Oh, that's what they were being so secretive about for some odd reason. Richie thought to himself.

Mike swallowed audibly. "Tomorrow, we'll go to the arcade with the others, right?"

His voice pitched up like a question, like he was afraid Will would vanish before then, and Richie watched Will’s throat bob as he nodded.

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Can I go?" Richie piped up, flopping onto Mike's bed with his arms spread. He was going to go either way but watching Mike's eye twitch was half the fun.

"No," Mike snapped, fingers curling into fists at his sides. Will bit his lip—Richie could see the exact moment Mikes resolve crumbled under those stupid Bambi eyes.

"Actually," Will said softly, nudging Mike's sneaker with his own, "It'd be... kind of fun?"

Mike's mouth opened, then shut with an audible click.

Richie watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, shoulders stiffening before deflating all at once.

"Fine," Mike muttered, glaring at Richie like he'd personally orchestrated this betrayal. "But you're buying your own tokens."

"With what money? I'm a bard," Richie sighed dramatically, draping an arm over his forehead like a Victorian maiden.

Will giggled—actually freaking giggled—before instantly looking like he regretted everything.

But Richie felt something warm and stupidly pleased curl in his chest.

Mike groaned, shoving Richie's legs off the bed. "Then you're not going," he muttered, but his glare lacked heat.

Especially when Will's shoulder brushed his as he leaned forward to grab a fallen pencil.

Richie watched Mike's breath hitch—just slightly—as Will's hair tickled his wrist.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Will stiffened, fingers tightening around his backpack straps.

"That's—probably my mom," he said, voice dipping quieter, like he was already halfway out the door.

Mike made a wounded noise in the back of his throat before clearing it awkwardly. "I'll—uh—walk you down."

His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out but didn't know how.

Richie rolled off the bed, landing with a thud that made them both jump. "Group effort," he announced, slinging an arm around both their shoulders.

Karen's voice floated up the stairs. "Will? Joyce is here!"

"We're coming!" Mike called back, voice cracking as he shrugged off Richie's arm with unnecessary force.

Will hesitated at the top of the stairs, fingers drumming against his backpack strap—Richie could see the moment he steeled himself, shoulders squaring before descending like he was marching to his doom.

Mike followed too close, nearly stepping on Will's heels twice before catching himself.

Richie trailed behind, watching the way Mike's hand hovered near the small of Will's back like he wanted to steady him but didn't dare.

Joyce stood in the foyer, smiling warmly—though her eyes flicked between Will and Mike with knowing softness.

"Did you boys have fun?" she asked, reaching to smooth Will's hair where Richie had ruffled it earlier.

Will ducked slightly, cheeks pink. "Yeah," he mumbled, shooting Mike a glance that made Richie want to whistle.

Mike swallowed hard, fingers flexing at his sides. "We, uh—we're going to the arcade tomorrow. With everyone."

"If that's okay with you Ms. Byers." Mike added hastily, rocking back on his heels like he'd just remembered basic manners existed.

Joyce's smile softened at the edges—"Of course it is, sweetheart." She said, then she spotted Richie, "Wait—"

"I know, we look alike," Richie announced before Joyce could finish, grinning and draping an arm around Mike's stiff shoulders.

"Same winning Tozier charm—though Wheeler here didn't inherit the good genes."

Mike elbowed him hard in the ribs, but Joyce just laughed, shaking her head.

"Oh, I see," she said. Her fingers lingered on Will's shoulder—a silent question—

and Richie watched Will nod subtly, shoulders relaxing under her touch. "Well, have a good night," Joyce said, guiding Will toward the door with a gentle hand.

Will hesitated on the threshold, glancing back at Mike with that same unreadable expression—like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of Mike’s stupidly expressive eyes.

"See you tomorrow," he murmured, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh.

"Bye, Will," Mike blurted, too loud, then winced at his own volume.

Richie snorted. "See ya Will the wise," he added, just to watch Mike’s eye twitch.

Will grinned—actually grinned—as he ducked out the door, cheeks pink.

The second it clicked shut, Mike turned to Richie. "What the *hell* is wrong with you?" he asked, genuine question.

Richie grinned, rocking back on his heels. "Honestly? List too long." He hooked an arm around Mike's neck, ignoring the way he stiffened.

"You're so obvious, dude. It's painful."

