Chapter Text
The summer of 1989 felt like a hard-earned victory lap. Two weeks ago, they had sat in those folding chairs on the football field, sweat sticking to their gowns, finally closing the book on Hawkins High. No monsters, no government conspiracies—just twelve months of freedom before the real world tried to swallow them whole.
The Party clattered into the Wheeler house with the practiced ease of people who had been making themselves at home there since the fourth grade. Mike was in the lead, clutching a stack of new character sheets, his mind already three steps ahead into the campaign.
But the air changed the moment they hit the basement.
Mike stopped so abruptly at the bottom of the stairs that Dustin collided with his back, followed by a chain reaction of "Oof!" and "Watch it, Wheeler!" from Lucas and Max.
There, sprawled in the center of the basement, was someone who shouldn't have been there. At first glance, it was Mike. The same dark, messy curls, the same lanky frame. But the boy on the sofa lowered his X-Men comic to reveal a pair of massive, thick-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to a comical, bug-like size. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had been through a tropical blender.
“What are you doing in my room, Wheeler?” the boy asked, his voice a nasal, grating rasp that dripped with annoyance.
“Your room? This is my basement, Richie!” Mike shouted, his voice jumping an octave the way it always did when he was losing his cool. It was the exact same frantic, high-pitched tone he’d used four years ago when El dumped him for the first time. “Get out of here and go annoy Nancy or Holly for once!”
Richie Tozier didn't move. He just popped a bubble of gum and looked at the crowd of people standing on the stairs. “Nancy’s busy writing a manifesto, and Holly tried to bite me. I’m staying here. It’s got better lighting for my intellectual pursuits.”
El stepped forward, her brow furrowing in that rhythmic, slow way it did whenever she was trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. She looked at Mike, then at the stranger, then back at Mike again, her head tilting as if she were trying to spot the difference between two identical, yet very different, drawings.
“Mike,” she said, her voice dropping into that quiet, genuine confusion that always managed to cut through the noise. “What is this... unfunny guy doing here?”
Richie didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back further into the couch cushions, letting out a sharp, appreciative whistle that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. “Whoa, Mike! Where have you been hiding this hot stuff? You’ve been holding out on your dear old cousin!”
“That’s my ex-girlfriend, you perv! Now get out of here!” Mike snapped. His voice hit that familiar, high-pitched register of frustration—the same one he’d perfected four years ago during their first breakup. He looked like he was vibrating with the urge to physically hoist Richie off of the couch.
Richie just popped his gum, his eyes magnified to double their size behind his thick lenses as he looked at Mike with mock pity. “Ex? Well, that sounds like a 'you' problem, Mikey. And as for leaving?” He gestured vaguely around the room with his comic book. “Mrs. Wheeler told me to make myself at home, and that’s exactly what I’m planning to do. This is my base of operations for the next two weeks. So, why don't you and your little nerd-herd go do whatever 'saving the world' stuff you have planned somewhere else?”
The basement fell silent for a beat, the only sound being the low hum of the dehumidifier and Mike’s heavy, indignant breathing.
“Maybe... maybe he doesn't have to go? We have plenty of room at the table.” Will said softly, breaking the tension. He was looking at Richie with a flicker of amusement that he was trying very hard to hide.
They eventually all agreed to let Richie join in on the campaign.
The atmosphere in the basement shifted instantly. The steady rhythm of rolling dice and Mike’s meticulously planned narration hit a brick wall. Richie didn't just walk; he swaggered over to his duffel bag, rummaging through a pile of crumpled Hawaiian shirts before triumphantly hoisting a glass bottle of clear liquid.
The label caught the dim basement light, glinting like a challenge.
“This is boring,” Richie announced, slamming the bottle onto the center of the D&D map, right on top of a plastic dragon. “Let’s spice things up.”
“What! Where the hell did you get that, Richie?!” Mike’s voice didn't just crack this time; it practically shattered. He scrambled to his feet, looking even angrier than he had two hours ago. He looked like he was one step away from calling his mom, which was exactly the kind of "uncool" move Richie lived for.
“That doesn’t matter,” Richie said, waving a hand dismissively as if the illegal acquisition of hard liquor was just a minor footnote. He looked at the Party, his oversized eyes scanning their shocked faces. Their jaws were practically hitting the carpet. “How about we play a real game?”
A heavy silence followed. El looked at the bottle with a tilted head, while Max and Lucas shared a look of pure, adrenaline-spiked hesitation.
