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It started with a heist that was significantly less "interdimensional horror" and significantly more "mid-western delinquency."
Beverly Marsh had walked into the local convenience store with the kind of practiced, lethal confidence that only a girl who had survived both Derry, Maine, and a literal blood-explosion in her bathroom could possess. Keith—the grease-stained gatekeeper of the Palace Arcade who apparently spent his off-hours moonlighting at the Family Video-adjacent bodega—hadn't stood a chance. Beverly didn't even have a fake ID; she just had a pack of Marlboro Reds, a winning smile that didn't reach her eyes, and a way of leaning over the counter that made Keith forget his own name, let alone the legal drinking age in the state of Indiana.
Keith had tried to be "cool" at first, leaning back and readjusting his mesh hat. "You're not from around here, are you, Red?"
Beverly had just tilted her head, letting a stray lock of copper hair fall over one eye. She’d spun a tale about a fictional older brother in the military who was "coming home tonight" and how "it would be so tragic if he didn't have his favorite beer." Ten minutes of fluttering eyelashes and strategic leaning later, she hadn't just secured the originally planned six-pack of Miller High Life. She had somehow talked a dazed and sweating Keith into letting her walk away with four entire six-packs and a very questionable bottle of peach schnapps that she had actually smuggled across state lines from Maine like a professional contrabandist.
"He’s a sucker for redheads," Beverly had noted casually as she dumped the haul into the trunk of the car. "And he really needs to wash his hair. But hey, free beer—well, discounted beer. I told him I’d come back and tell him 'stories' about Maine."
"You are a terrifying human being," Stan Uris had muttered from the backseat, already looking like he regretted every life choice that had led him to Hawkins.
The setting for the consumption of said beer was the Wheeler basement, a place that had seen its fair share of cosmic horrors, but nothing quite as terrifying as nearly a dozen teenagers who were "buzzed" for the first time in their collective lives. The house was, for once, a sanctuary of neglect. Nancy was away at college, likely writing scathing editorials or fighting different monsters; Holly was at a sleepover across town involving Barbies and probably fewer felony-level beverages; and Ted and Karen had finally succumbed to the allure of a "dinner and a movie" night in Indianapolis, leaving Mike with a list of emergency numbers he had already used as coasters.
The only shadow on the evening was the absence of Mike Hanlon. He’d been grounded for a month after his grandfather caught him sneaking out to the Barrens, and no amount of Bill’s "p-p-persuasion" or Richie’s "Voices" could convince the senior Hanlon to let him trek to Indiana for the weekend.
"It’s not the same without the other Mike," Dustin sighed, pouring a Miller High Life into a Styrofoam cup with the gravity of a sommelier. "Our Mike is great, but Derry Mike has that... 'I've seen things' vibe that really grounds the group."
"I've seen things!" Wheeler protested, waving a slice of cold pizza. "I've seen El flip a van with her brain!"
"Yeah, but did she do it while being chased by a shape-shifting entity that smells like old popcorn and existential dread?" Richie Tozier chimed in, currently perched on the back of the sofa like a caffeinated gargoyle. "I think not! Hawkins is 'diet' trauma, Wheeler. Derry is 'Full-Sugar, Extra-Caffeine, May Cause Heart Palpitations' trauma."
The air was thick with the smell of stale popcorn, Mike’s increasingly desperate attempts to look cool while holding a cigarette he hadn’t lit, and the sheer, unfiltered volume of Richie’s voice. Ben Hanscom was tucked into a corner with Dustin, the two of them geeking out over the architectural structural integrity of the Wheeler’s basement compared to the Derry library. Bill was stuttering out a story to Eleven, who was listening with the intense focus of someone trying to decode a new language. Stan was sitting as far away from the "slobbering teenagers" as possible, and Eddie Kaspbrak was frantically wiping a spill off his pants with a Tide pen he apparently carried in his pocket at all times.
"Just because Mike’s parents are out in Indy doesn't mean the neighbors aren't keeping a ledger of our sins," Eddie hissed. "If the police show up and I’m found with a BAC higher than a toddler's, my mother is going to have a literal stroke. Not a metaphorical 'I'm so stressed' stroke. A full-blown medical emergency! I'll be an orphan before dessert!"