Mike's face twisted. "—I'm not—" He cut himself off, glancing at the door like Will might still be listening.

Ted cleared her throat from the kitchen doorway, one eyebrow raised. "Language, Michael."

"I didn't even say anything?" Mike protested, voice cracking mid-sentence as Ted shuffled past with his newspaper, utterly uninterested.

Richie waited exactly three seconds before grabbing Mike's elbow and dragging him toward the stairs—his grip like a vise when Mike tried to wrench free.

"Dude, uncle ted is already mentally checked out," Richie sighed, steering them onto the fourth step.

"Richie, listen, I'm not—will’s my best friend." Mike whispered fiercely, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt into knots.

Richie rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "And I'm the Pope."

Mike rubbed his eyes, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into his voice. "You don't—you don't get it."

Richie leaned against the banister, watching a loose thread on Mike's sleeve unravel between his fingers.

"Oh, I get it," he drawled, flicking the thread away. "What I don't get is why you're acting like Will's going to combust if you look at him for more than two seconds."

Mike's jaw worked silently—Richie could practically hear the gears grinding.

"Because he was just missing," Mike hissed, his voice dropping to a whisper, so low Richie had to lean in to catch it.

His fingers dug into his own arms like he was trying to hold himself together. "Missing?" Richie echoed, blinking.

Mike flinched, realizing what he'd said, and immediately shook his head—too fast, too panicked. "Never mind. Forget it."

Now Richie was too curious. He grabbed Mike's wrist before he could bolt upstairs, fingers pressing into the rapid pulse point there.

"Missing?" he repeated, quieter now. Mike tugged weakly but Richie held firm—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to keep him anchored in place.

"Dude," Richie murmured, watching Mike's throat bob as he swallowed hard.

"1983, November 6th." Mike's voice cracked like he'd been holding the words back for years. "Will—he vanished. For a week."

His fingers twitched toward the front door, still half-open from Joyce's exit, as if he could still see the ghost of Will standing there.

"They found his body in the quarry. Everyone thought—" His breath hitched, knuckles whitening where they gripped the stair rail.

"Then he was just back one day. Like nothing happened."

It was January of 1984, Richie thought to himself, but he did understand, somewhat.

He had some weird shit back in his hometown Derry Maine too. Richie's grin faltered—his fingers loosening around Mike's wrist as the words sank in.

"Wait," he breathed, glancing toward the door like Will might still be there. "That's—"

Mike was already shaking his head, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "Don't. Just—don't." 

"So that's why you—" Richie started, then bit his tongue when Mike flinched.

The silence between them was thick, pressing against Richie's eardrums like the air before a storm.

Clearly this was a sensitive topic for his cousin, and Richie wasn’t that much of an asshole, well—he was, but he cared too.

Downstairs, the TV flickered to life—some inane sitcoms laugh track drowning out the tension.

Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing like he wanted to punch something.

"Forget I said anything," he muttered, already retreating up the stairs two at a time.

Richie caught him by the elbow again, gentler this time. "Hey," he said, softer than he’d ever admit, "I get it."

Mike froze mid-step, shoulders stiff. "No, you don’t." The words came out brittle.

Richie exhaled through his nose, suddenly aware of how thin the air felt.

"Okay. But I know what it’s like to—" He gestured vaguely at the space between them, at the unspoken thing choking the hallway.

"To have shit happen that no one else gets." His fingers twitched toward the scar under his shirt—the one from Bowers’ switchblade that still ached when it rained.

Mike turned slowly, eyes flicking over Richie’s face like he was seeing him for the first time. "You don’t talk about Derry," he said, not a question.

Richie shrugged, suddenly itchy in his own skin. "Nothing to talk about. Just a shitty town with shittier people."

He forced a grin, but that wasn't true, and he knew Mike knew it wasn't true.

Like try having a demon clown try and eat you, but whatever, Mike didn’t need to know that.

Richie wanted to make a joke, lighten the mood, but—for once—words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he knocked his shoulder against Mike’s, a silent understanding passing between them.

Mike exhaled shakily, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "He doesn’t remember most of it," Mike muttered, voice rough.

"The doctors said... trauma response or whatever. But sometimes—" He swallowed hard. "Sometimes he wakes up screaming."