“You know what?” Dustin said, breaking the silence. He leaned forward, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I kinda like this guy. It doesn't sound like a bad idea to actually do some teenage stuff for once.”
“Dustin, are you serious?” Mike hissed, looking betrayed.
“He’s right, Wheeler,” Max chimed in, leaning back and crossing her arms. A flicker of a challenge lit up her blue eyes. “We graduated. We’re adults—basically. And God knows this campaign was getting a little dry.”
Richie unscrewed the cap with a flourish. The sharp, medicinal scent of the vodka filled the air. He turned his gaze toward Will, winking behind his thick lenses. “What do you say, handsome ? You look like you could use a drink. Or are you going to stay a good little boy and listen to Captain Buzzkill over here?”
“Uh—uhhh,” Will stammered, his eyes darting around the circle. The weight of the Party’s gaze felt heavier than a lead dragon. He looked at the bottle, then at Mike’s purple-shattering face, and finally back to Richie’s expectant grin. “Sure. Why not?” he said, his voice still sounding a bit hesitant, like he was stepping onto thin ice.
“Okay, what should we play?” Max asked, her voice dropping into a low, competitive hum. She was already leaning forward, the boredom of the D&D map forgotten.
“Well, there’s Truth or Truth, Never Have I Ever, uhhh—” Richie started, a wicked glint in his oversized eyes.
“How about Truth or Truth,” Lucas interrupted sharply, cutting him off before Richie could suggest something that would get them all grounded until 1990.
“Okay, okay, calm down, Shaft,” Richie relented, holding up his hands. “But before we play, I need to know all of your names. I can't interrogate strangers; it’s against my moral code. So, who’s the redhead?”
“I’m Max,” she said, giving him a look that suggested she could still take him in a fight.
“And you?” Richie asked, shifting his gaze.
“Her boyfriend, Lucas,” Lucas said firmly, puffing out his chest just enough to let Richie know that any dirty jokes about Max were strictly off-limits.
“And I know who you are,” Richie said, dismissively waving a hand at Mike as if he were a piece of furniture he’d grown tired of looking at. He turned to the others. “How about you?”
“I’m Dustin,” Dustin said, looking at the vodka bottle with more scientific curiosity than fear.
“And that’s El.” El gave a small, stiff nod, still trying to figure out if Richie was a threat or just a very loud accident.
“And this dashing man?” Richie purred, his swivel chair rotating slowly until he was locked into direct eye contact with Will. He leaned in, his thick glasses making his wink look like a tectonic shift.
“Uhm... I’m Will,” Will said, the words catching in his throat. He felt like a deer caught in high-beam headlights—only the headlights were wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smelled like cheap cologne.
“Will,” Richie repeated, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “I like you Will. You’ve got layers. Like an onion. Or a very depressing cake.”
“Richie, leave him alone!” Mike barked, slamming his hand on the table. “Can we just start the game so you can stop talking?”
“Alright, alright,” Richie chirped, clapping his hands together like a demented game show host. He kicked his feet up on the edge of the table, sending a stray pencil rolling onto the floor. “Maxine! You look like you’ve got a mean streak. How about you start us off?”
“Don’t call me Maxine,” Max shot back instantly, though a sharp, competitive glint lit up her blue eyes. She leaned forward, her gaze sweeping across the circle, lingering on each of them like a predator choosing its prey. Finally, her eyes landed on the girl sitting next to Mike. “El! Truth or truth. How many guys have you actually gotten with, and who are they?”
The basement air seemed to thicken. Mike’s head snapped toward Max, his mouth falling open in a look of pure, horrified indignation. Dustin, meanwhile, suddenly found his own lap incredibly fascinating, his shoulders shaking as he bit his lip to keep a tidal wave of giggles from escaping.
El didn’t flinch. She looked at Mike’s panicked expression, then at Dustin’s red face, and finally back to Max. Her poker face was legendary—a remnant of years spent in a lab where emotion was a liability.
“Pass the bottle,” she said, her voice flat and utterly calm.
“Oh, taking the cowards way out!” Richie jeered, though he looked impressed. “The lady prefers the burn of the grain to the burn of the shame! I respect it!”
Mike rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw his own brain, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else—preferably on another planet—but he didn't look away as El tilted the bottle back.
El set the bottle down with a heavy clink, the liquid sloshing against the glass. She didn't look bothered by the burn anymore; she looked focused. She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto Mike with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile.
“Mike,” she said, her voice dropping into that dangerously calm tone. “Truth.”
Mike swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah. Okay. Truth. Lay it on me.”