Will Byers sat on the edge of the sofa, sipping a lukewarm soda he’d spiked with exactly one capful of the schnapps. He felt... fuzzy. The "schnapps-fuzz" was a gentle thing, a soft filter that made the wood-panelling of the basement look like velvet. He was watching Richie. It was hard not to. Richie was a kinetic disaster—all limbs and thick glasses and a mouth that moved faster than a Demobat. Will had spent the last three hours trying to decide if he wanted to be Richie's best friend or if he wanted to live inside the sound of his laugh.
"We should play a game," Max suggested, her eyes bright and slightly unfocused as she leaned against the wall. "Something high stakes. Something... primal."
"Dungeon Master rules?" Lucas asked, hopeful.
"No," Max interjected. "No D&D. Every time we play that, Mike and Will start having 'moments' or someone ends up crying about a fireball. Let’s play Sardines."
A chorus of agreement went around the room. Sardines was the superior version of hide-and-seek. One person hides, and everyone else looks for them. When you find the hider, you don't scream; you join them in their hiding spot until everyone is packed in like, well, sardines.
"I'll hide first!" Will said, his voice a little bolder than usual. He stood up, feeling the slight sway of the room.
The reaction was immediate and violent.
"ABSOLUTELY NOT," Mike Wheeler yelled.
"NO WAY," Lucas added.
"Will, buddy, I love you," Dustin said, placing a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder, "but we are not playing a game where you hide. The last time you 'hid,' it took us a week and a trip to another dimension to find you. You’re too good. You’re the Final Boss of hiding. It’s not fair. It's like playing tag with a ghost."
Will blinked, his face flushing a deep pink. "That... that wasn't my fault! I was abducted!"
"Doesn't matter," Max said, pointing a finger at him. "You have 'Invisible Boy' energy. You'll just merge with the wallpaper and we’ll find you in 1986. No. Someone else hides. Someone... loud. Someone who couldn't be quiet if their life depended on it."
Everyone’s eyes slowly drifted toward Richie.
Richie, who was currently trying to see how many pretzels he could fit in his mouth at once, froze. He swallowed hard, nearly choking. "Oh, so the trash-man is the sacrificial lamb? Fine! I accept! I am a master of stealth. I am a shadow in the night. I am the thing that your mother worries about when she hears a creak in the floorboards! I’m going to hide so well you’ll have to call a psychic to find my remains!"
"Go! One... two... three..." the Party and the Losers began to count in a slurred, disorganized unison.
Richie scrambled up the stairs, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. Will waited until the count reached five hundred before he slipped away. He didn't want to follow the herd. The herd—led by Mike and Bill—was currently debating whether Richie would fit inside the oven (Eddie was arguing against it on the grounds of salmonella).
Will navigated the Wheeler house like a ghost. He knew the geography of this place better than his own home. He moved past the kitchen, past the darkened living room where the moonlight hit the plastic-covered furniture, and toward the back of the house. He found himself near the small, forgotten linen closet tucked behind a heavy velvet curtain in the hallway.
It was a tiny space, barely big enough for a stack of towels, let alone a six-foot-tall teenager with the wingspan of an albatross.
Will pulled back the curtain. The door was cracked an inch. He felt a hum of energy, the specific 'Richie-static' that seemed to follow the boy around.
He slipped inside. The smell hit him instantly: lavender detergent, Richie’s cheap cologne, and the faint, sharp scent of the cigarettes he’d been fumbling with earlier.
"Found you," Will whispered.
A hand suddenly shot out of the darkness, grabbing Will by the front of his flannel shirt and yanking him inside. The door clicked shut, plunging them into total darkness.
"Holy shit, Byers!" Richie’s voice was a frantic, hot whisper right against Will’s ear. "You’re like a ninja! I didn't even hear you! You almost gave me a heart attack, and I’m too young for cardiovascular failure! My mother would never forgive you!"