Maybe Richie's gaydar was wrong, maybe Mike was just protective of his best friend.

But that didn't explain the way Mike's fingers twitched when Will laughed, or how his gaze lingered on Will's lips when he thought no one was looking.

Richie leaned against the banister, studying Mike's hunched shoulders. "So you're not into him?" he asked, blunt as always.

Mike's head snapped up, eyes wide. "What? No, I—" His voice cracked, and Richie didn't need gaydar to see the truth written all over Mike's burning face.

Downstairs, the sitcom audience erupted in laughter, absurdly cheerful against the tension. Mike's fists clenched at his sides.

"It's not—it's not like that," he whispered, but his throat bobbed traitorously. Richie arched a brow.

"Okay," he said slowly, "so when Will leaned over your D&D notes earlier and you stopped breathing for seven seconds—"

"That's because—because... Just leave me alone!" He said, running upstairs; Richie rolled his eyes, but he didn't follow.

He checked the clock, it was already half past ten, he sighed, rubbing his face before heading downstairs to the basement.

He slept on the pullout couch there, when he got downstairs, he flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

His mind was racing, Richie kept talking about Mike's feelings for Will, but he never once thought about his own feelings.

Richie didn't even know his own feelings, was he into Will? Richie didn't know, he'd never really thought about it before.

He didn't even know if he liked guys himself.

But he knew he had somewhat feelings for Eddie back in Derry, but that was different, wasn't it?

Richie sighed, rolling onto his side, pulling the blanket over his head, trying to block out his thoughts, this was not what he needed right now.

Not when he was trying to figure Mike out, not when he was trying to get under Mike's skin, not when he was trying to be the annoying cousin.

Richie didn't even know what he was feeling, and that pissed him off more than anything.

Should he help Mike get with Will, or should he take these seven days he has left in his own hands and try and take Will for himself?

Richie groaned, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling, he didn’t know, he didn’t know anything.

but what he did know was that Will was something, something he couldn't put his finger on, something that made his chest tight,

Something that made his stomach twist, something that made him want to tease, mock, flirt, just to see him blush, just to see him smile.

Just to see him react to him, Richie wanted Will's attention, and he didn't know why.

He drifted asleep, the hum of the basement freezer mingling with the indistinct murmurs of the TV upstairs.

Richie woke up to the smell of breakfast, he grabbed his glasses and stretched, he checked the clock, 9:30, he groaned, he hated waking up early.

Even if it was late, he hated mornings, he hated breakfast, he hated the way the sun shone through the window,

he hated the way his hair stuck up in every direction, he hated the way his mouth tasted like sleep, he hated the way his stomach growled,

he hated the way his head pounded, he hated—yeah you get the point, Richie hated mornings.

He dragged himself upstairs, stumbling into the kitchen, where Mike was already eating, flipping through a comic book.

Richie plopped down next to him, "I have awoken," Richie announced dramatically, grabbing a pancake with his bare hands.

Karen scolded him halfheartedly from the stove.

Mike barely glanced up, his foot tapping impatiently under the table—Richie could practically see the nervous energy radiating off him.

"Have any dreams? Any dreams about Will?" Richie teased, grinning when Mike choked on his orange juice, spluttering, "Richie I swear to god—"

Nancy walked in, shooting them both a bemused look as she grabbed toast, "What’s got you two so worked up?" she asked, her eyebrow arching.

Richie opened his mouth, but Mike kicked him under the table—hard. "Nothing," Mike muttered, shoving another bite into his mouth like it had personally offended him.

Richie rubbed his shin, still grinning, "Just discussing Mike’s deep and platonic feelings for Will Byers—"

"Feelings?" Ted Wheeler's voice cut through the kitchen like a rusty saw as he lowered his newspaper, eyes narrowing at Mike.

The room went still—Richie could hear the drip of the leaky faucet hitting the sink in slow, mocking beats.

Mike froze mid-chew, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as he tried to swallow. Nancy's eyebrows shot up, her toast hovering halfway to her mouth.

Karen turned from the stove; spatula poised like a weapon. "Platonic means friendship Uncle Ted," Richie lied smoothly, kicking Mike's ankle under the table

—a silent play along, dumbass. Mike's knee jerked, knocking his fork off the table with a clatter.