“When we kissed,” El started, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right words, “was it... good for you?”
Mike let out a breath he’d been holding for three years, a relieved, awkward laugh bubbling up. “Oh. Uh, yeah! Yeah, El. It was—it was great. You know? Special. Really special.” He leaned back a little, feeling like he’d just dodged a bullet. He even shot a small, triumphant look at Richie.
But El wasn’t finished. She kept staring at him, her expression shifting into one of genuine, clinical observation.
“Because for me,” she continued, her voice echoing in the silent basement, “it was like kissing a... wet fish. Very clumsy. Too much teeth.”
The silence that followed was so thick you could have cut it with a jagged piece of glass. Dustin’s jaw didn’t just drop; he actually choked on his own saliva, falling into a fit of muffled coughing. Lucas buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the kind of laughter that was physically painful to hold back.
Richie, however, didn't hold back.
“A WET FISH?!” Richie shrieked, catapulting himself out of his chair. He clutched his stomach, doubled over as he let out a series of high-pitched, hysterical cackles that sounded like a seagull having a
breakdown. “Oh, my God! Mikey! The Paladin of Pucker! The Sultan of Slime! Too much teeth?!What were you trying to do Wheeler, eat her face!?!?”
“Richie, shut up!” Mike yelled, his entire face turning a color that could only be described as 'nuclear sunset.' He looked like he wanted to spontaneously combust and take the entire house with him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Richie gasped for air, wiping actual tears from behind his thick lenses. He swiveled toward Will, pointing a finger at Mike’s humiliated form. “Will! You hear that? If you ever get the urge to climb this beanpole, bring a raincoat and some dental insurance! He’s a biter!”
Will’s face was a mirror of Mike’s—bright, glowing red—but he couldn't stop the small, traitorous snort of laughter that escaped him. He looked at Mike, then at the table, then back at Mike. “I... I’m sure it wasn't that bad,” Will stammered, though his eyes were twinkling with a mixture of pity and amusement.
“It was,” El confirmed solemnly, reaching for a pretzel. “Very fishy.”
“Pass the bottle,” Mike groaned, reaching for the vodka with a trembling hand. “I’m not doing this. I’m literally not doing this anymore.”
Mike grabbed the bottle with a trembling hand, his brain screaming for a distraction. He didn’t just sip; he tilted his head back and took a massive, desperate gulp. It was a tactical error of legendary proportions. For a split second, he went still, his eyes bugging out behind his hair. Then, the fire hit.
“Hhh-whack!” Mike choked out, slamming the bottle onto the table. His eyes watered instantly, and he let out a long, low groan that sounded like a dying engine. He clutched his throat, his face turning a shade of purple that matched Wills old D&D wizard robes.
“Whoa! Careful there, Captain Courageous!” Richie cackled, slapping Mike on the back hard enough to make him wheeze. “That’s vodka, not your mom’s lemonade! You’re gonna grow chest hair in about five seconds!”
Mike ignored him, gasping for air as the burn slowly settled into a dull, throbbing heat in his chest. He needed to shift the spotlight. He needed someone else to suffer. He wiped his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the table like a searchlight until it locked onto his target.
“Lucas,” Mike croaked, his voice sounding three octaves deeper from the alcohol burn.
Lucas straightened up, his eyes narrowing. He looked like a soldier preparing for an ambush. “Yeah? What? I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Mike said, leaning in. “You and Max have been together forever. But we all remember the 'Snow Ball.' My question is: Is it true that you practiced your first kiss on a poster of Princess Leia in your room for three weeks before the dance, or was that just a lie Dustin told us to make you look pathetic?”
Dustin let out a loud, wheezing honk of a laugh, pointing a finger at Lucas. “I didn't lie! I saw the tape marks on the wall!”
“You traitor!” Lucas shouted, his face instantly matching the deep red of Mike’s.
“Oh, this is precious!” Richie squealed, clapping his hands. “The Rebel Alliance would be so proud! Tell us, Skywalker, did you use tongue on the glossy finish, or were you a gentleman?”
Max arched an eyebrow, looking at her boyfriend with a mixture of pity and extreme amusement. “Three weeks, Lucas? Really?”
About an hour had slipped away in a haze of heat and half-stifled laughter. The basement felt smaller now, the air thick with the scent of spilled snacks and the medicinal tang of the vodka. Between the dares and the heavy questions, the Party had managed to put a serious dent in the bottle—nearly a third of it was gone, leaving them all in a state of loose-limbed, glassy-eyed chaos.
