Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

solipsism, baby

The doctors throw a slew of long words in Richie’s direction that evening, most of which he doesn’t understand. If he didn’t know any better, he’d just assume they’re reading out the index page of some university level medical textbook - an interminable list of terms that makes Richie’s brain ache.

Cirrhosis, ascites, hepatic encephalopathy, variceal bleeding, sepsis.

Sepsis, sepsis, sepsis. That one comes up a lot.

He tries to comprehend it - he really fucking tries, he does - though he struggles to make sense of the situation. He’s starting to think that maybe Stan was right; he should have stopped fucking around in biology all the time. Doesn’t know why he’s acting surprised, Stanley Uris is always right. The boy’s going to Harvard, Richie would bet his life savings on it. All thirty-seven dollars of it. Maybe he’d even throw in that vintage X-Men copy he and Eddie found at the second hand store across town.

His head hurts and his mind screams but eventually, hidden somewhere in the chaos of it all, Richie hears one grave word he does understand. 

Dead.

It comes from the doctor in the corner of the room, he thinks. The one with the neatly trimmed moustache and half-moon glasses who looks like he’s lived three of Richie’s lifetimes. Doctor Bentham, if he’s reading the name tag right from across the room, doesn’t put it quite as bluntly as that. He chooses some vague term like ‘passed away’ or ‘no longer with us’ in that sugar-sweet voice adults always use when they assume he’s just another weak kid. God , if they could see the things he’s faced, that would rip the condescension right out of their tone. The words play over in his mind, one long miserable loop that seems to have no end.

He’s not going to miss holding her hair back most evenings as she coughs up blood and bile into the kitchen sink. He’s not going to miss coming home to the acrid smell of cheap gin and even cheaper vodka hanging about the living room. He’s not going to miss that blatant look of disdain that she seems to reserve only for him, or the fact he can never be good enough, or the verbal abuse, the broken bottles, the vitriol she spews when he takes her drink away. He’s certainly not going to miss the way she turns a blind eye when his father raises a hand.

He’s not going to miss her.

A wave of guilt that breaks over him, intense and nauseating. Curls in the bottom of his stomach. How can you think that, he chastises himself, she is your mother.

Was your mother, another part of his brain tells him with misplaced nonchalance.

It doesn’t take the doctors long to move onto other patients - the dying wait for no man apparently - and the nurses dote on him a little before having to do the same. Richie decides he likes the porter. He comes down about half an hour later to take the body away to the morgue, whistling a slightly out-of-tune rendition of what Richie thinks is meant to be ‘ shine on you crazy diamond .’ He pulls back the sheet covering her face, grimaces slightly at what must be a pretty unpleasant sight, and Richie lets out a snort of laughter.

Dropping the fabric, the man jumps, spinning around to face Richie who’s still sitting on the little chair in the corner, “bloody hell kid, you nearly gave me a heart attack - then you’d be wheeling me down to the morgue.”

Richie doesn’t know what’s funnier: the joke itself, or the look of realisation on the man's face as he glances between him and the body lying on the hospital bed. “Shit,” he whispers, “is this your ma?”

“Was ,” he corrects.

“I’m sorry kid, really.”

Richie shrugs, “s'alright, she was a bit of a bitch.”

He offers a sorry smile, “are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

He leaves after that, has jobs to do after all. Richie doesn’t expect the man to return ten minutes later to shove a cup of steaming hot chocolate in his hand with a half-smile and a few slightly more careful words. He takes a sip, flinches, but continues to let the sweet liquid scald his lips, his tongue, allows it  to sear his throat until the cup’s empty and his insides burn.

A few more people come and go, all of them trying to throw him out in some capacity. Some are more polite about it than others - do you mind moving to the waiting area so we can clean this room for the next patient, love? - but he still refuses, as stubborn as he’s ever been.

He looks at the blood on the bed - on his hands, his shirt - and his stomach lurches.

It’s almost comical, he thinks, how quickly the world can go to shit. Turn the clock back five hours and it’s a typical Sunday afternoon. His mother out-of-her-mind drunk on the living room sofa, whisky bottle captured in a loose grasp, as Richie watches TV, praying his father will be held up at work that evening.