"Right," Mike croaked, staring at his plate like it held the secrets of the universe. "Friends. Best friends." He said, telling Richie more than he was telling Ted.

Nancy exhaled through her nose, shaking her head as she took a pointed bite of toast.

Ted grunted, disappearing back behind his paper with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Karen hesitated—her eyes darting between Mike's flushed ears and Richie's too-innocent grin—before turning back to the stove with a quiet sigh.

"So, mom, can I still go to the arcade?" Mike blurted, fingers drumming against the tablecloth. Karen didn't turn around.

"Will's mom already said yes," he added, kicking Richie's shin when he opened his mouth.

"Yes. But you have to take Richie with you." Karen said firmly, flipping a pancake with unnecessary force. Mike groaned, slumping in his chair.

"He's buying his own tokens," he muttered, shooting Richie a glare. Richie grinned, stealing a strip of bacon off Mike's plate.

"Bold of you to assume," he said around a mouthful, "that I won't charm one of your friends into funding my gaming addiction."

Mike groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table with a dull thud. "Mom, this isn't fair," he mumbled into the woodgrain.

Nancy snorted into her coffee, eyes flicking between Mike's slumped form and Richie's shit-eating grin.

"Oh, grow up," she muttered, nudging Mike's shoulder with her elbow. "You act like Richie's contagious."

"He is," Mike groaned, voice muffled against the tablecloth. Richie flicked a grape at the back of his head

—it bounced off with a satisfying plink. "Like mono," Richie agreed solemnly. "But with more dick jokes."

Nancy choked on her coffee while Karen pinched the bridge of her nose like she was praying for patience.

"Language!" Ted barked from behind his newspaper. Mike finally lifted his head from the table, cheeks flushed

—whether from embarrassment or laughter, Richie couldn't tell.

Probably not laughter because Mike never laughed at his jokes—but his shoulders were less tense now, which Richie counted as a win.

The doorbell rang—three sharp bursts that had Mike launching out of his chair so fast it screeched against the linoleum.

"That's Will!" he blurted, then immediately looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards, he cleared his throat, "I mean—probably."

Richie watched, fascinated, as Mike's fingers twitched toward his hair before aborting halfway.

Nancy rolled her eyes so hard Richie was surprised they didn't stick. "Subtle," she muttered into her toast.

"I know right," Richie agreed cheerfully, grinning when Mike flipped him off behind Karen's back, "I saw that Michael,"

Karen said without turning around. The doorbell rang again—more insistent this time—

Mike bolted from the kitchen like his pants were on fire.

Richie followed at a leisurely pace, arriving just in time to see Mike wrench open the door with too much force.

Lucas and Dustin stood on the porch arguing about Star Wars, while Will was nowhere to be found, "Oh, it's just you guys. Where's Will?"

Mike's shoulders slumped visibly—

"Well hello to you too?" Lucas snorted, "Will's mom had to drop him off," he said, already making a beeline for the kitchen.

"She said something about 'errands.'" Dustin trailed after him, pausing when he saw Richie, "Uh—" he hesitated, glancing between them.

"Dustin, Lucas, this is my cousin Richie," Mike muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Both boys just glanced at Richie, then at Mike, then back again—Lucas’s eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

“Wait,” Dustin said slowly, “Why do you guys—"

"Twins?" Lucas blurted, squinting between them. Richie threw an arm around Mike's shoulders, squeezing tight enough to make him wheeze.

"Yes, we are identical twins, separated at birth—" Richie lied smoothly, ignoring Mike's elbow digging into his ribs.

"I've traveled far from my homeland to reclaim my rightful throne—"

Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh my god, another one." He pushed past them into the house, already yelling for Karen's pancakes.

Lucas hesitated, still studying Richie with narrowed eyes. "Wait," he said slowly, "you're not actually—"

Mike shoved Richie off with a grunt. "He's just my annoying cousin visiting for the new year."

His voice dripped with exasperation, but Richie caught the way Mike's eyes kept darting to the street—still searching for Will.

Lucas made an "O" shape with his mouth before shrugging. "Cool. Can he play D&D?" Richie perked up instantly.

"Can I—excuse you, my bard once seduced a dragon into—"

The squeal of tires cut him off. A familiar green station wagon pulled up, and Will tumbled out before Joyce had fully stopped—

already waving at Mike with that small, private smile Richie was starting to recognize.