Even the D&D map had been forgotten, the plastic miniatures knocked over like fallen soldiers in a war they were too drunk to finish. Dustin was currently trying to explain the physics of a black hole to a very confused El, while Max and Lucas were leaning against each other, whispering in a way that was actually quiet for once.
“Alright, alright,” Mike muttered, his voice thick and his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton, the room tilting slightly every time he blinked. “I think... I think we’re done. I’m wrapping it up. My brain is vibrating.”
“You’re just a lightweight, Wheeler!” Richie chirped from the floor, where he was sprawled out like a starfish. He seemed the most sober of the bunch, though his glasses were dangerously lopsided.
Mike didn’t have time to argue and got up and stumbled up the stairs
The silence that followed the departure of the party wasn’t the comfortable kind. Usually, the basement hummed with the ghost of their shouting, the scent of stale popcorn, and the lingering warmth of five people crammed onto a single couch. But with Mike finally successfully ninja-stealthing past Mrs. Wheeler to collapse into bed upstairs, the air had turned thin and heavy.
It was just Will and Richie now.
Richie was a blur of nervous kinetic energy. His fingers performed a frantic, uneven percussion against the cover of a D&D manual, the thump-tap-tap echoing off the wood paneling. He looked like he was vibrating out of his skin, his oversized glasses sliding down his nose with every twitch of his head. He cleared his throat, a sharp sound that sliced through the stillness.
"So, Will..." Richie began, his voice uncharacteristically stripped of its usual bravado. He didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the hand-drawn map of the Underdark. "How long have you and Mike been, you know... dating?"
“What?” Will said, sounding completely flabbergasted, the word tumbling out before he could catch it. “Richie, me and Mike aren’t dating.”
“Oh. Okay,” Richie said, his voice dropping an octave. He sounded almost... slightly relieved? He adjusted his glasses, the frames clicking against his nose. “I just thought there was something going on between you guys, but I guess I was wrong. My bad. Usually, my ‘trash-sense’ is tingling when there's that much tension in a room.”
Will went quiet, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. The honesty of the vodka was still humming in his veins, pushing the truth to the surface. “Well... I did used to have a thing for him. A big one. But I don’t know... I told him, but I never really had the courage to actually ask him to be with me. So I kinda just forced myself to get over it. So maybe there was something between us when we were younger, but not anymore.”
Richie watched him for a long beat, his expression uncharacteristically unreadable. He didn't make a joke. He didn't do a funny voice. He just nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what it felt like to bury something until you convinced yourself it was dead.
“Ohh. Okay,” Richie said softly. He stood up, the floorboards creaking under his sneakers. He cocked his head toward the ceiling, listening to the heavy footsteps of Mike’s mom moving across the floor above them. “Well, I just heard Mrs. Wheeler walk upstairs to her room. Coast is clear.”
He reached out, giving Will a playful but surprisingly gentle shove on the shoulder. “What do you say we go grab some snacks to sober up? I’ll raid the pantry, and then I’ll walk you home, alright? You look like you’re about to fall over, and I can't have you wandering into a ditch on my watch.”
Will managed a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Snacks sounds good.”
After tiptoeing up the stairs and into the kitchen, Richie got to work on a round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Will waited anxiously by the door until the snacks were ready, and then they were gone.
It was about an hour's walk to Wills. On the way, they had a conversation.
They walked in silence for a moment, the rhythmic scuff of their sneakers on the trail filling the quiet air. Richie took a messy bite of his sandwich before speaking up, his voice aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to curious.
“So… you used to have a thing for Mike, huh?” Richie asked, glancing sideways. “Does that mean you’re gay?”
Will tucked his head slightly into his collar, his pace faltering for just a second. “Uhh, yeah,” he replied, his voice barely louder than the rustle of the trees.
Richie nodded, swinging his arms as they passed through the woods “So, do your friends know?”
“Yeah,” Will said, finally looking up. “I was kind of pushed out of the closet a few years back. They’ve been really supportive, though.”
Richie slowed his pace, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “So, I’m gonna tell you this because I trust you—and obviously, you’ll understand—but… I think I like guys and girls,” he said, the words coming out in a sudden rush.
Will stopped walking, turning to look at him. “Oh. Like bisexual?”
“Yeah, bisexual,” Richie repeated. He finally met Will's eyes, his voice dropping as the weight of it settled between them. “But you’re the first one I’ve told.”
“Oh. Well, thank you for trusting me,” Will said, a small, sincere smile tugging at his lips. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mike or the Party.”