Now he’s sat here, painfully alone, huddled on a chair in the corner of the hospital room with blood-stained clothes and enough guilt to weigh the world down. For once in his sorry life, he doesn’t just want his friends around him, he needs them. The losers, all six of the bastards. He needs them more than he’s ever needed anyone. They’ll all be at Bill’s right now, making jokes at each other’s expense and having fun. Richie doesn’t want to ruin that; doesn’t have the heart to tell them.

One of the nurses from earlier - the one with the sage-green eyes and the kind smile - returns with another pitying look and a pile of second-hand clothes tucked under her left arm. Urging him to take a shower, she hands him a faded blue T-shirt - two sizes too big and ten years too old - which, in some sick display of irony, have the words ‘I Love Derry’ printed on the front in peeling black letters.

He actually laughs. Cold and bitter. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, and he thinks she means it, as she hands him a pair of high-school gym shorts, more sweat than they are nylon, “all they had in lost property, unless you fancy a hospital gown.” 

They’ve definitely not been washed, if the smell is anything to go by, but Richie doesn't have the energy to crack a joke or put forward any complaints. Just accepts them with a curt nod. She’s leaving the room and Richie’s legs are already carrying him towards the little bathroom off to the side, his brain not even thinking. 

The water’s turned up so high it leaves his skin red-raw, but he leaves it that way. Finds it strangely soothing. He can’t see, he can’t think, hell he can barely fucking breathe . The one thing he can feel is the pain of the scalding water, everywhere it touches him screams. It’s reassuring in a way.

Then, nearly two hours too late, Richie Tozier finally cries. Silent sobs that make his whole body shake, sitting cross-legged on the shower cubicle floor.

He’s not crying because he misses her; he’s crying because he doesn’t.

Right now, he should be at Bill’s. Should be watching some R-rated movie that Bev’s managed to finesse out of the boy who works at the local rental store, stealing Stan’s popcorn and winding Eddie up for no other reason than his own entertainment. Richie hasn’t even told them all that he isn’t coming. One minute she was fine, the next she was vomiting blood and falling to the floor like a damn ragdoll. It all happened so fast he could barely keep up. He makes a final decision not to tell them today - partly because he doesn’t want to ruin their night, mostly because he doubts he’ll even be able to get a word out. He’ll tell them tomorrow morning if he manages to get some sleep.

Someone returns not twenty minutes later - unfortunately not the kind nurse or the porter with another hot chocolate - to deliver him the unfortunate news that they’ve managed to contact his father’s work. He’s on his way.

Once she leaves, Richie barely makes it to the toilet in time.

He coughs up everything in his stomach - a bitter mixture of bile and hot chocolate - wincing at the way it burns his already tender throat. The retching feels endless. He gags until his muscles ache and there’s tears on his cheeks.

He feels hopeless, utterly fucking defeated.

His father’s been at work for the entire ordeal. Unavailable. Mostly likely tearing teeth from the jaw of some poor child, having just lectured them on the unsuitability of pop rocks as a breakfast food. Richie’s received that speech all too many times himself. It only means that he started eating them on the way to school instead of at the breakfast table.

Wentworth Tozier has been informed of his wife’s death over a damn telephone call and - as much as he hates him with every ounce of his being - it’s a fate Richie wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Not even him.

But god does it scare him. Fucking terrifies him.

He would blame Richie if the town floods. He would blame him if the tides turn, if the sun does rise or the moon falls from the sky. There’s no doubt that he will blame him for his mother’s death.

The nausea decides to make a home for itself in the pit of Richie’s stomach, writhing around uncomfortably. Much to his frustration, he doubts that it will leave any time soon. Perching on the curb near the hospital entrance, he releases a heavy breath. Watches the wisps of moisture dance through the air in front of him. It’s then he realises that the bitterness of a late autumnal evening is doing less to alleviate his nausea that he’d hoped it would. 

His arms are wrapped around his legs, knees to his chest and he’s trying so damn hard not to cry but it takes so much energy and he’s exhausted . There’s a noise, a low unmistakable hum that makes his insides coil. His father’s BMW rounds the corner at a pace that should warrant a speeding ticket. 

Breathe in. Hold. Breath out. And, for the love of all things good in this world, do not throw up in that bloody car.

Richie waits for him to pull up in front of the hospital. He waits for the fire in his eyes, the venom in his words, the hate, the vitriol. He waits for the Wentworth Tozier that only he gets to see.

The thing is, he isn’t presented with any of those.

He gets nothing . 