Mike’s entire posture shifted instantly—shoulders relaxing, fingers unclenching like he’d been holding his breath all morning.

Richie watched, fascinated, as Lucas elbowed Mike hard enough to make him stumble.

“Close your mouth, man,” Lucas muttered, grinning when Mike flushed scarlet.

Will jogged up the driveway, his messenger bag bouncing against his hip—the same nervous rhythm from last night tapping against the strap.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, breath fogging in the January air. “Mom needed gas.” His eyes flicked to Richie, "Hey Richie."

"Helloooo, sunshine," Richie drawled, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

Will's nose scrunched in that adorable way that made Mike's fingers twitch against his jeans.

"Don't call me that," Will muttered, but there was no heat in it—just a faint pinkness creeping up his neck.

Richie opened his mouth to retort when Mike shoved past him, shoulder-checking him hard.

"Arcade?" Mike blurted, hands jammed deep in his pockets like he was physically restraining himself from grabbing Will's sleeve.

"Isn't it too early?" Dustin said around a mouthfull of pancake as he appeared in the doorway, syrup dripping down his chin.

Lucas shoved him. "It's way too early," he groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "We just got here."

"How about some dungeons before dragons?" Richie quipped, waggling his eyebrows at Will, who rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself.

Mike's jaw tightened—"Not a bad idea," Dustin conceded, rubbing his syrup-sticky hands on his jeans. "Arcade doesn't open till noon."

The group migrated to the basement, where Mike's D&D notes were still scattered from another interrupted game.

Richie flopped onto the couch, deliberately sprawling across two cushions to force Mike and Will closer together on the remaining space.

Will perched on the armrest—close enough that Mike's knee kept brushing his shin whenever he shifted.

Richie smirked behind his hand when Mike's ears turned pink at the contact.

Dustin unrolled the map with a dramatic flourish. "Okay, so—"

Richie snatched it before he could finish. "Ah, the fabled land of Hawkins," he intoned, holding it upside down, Dustin snatched it back with a scowl.

Mike rolled his eyes—until Will’s soft laughter made his head snap around.

Richie caught the way Mike’s fingers twitched toward Will’s wrist before curling into a fist. Was it really that hard for him? Richie wondered.

Just touch him already.

He walked over to Will, leaning in, way closer than necessary, just to see Mike’s reaction—and oh—the kid’s jaw clenched so hard Richie heard his teeth grind.

He grabbed his wrist, flipping Will's palm up like he was reading his fortune—Mike's chair screeched back. "What the hell, Richie—"

"—just checking something," Richie said before pulling Will's hand closer—deliberately brushing his thumb over Will's pulse point.

Will's breath hitched, his fingers twitching but not pulling away, "You're freezing," Richie said, the boy was practically shaking.

"Are you okay?" His voice dropped—unusually sincere—and even Mike stopped mid-outrage, suddenly attentive.

Will swallowed hard, flexing his fingers like they ached. "Yeah, I like it cold," he muttered, but there was something brittle in his voice—

something that made Richie glance at Mike, who was already staring at Will with that same protective intensity.

Lucas and Dustin also became quiet and attentive, watching Will with palpable concern.

Richie could hear the hum of the freezer kicking on again, an eerie counterpoint to the sudden silence.

Will wiped his palms on his jeans, forcing a weak smile. "Seriously, guys, I'm fine. Just cold." His voice sounded too thin, too forced.

Mike's fingers twitched again—this time he did grab Will's wrist, but gently, turning his hand over to inspect his palm.

"You're freezing," Mike muttered, brows furrowed. Will stiffened, his breath hitching again—

Richie watched, "I just said that" he teased, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

Dustin cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, maybe we should—"

"Blankets," Mike interrupted abruptly, already yanking his own hoodie over his head—the movement so frantic he nearly elbowed Lucas in the face.

He pushed it at Will, whose fingers hovered uncertainly in the air. "Take it," Mike insisted, voice cracking. The basement lights flickered—

just once—but Richie saw the way Will flinched, his pupils dilating for half a second before he forced a shaky laugh.

"Come on guys, it's not that serious," Will said, but his fingers curled into the fabric when Mike pressed it against his chest.

"Please?" Mike whispered, raw enough that Richie had to look away, yeah, okay, this was very intimate.