"Everyone else is still in the basement," Will said, his heart hammering against his ribs. The space was incredibly cramped. He was pressed flush against Richie's chest, his nose touching the bridge of Richie’s glasses. He could feel the vibration of Richie’s voice through his own skin. "You picked a good spot. No one ever comes back here."
"The best," Richie breathed, though he sounded breathless for other reasons. "Only problem is, I didn't account for the fact that I’m built like a folding chair and this closet was designed for... I don't know, Victorian dolls? Do you mind if I...?"
Richie shifted, trying to find more room, but only succeeded in tangling their legs together. Will stumbled, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself. They landed on Richie’s waist, right above the belt of his jeans.
The air in the closet grew heavy. The "schnapps-fuzz" was now a full-blown roar in Will’s ears, a warm tide that swept away the usual 'Will Byers' caution.
"Richie?" Will whispered.
"Yeah, Will the Wise?"
"You're... you're not talking."
Richie let out a shaky, uncharacteristic laugh. "Yeah, well. Hard to talk when I’m trying to remember how to breathe. It’s cramped in here, Byers. Oxygen is a finite resource. We’re basically in a submarine. A very, very small, towel-filled submarine."
"We have enough," Will said. He felt a sudden, terrifying surge of bravery—the kind of bravery that comes from knowing the house is empty and the world is quiet. He tilted his head up. Even in the dark, he could see the glint of Richie’s glasses reflecting the tiny sliver of light from the keyhole. "Are you scared?"
"Me? Scared? I’ve looked into the maw of death itself, William! I’ve seen things that would make your bowl-cut curl!" Richie’s voice wavered, losing its performative edge. "But... okay. Maybe a little. You’re very close. And you’re very... quiet. It’s intimidating. You’re like a sentient 'Do Not Disturb' sign."
"I like being close," Will murmured.
The silence that followed wasn't the awkward silence of two people who didn't know what to say. It was the silence of a fuse burning down. Will could feel Richie’s heart thumping against his own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
Richie was the one who moved first. He leaned down, his forehead thumping gently against Will’s. "If I do something stupid, are you going to tell Mike? Because he’ll definitely kill me. He’s got that 'protective best friend' energy that usually ends in a blunt-force trauma incident. He'd probably hit me with a d20."
"I won't tell Mike," Will promised, his voice barely audible.
Richie’s hand moved from Will’s shoulder to his cheek. His thumb traced the line of Will’s jaw, hesitant and shaking. "Okay. Good. Because... fuck it."
The kiss was not graceful. It was a collision of teeth, glasses, and desperation. Richie tasted like pretzels and bad decisions, and Will tasted like peach schnapps and suppressed longing. It was clumsy and perfect. Will’s hands migrated from Richie’s waist to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls Richie usually kept hidden under a hat. He pulled him closer, needing to anchor himself as the world tilted on its axis.
Richie made a low, muffled sound in the back of his throat—a mix of a groan and a laugh—and began to kiss back with an intensity that made Will’s knees go weak. They were "Sardines," packed together so tightly that there was no room for doubt, no room for the fear of being "different," no room for the shadows of Hawkins or Derry.
"Wait," Richie whispered against Will's lips, "your glasses—"
"I'm not wearing glasses, Richie."
"Right. My glasses. They're... they're definitely in the way." Richie fumbled with them, shoving them up onto his forehead, and then dove back in like he was starving.
Until the door flew open– no really, it was kicked open.
"BINGO, MOTHER—" Max’s voice cut off as she realized what she was looking at, but the volume remained at an ear-piercing level. "OH MY GOD. I KNEW IT. I LITERALLY CALLED IT."
The beam of her flashlight hit them like a searchlight at a prison break. It was blinding, humiliating, and incredibly cold. Will and Richie scrambled in opposite directions, which was impossible given the four-square-foot floor plan. They ended up slamming into each other's shoulders and then the back wall with a synchronized thud that caused a stack of pillowcases to avalanche over Richie’s head.
"Holy shit," Dustin’s voice drifted in from the hallway, sounding equal parts impressed and deeply traumatized. "Will? Is that you? I thought you were like... scouting. I didn't think you were... scouting scouting."