Richie blinked, his serious expression faltering. “The Party?”
“Yeah, the Party,” Will tucked a stray hair behind his ear, looking a bit sheepish. “You know... like the D&D party.”
Richie stayed quiet for a beat before a snort escaped him. “Wow. Just... wow. I think that’s officially the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to hold back his laughter.
The rest of the walk was a blur of shared secrets—summer plans, annoying siblings, and the complicated web of their friend groups. Before they knew it, the dense woods opened up to reveal the secluded cabin.
“Well,” Richie said, stopping at the edge of the porch light’s reach. “It was nice getting to know you. I guess I’ll see you around?”
Will hesitated, his hand hovering near the porch railing. “You don’t exactly have to leave…”
Richie perked up, a playful glint in his eyes. “What, you mean I can actually come in?”
“Yeah,” Will whispered, glancing nervously at the darkened windows. “Just not through the front door. My stepdad is the Chief of Police—if he sees me sneaking someone into my room who looks exactly like Mike, he’s gonna lose it.”
“Chief of police?” Richie asked sounding slightly concerned
“Uhh yeah so I’ll go in get to my room open the window and you climb in alright?” Will said
“Okay sounds like a plan” Richie said with a huge grin on his face
While Richie circled around to the back of the cabin, Will slipped inside. He moved like a shadow, creeping down the hallway and holding his breath as he passed Hopper and Joyce’s door then Els. He eased his own door shut with a silent clickbefore rushing to the window.
He unlatched the glass and slid it up, revealing Richie waiting in the dark.
Richie wasn't exactly built for stealth. He hoisted himself up, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the siding as he struggled to get a grip on the ledge.
"Shhh!" Will hissed, reaching out to grab Richie’s jacket and haul him inside.
"I’m trying!" Richie whispered back, nearly tumbling headfirst onto the rug. He scrambled to his feet, breathless and grinning, as Will quickly lowered the window to cut off the noise of the trees outside.
Richie drifted through the room, his eyes wandering over the posters and the stacks of cassettes. He paused at the art desk, tracing the edge of a drawing in the heavy silence. The cabin felt too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your heart beat twice as fast.
“So… what do you wanna do?” Will asked, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to fill the space. “We could watch a movie, or listen to music—”
He didn't get to finish. Richie stepped in close and pressed his lips against Will’s.
Will froze. The world seemed to stop moving; it was his first kiss, and his brain couldn't quite catch up to his body. Sensing the lack of movement, Richie pulled away quickly, his face flushing with instant regret.
“I—I’m sorry,” Richie stammered, backing toward the window. “I just thought... you know what? I should go.”
“No, it’s okay! I just...” Will didn't let him finish. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of Richie’s jacket and pulling him back in. This time, Will didn't freeze.
In the heat of it, Richie shrugged out of his jacket, letting it heap onto the floor to reveal the loud, colourful Hawaiian shirt underneath. He pulled away for just a second, his breath hitching as he tugged at Will’s layers.
“This off,” Richie commanded in a breathless whisper, before immediately pulling Will back into the kiss.
Underneath wills jacket he had a t-shirt with another long sleeve underneath tucked into his jeans
“Jeez, Byers, how many layers are you wearing?” Richie panted, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. His hands were moving fast now, fueled by a mix of nerves and adrenaline.
He didn't wait for an answer. Richie started untucking Will’s shirts from his jeans, his fingers fumbling slightly before he finally gathered the fabric and yanked it over Will’s head. As the layers hit the floor, leaving Will’s chest bare in the cool air of the room, Richie didn't waste a second.
He pulled Will back into him, their lips meeting again with even more urgency than before. As they kissed, Richie’s hands wandered, tracing the lines of Will’s sides and feeling the solid lean muscle of his stomach and arms. Will let out a shaky breath, his skin sparking everywhere Richie touched.
Will found a sudden burst of confidence, pushing Richie back until he hit the mattress. He didn't break the kiss, even as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of the Hawaiian shirt. One by one they gave way, revealing Richie’s pale, lean torso. The kiss grew wet and messy, their rhythm frantic as Will’s tongue met Richie’s for the first time, a sharp spark of heat that seemed to blur everything else out.
Eventually, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, heavy exhaustion. They finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, and collapsed back against the pillows.
They lay there for a long time, shirtless and tangled together in the dark. The floor was a graveyard of discarded jackets and shirts, a silent testament to the night. As the quiet of the woods pressed in around the cabin, their breathing synced up, and they slowly dozed off into a deep, effortless sleep.