Dustin coughed into his fist. "So, uh—how about we actually play this time?" He shuffled the dice pointedly.

Will pulled his hoodie—no, Mike's hoodie—over his head, drowning in the fabric.

Mike's knee bounced wildly, his fingers drumming against his thigh like he was restraining himself from reaching out again.

"Alright, everyone sit at the table," Dustin said, gesturing to the map—this time Richie didn't interrupt, he was too busy looking at Will.

He should've thought about taking off his own jacket and giving it to Will, but Mike beat him to it, obviously, of course he did.

Wait, why should he care? —he isn't the type to care, but seeing Will freezing cold—something in his chest twisted.

Richie's fingers twitched—he curled them into fists, digging his nails into his palms, he needed to stop thinking about this.

He needed to stop looking at Will—but he couldn't, because Will was rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them up.

And Mike was staring at Will like he was the only person in the room—and Richie—Richie wanted—he wanted to steal Will away.

—no—he wanted—he didn't know what he wanted—he just hated seeing Mike look at Will like that.

"Trust me, you guys don't want to play with Richie," Mike muttered, still hovering near Will like a human space heater.

"Can we do something else?" His voice cracked again—Richie noted.

Richie was watching the way Mike's fingers kept brushing Will's sleeve as if checking he hadn't vanished.

Richie clutched his chest dramatically. "Rejected by my own flesh and blood!" He slumped against Lucas, who shoved him off.

But Will—Will smiled, small and genuine, his fingers finally flexing normally inside Mike's oversized sleeves.

"How about a movie?" Dustin suggested, already digging through the Wheelers' VHS pile.

Mike seized the opportunity, grabbing Will's wrist—finally—and tugging him toward the couch with a mumbled,

"You're sitting with me."

Richie watched, fascinated, as Will let himself be pulled, his knees bumping Mike's as they settled too close for 'just friends'.

"And me," Richie said, sitting in between them, forcing them apart. Mike groaned, pushing at Richie's shoulder, "No—move—"

but Richie just grinned wider, swinging an arm around Will's shoulders, ignoring the way Mike's fingers dug into his side.

Will stiffened—just for a second—before exhaling, leaning into the touch, his cold fingers brushing Richie's wrist.

"Hellooo sunshine," Richie murmured—lower than before—just to watch Mike's jaw clench.

"Can you guys scoot over," Lucas groaned, flopping down beside them, "you're hogging the whole couch."

The VCR whirred to life, the opening credits of The Goonies flickering across the screen.

Dustin tossed popcorn into the air, catching half in his mouth—the rest scattering across the carpet. "Classic," he announced through a full mouth.

"Still cold?" Mike whispered—too loud, too obvious—Will nodded, rubbing his arms through Mike's hoodie.

Richie watched Mike's fingers twitch toward Will's knee before curling into the couch cushion instead. Pathetic.

Richie interlocked his fingers behind his head, stretching his legs out to nudge Will’s ankle with his sneaker.

Will shot him a questioning look—Richie just smirked and flicked his gaze toward Mike, whose entire body was practically vibrating with restless energy.

Mike’s glare could’ve melted steel, but Dustin’s sudden cackle drowned out whatever retort he’d been preparing.

On screen, Chunk was mid-scream—Dustin mimicked the wail perfectly, tossing more popcorn.

Lucas laughed, trying to mimick the wail aswell, but failed, coughing popcorn out his nose. Will snorted—his shoulder pressing into Richie’s side.

"Yuck Lucas," he laughed.

Mike’s fingers flexed again—Richie caught the exact moment he gave in, reaching over to brush Will’s knee like he couldn’t help himself.

Will stilled—just for a second—"What?" Will whispered, blinking at Mike like he'd grown a second head.

Mike swallowed hard, eyes darting away. "Nothing," he muttered, but his fingers lingered, trembling against Will’s jeans.

Richie—who was in the middle of all of this—suddenly felt like an intruder, observing something far too intimate.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting uncomfortably against the couch cushions.

They need to just kiss already, he thought bitterly—but then his chest ached at the thought, and he couldn’t pinpoint why.

He didn't even know what to say. Should he make an adult joke? Should he just leave?