Max stepped closer, her flashlight beam shaking because she was vibrating with the kind of smug energy that could power a small city. She fixed the light squarely on Will’s face. Will’s lips felt about ten times their normal size, and his face was so hot he was pretty sure he was emitting actual steam. "I told you guys! I told you he had 'Invisible Boy' energy! But I didn't realize he was using his powers to conduct private tongue-investigations with the Trashmouth! Gross, you guys. Literally so gross. I’m scarred. I need therapy."
Behind her, the hallway was a complete pile-up. Lucas was peering over her shoulder with an expression of pure, unadulterated 'what-the-hell,' Bill was leaning against the wall looking like he’d just seen a ghost (which was his default, but still), and Eddie Kaspbrak was already hyperventilating.
"Richie! Is that... is that a linen closet?" Eddie’s voice hit a pitch that probably only bats and El could hear. He was frantically clawing at his fanny pack for his inhaler. "Do you have any idea how many dust mites live in unwashed linens? And you’re in there swapping fluids? Richie! You just exchanged saliva with a resident of a town known for its high incidence of interdimensional rot and weird-ass lab experiments! Do you want meningitis B? Because that’s how you get it! I’m going to hurl. I’m actually going to hurl on these towels!"
"Shut up, Eddie!!" Richie barked, though his voice cracked like a 12-year-old’s. He was frantically trying to smooth down his bird’s-nest hair, but he still had a stray dryer sheet stuck to his shoulder. "We were—we were strategizing! It’s a very tactical hiding spot! We were discussing... logistics! High-level hide-and-seek logistics! You wouldn't understand the pressure!"
"Logistics? Yeah right," Max scoffed, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. "Richie, your flannel is buttoned wrong and Will looks like he just ran a marathon with his mouth. We literally just saw you guys trying to eat each other’s faces out. It was like watching a Discovery Channel special on lampreys. It was genuinely disturbing."
Stan Uris poked his head through the crowd, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. "Can we just... not? I want to go back to the basement where I don't have to think about Richie’s tongue. Will, I expected better from you. Honestly. This is a lapse in judgment that I will be bringing up at your funeral."
Dustin leaned in, squinting at them like they were a rare species of lizard. "Wait. Are you guys... like, together together? Since when? Was there a meeting? Ben, did you know? Is this a Derry thing? Do you guys just go around kissing people in closets back home instead of, I don't know, playing baseball?"
Ben Hanscom just stood there, looking like he’d walked into the wrong room and didn’t know how to leave. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes bouncing between Will’s boots and the crooked line of Richie’s glasses. "I... I didn’t even know Richie swings that way," Ben muttered, sounding genuinely bewildered.
Will looked at Richie. Richie looked at Will. Richie’s glasses were still perched precariously on his hairline, he smelled like lavender and panic, and he looked like he wanted to vanish into the Upside Down. But his hand was still hovering near Will’s, twitching.
Will took a deep breath. He reached out and grabbed Richie’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It was the scariest thing he’d ever done, and, mind you, he’d been possessed by a shadow monster.
"We're not together, okay?" Will said, his voice only shaking a little. And Max? You breathe a word of this to Mike before I’m ready to tell him, and I’m telling everyone who your favorite member of New Kids on the Block is. I know about the poster behind your door."
Max’s jaw dropped, her smug expression vanishing instantly. "You wouldn't. That’s low, Byers. That’s like... psychological warfare."
"I've died and come back, Max," Will said, his voice dropping an octave as he gained a sudden, sharp confidence. "I’ve got nothing to lose."
The hallway exploded into a different kind of noise. Mike Wheeler shoved his way to the front, looking like his brain had just short-circuited in real-time. He looked at Will, then at Richie, then at their joined hands, then back at Will. "Will? Are you—is this—with him? He doesn't stop talking! He’s like a human car alarm! You like quiet, Will! You hate people who make stupid jokes! This is... this is like a library merging with a circus! It makes zero sense! The math is broken, Will! It literally does not work!"