His thoughts were interrupted by Lucas throwing popcorn at Dustin's head—

Dustin retaliated by upending the entire bowl onto Lucas’ lap, and suddenly, popcorn was flying everywhere.

Will ducked, laughing, as a kernel bounced off his forehead—Mike, ever the dramatic, threw his arms up like he was shielding Will from a hailstorm.

"What the hell, guys—" Mike started, but Richie cut him off by dramatically draping himself across Will’s lap, shielding him with his body.

"Fear not, fair cleric!" Richie declared, pressing a hand to his chest. "Your noble bard shall protect you from this vicious popcorn assault!"

"Seriously?" Mike grabbed the back of Richie's shirt, hauling him upright with enough force to pop a button.

Will's laughter stuttered into a gasp as Richie collapsed backward—back into his spot in the middle,

—but not before catching the way Mike's fingers lingered near Will's knee again, hovering like he wanted to stake a claim.

"Relax, Wheeler," Richie wheezed, rubbing his throat where the collar had choked him. "I was protecting sunshine," he gestured toward Will, who was pink-cheeked and grinning, popcorn dust in his hair.

"Don't call me that," Will muttered again—but his socked foot nudged Richie's ankle under the coffee table.

Richie found it odd how Lucas and Dustin didn't even react to all of this, like it was a common occurrence.

The way Mike's fingers twitched toward Will every few seconds, the way Will leaned into every accidental touch—

It was painfully obvious. Yet Lucas was too busy wrestling popcorn out of Dustin's hair, and Dustin—well, Dustin was Dustin.

Richie exhaled sharply through his nose. Maybe he was losing his mind.

Once the movie was over, It was about time to head to the arcade.

Will had to call his mom to pick him up and take him though, because Joyce wouldn’t let him go otherwise.

Mike leaned next to the phone with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Richie pretended to listen to Joyce’s voice through the phone, nodding sagely as Will answered her questions with increasingly exasperated “yes, Mom”s.”

"Tell Joyce I promise not to corrupt her precious baby boy," Richie stage-whispered, draping himself over Will’s shoulders.

Will elbowed him—hard—but Richie caught the way Mike’s fingers dug into his own biceps at the contact.

The moment Joyce relented, Mike snatched the phone from Will’s hand and hung up with unnecessary force.

"Finally," he muttered, already heading to the garage to grab his bike. Richie stayed in the basement with Will, "Mind if I wait here with you?"

Will shrugged, picking at Mike's hoodie sleeves—now stretched out from nervous tugging.

Richie leaned against the basement doorframe, arms crossed. "So," he drawled, watching Will's fingers fidget, "Mike's got it bad, huh?"

Will froze, his breath hitching audibly. "What?" He scoffed, but the way his fingers twisted in the oversized sleeves betrayed him.

Richie pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between them with deliberate slowness.

"Come on," he murmured, tilting his head to catch Will's downcast eyes. "You've seen the way he looks at you—like you'll disappear if he blinks too long." then, quickly realizing that was the wrong choice of words, because-

"That's because I did disappear," Will muttered, so quiet Richie almost missed it. His fingers curled tighter around the fabric

—Mike's scent clinging to the hoodie's collar. Richie's smirk faltered. He hadn't expected that. "Sorry," Richie said—and meant it

—but Will shook his head, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine. Just—don't tease Mike about it, okay?"

He felt like an asshole again—not his usual, intentional assholery, but the kind that settled in his gut like spoiled milk.

Richie scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing. "Yeah, sure," he muttered. "I mean, I don't blame him."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Will's head snapped up, eyes wide—Richie cleared his throat.

"For being protective. You're, uh—" He gestured vaguely at Will’s general existence. "—small. And fragile-looking. Like a baby bird."

Will raised his eyebrow, "A baby bird?"

Richie grinned, ruffling Will's hair—deliberately messing it up. "Yeah, a little sparrow. All wide-eyed and shit."

Will ducked away, swatting at Richie's hand, but his laugh was genuine this time.

"You're odd," Will muttered, shaking his head—but his fingers relaxed around the sleeves, finally letting go of the fabric.

Richie watched the movement, something warm curling in his chest.

"Second time you said that, I think you might actually be into it." He waggled his eyebrows, leaning in just to see Will's reaction

—and oh, there it was: that pink flush creeping up his neck, the way his breath hitched

"into ’it’?" Will echoed, voice thin—Richie smirked, opening his mouth, "Into it, or into me," he teased.