"Fuck you, Wheeler!" Richie snapped, his confidence returning in a violent surge now that he felt the support of Will's grip. "He likes the 'car alarm' just fine! Maybe he’s just tired of your moping and wanted someone with actual charisma! Also, I’m way better looking than you! I’ve got style! I’ve got 'Voices'! I’m a goddamn delight and he’s finally realized it!"
Max smirked, clicking off her flashlight, though the hallway light was still plenty bright. "Whatever. You guys are gross. But rules are rules. You found the hider. Now the rest of us have to fit in there. Sardine rules."
"Wait, what?" Richie blanched. "No! No way! There’s no room! It’s a two-person closet max! Eddie will have a literal cardiac event! Bill will start p-p-pointing out the lack of oxygen and then we’ll all suffocate on Richie’s ego!"
"Sardines rules, Richie," Lucas said, grinning as he began to squeeze past Max. "Everyone in. Bill, Ben, get in here. Don't be a wuss."
For the next twenty minutes, the tiny linen closet became a chaotic, sweaty pile of teenage limbs, muffled laughter, and localized medical panic. Max shoved her way in first, followed by Lucas, who was trying to avoid stepping on anyone’s feet but failed miserably when he crushed Richie’s sneaker. Bill and Ben squeezed in next, their sheer size making the walls of the closet feel like they were physically expanding. Stan Uris entered with a sigh so deep it sounded like his soul was leaving his body, and Dustin somehow managed to wedge himself between a stack of guest towels and Eddie Kaspbrak’s vibrating shoulder.
"I can't breathe!" Eddie wheezed, his face pressed against a particularly fluffy bath mat. "There is zero ventilation in here! We are breathing in each other's carbon dioxide! It’s like a bio-hazard experiment! Richie, move your elbow! You’re touching my spleen!"
"I can't move my elbow, Eddie, because Mike’s knee is currently lodged in my ribcage!" Richie yelled back.
Mike Wheeler was the last of the group to be shoved in, looking utterly miserable as he was pressed into the far corner. He was staring at Will and Richie’s joined hands with the intensity of a man trying to solve a Rubik's cube while being pelted with rocks. "This is wrong," Mike muttered. “This is so wrong.”
"Shut up and move over, Wheeler," Max grunted, elbowing him in the side.
Suddenly, the hallway went quiet. The sound of rhythmic, purposeful footsteps approached.
The heavy velvet curtain was pulled back with a dramatic swoosh.
Beverly Marsh stood there, a half-empty can of Miller High Life in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated amusement on her face. Next to her was Eleven, whose eyes were wide and curious as she looked at the ten teenagers packed like a tetris game into a closet designed for six towels.
"Found you," Beverly said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She took a slow sip of her beer, her eyes landing on Will and Richie. She didn't look surprised. In fact, she looked like she’d just won a bet that no one else knew about. "Nice look, Richie. Dryer sheets are really your color."
Eleven tilted her head, looking at the pile of limbs. "Oh," she says, her voice echoing in the small space. "This game is weird."
"Tell me about it," Mike wheezed from the back, his face turning a shade of purple that matched his sweater. "A very... very stupid game."
Beverly laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to mock the collective misery of the closet. She stepped forward, ignoring the groans of the boys, and began to squeeze herself in between Stan and Ben. "Move over, boys. I’m not losing this game just because you guys decided to turn a linen closet into a teenage graveyard. El, get in here. There’s still a square inch of floor space near Lucas’s heel."
Eleven stepped in delicately, closing the door behind her and plunging them all back into darkness.
The silence that followed was thick, humid, and punctuated only by Eddie’s rhythmic wheezing and the rustle of towels. But in the middle of it all, pressed between a stack of pillows and Mike Wheeler’s bony elbow, Will felt Richie’s hand squeeze his again.
Richie leaned in, his glasses finally back on his face—crooked, smeared with someone's thumbprint, and currently missing a nose pad—and whispered into Will’s ear.
"Still the best hiding spot," Richie breathed.
"The best," Will agreed, leaning his head against Richie’s shoulder and letting the chaos of their friends fade into the background.
And for the first time in a long time, in a house empty of parents but overflowing with the loud, messy love of their friends, neither of them felt like they had anything left to hide.