His fingers brushed Will's wrist—just to see Mike's reaction when he walked back in—

"Why do you guys keep talking about being into things," Mike's voice cut through the basement like a knife.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes darting between Richie's hovering proximity and Will's flushed face.

The air conditioner kicked on with a shuddering groan—Will shivered despite Mike's hoodie swallowing him whole.

Richie didn't move his hand from Will's wrist. "Because Will's into me," Richie said with a shit-eating grin, watching Mike's fingers twitch toward the nearest D&D manual like he wanted to throw it.

Will exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-panic—as he jerked his wrist away. "I am not," he hissed, but his ears burned crimson.

Mike's sneaker squeaked against the linoleum as he took a jerky step forward.

"Then why's your face look like a stop sign?" Richie pressed, deliberately crowding into Will's space—

Will just played with his sleeves—Mike's sleeves—and muttered something unintelligible. The tension was delicious.

Mike's sneakers squeaked again as he took another step forward, fists clenched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from tackling Richie.

"Will, your mom's here," Mike said abruptly, voice tight as he jerked his thumb toward the garage.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab Will's hand but settled for snatching the discarded D&D manual off the table instead.

Richie watched, fascinated, as Will hesitated—eyes flicking between them—before nodding and shuffling past Mike with barely an inch between them.

Richie decided there, right then, that he’d had enough of this bullshit, and if Mike didn't want to make a move—fine—

He'd just have to be the one to make the move on Will instead.

"Wait up, sunshine," Richie called, slinging an arm around Will's shoulders the second he caught up.

Mike's sneakers squeaked violently against the floor—Richie didn't have to look to know his cousin was practically vibrating with outrage.

Will stiffened but didn't pull away, his cold fingers brushing Richie's wrist again.

"You're really handsy," Will muttered, but there was no real bite to it—just that same brittle curiosity Richie had noticed earlier.

"Can your mom take me too?" Richie asked, loud enough for Mike to hear. "I love older women."

"And—I don't have a bike," Richie added, squeezing Will's shoulder as they climbed the basement steps.

Mike's footsteps stomping behind them like an angry poltergeist.

Will's mouth twitched. "Yeah, she can take you," he offered, then immediately tensed when Mike made a strangled noise.

Richie grinned. "Perfect. I'll be on my best behavior," he lied, watching Mike's reflection in the hallway mirror—

Jaw clenched, fingers flexing like he wanted to rip Richie's arm off Will.

Joyce was already waiting in the driveway when they spilled outside, her car idling with the radio playing some staticky pop song.

Will ducked out from under Richie's arm, but not before Richie caught the way his cold fingers lingered against his wrist for half a second too long.

"I'll sit in the back," Will mumbled, already reaching for the door handle—but Richie darted ahead, yanking it open with a theatrical bow.

"After you, my liege."

Mike made a noise like a deflating balloon. "Richie—"

"See you there, dear cousin," Richie sang, sliding into the backseat beside Will before Mike could protest.

Joyce gave him a bemused look through the rearview mirror as Richie smiled at her, "Hello Mrs. Byers, your son is lovely."

Will cleared his throat—too loud—his fingers twisting in the sleeves again.

Mike stood frozen on the driveway, watching them through the car window with something between outrage and resignation.

"See you there, Will," Mike said, voice too tight—Richie caught the way Will nodded, small and shy, his knee bouncing against Richie's in the cramped backseat.

Joyce pulled away, leaving Mike staring after them. Richie leaned back, stretching his arm along the seat behind Will

—not quite touching, but close enough to make Will stiffen. The radio crackled, shifting to a slow, dreamy song—

something about love and summer nights. Richie hummed along, deliberately off-key, just to watch Will's shoulders relax as he huffed a laugh.

"You're terrible," Will muttered, but his fingers stopped twisting the fabric. Richie grinned. "Terribly charming, you mean."

Joyce looked back at them in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows quirking up slightly at Richie’s arm draped behind Will.

"You boys behaving?" she asked, voice warm but with that sharp maternal edge that made Richie sit up a little straighter.

Will nodded too quickly. "Yes, Mom."

"Yes of course Mrs. Byers," Richie chirped, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the seat just inches from Will's shoulder.