When he falls into the seat beside him, his father doesn't even turn to look at him. There’s nothing to even acknowledge that he’s there. Richie studies the tremor in his jaw, the vein protruding from his temple and the way his knuckles turn steely white under the force with which he clings to the steering wheel. Silence reigns as the car streaks through suburban Derry. It’s a whistle-stop tour of Richie’s childhood - the preschool where he first met Bill, that old ice-cream parlour where he threw up half a litre of choco-loco and gave Eddie a panic attack, the park bench where he sometimes kissed girls like Julie Saunders and the alleyway where he cried when he first realised that he didn’t like kissing girls like Julie Saunders.

Predictably, as they turn into the estate where the houses start to get bigger and the people get more arrogant, the memories are no longer as fond as they were. Richie counts the few measly blessings he has left that day - thinks God might have finally taken pity on him - because, in something he can only describe as a modern miracle, he manages to make it the entire car journey without spewing stomach bile all over his father’s leather interiors. He’s grateful for that little piece of mercy, however small it may be.

No words have been exchanged by the time they pull onto the drive of number twenty-two Greenthal Drive, not even so much as a glance in his direction. Fumbling for the keys, his father walks up the cobbled pathway with Richie falling cautiously into step behind him. It takes his shaking hands a while to find the right one but, eventually, he frees the small brass key from the rest of them and twists it into the lock.

The first punch arrives quicker than even Richie expects it to and he generally isn’t all that optimistic about these matters; he’s barely even made it through the front door.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

For the third time that week, Nancy Wheeler helps herself to the last serving of dessert. Their mother doesn’t seem to mind - she’s too busy trying to convince Holly to eat her carrots - and all of their father’s attention currently belongs to this morning’s paper, but Mike. Well, Mike’s about three-point-seven seconds away from suffering a stress-induced aneurysm. That would really ruin the family meal. “You have got to be kidding me, you selfish bit -”

“Michael Theodore Wheeler,” he’s promptly cut-off by his mother’s harsh disapprobation. Nancy smirks at him; Mike only just manages to stop himself throwing a glass of orange juice at her. “I was going to tell her to split it with you until you made that remark.”

His mouth falls open and Nancy makes some comment about catching flies. Ted Wheeler looks at him with an eyebrow raised - challenging him to talk back - and his protests die in his throat. Momentarily, he stares his father dead in the eye, then moves to his mother, before eventually giving in with a wholly exaggerated sigh and a glare that would make his grandmother proud. Mike Wheeler soon resigns himself to the fact that the whole world is clearly against him, as any sixteen year old with a flair for the dramatics would assume. 

There’s a brief pause, where Mike seethes and Nancy looks triumphant, before she curses. “ Shit ,” she says quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear,.and a mouthful of pie is spat back into the bowl, “burned my mouth.”

Her mother shoots her a look that’s somewhat disapproving, but there's a ghost of a smile on her lips. Mike makes no such similar effort to hide his, snorting forcefully into his orange juice causing a tidal wave to spill down his front. Holly seems to find that pretty funny; his dad is less amused. 

“Serves you right,” he snickers but, before he can continue with his gloating, the phone begins to sound with a long droning shriek that always drives him half-mad when his mum’s friends seem to call five times a day. It’s not particularly ominous - annoying, granted, though that’s no surprise - but it doesn’t sound any different than usual which is why Mike can’t quite grasp the strange sense of discomfort that crawls across his skin, building with every repetitive tone.

Everyone turns to look at Mike expectantly, just as he’s about to make some big point about how Nancy should get it since she’s eaten half the pie, but he soon surrenders knowing that he can’t win this one and trails through to the kitchen. 

“Erm, hello?” Mike’s voice is awkward and a little too quiet, he hates talking over the phones. His mother never understands why, insisting that it’s no different to the walkie-talkies that he’s always on. “This is the Wheeler residence.”

The woman on the other end of the line starts talking before he’s even finished. He thinks it’s a little rude but decides not to say anything. “Hello, this Janet Fielding from Social Services, Maine division, does a…” She trails off momentarily and Mike almost starts speaking again before she says, “ah yes, a Karen Wheeler live here?”

“Uh, mom ,” he places his hand over the receiver, cord stretched as far as it will go, as he waves her over from the doorway, “it’s for you.”

Social Services. He runs the words over in his head, just as confused as when he first heard them. What the hell do they want with his mother?

Mike’s ashamed to admit that he’s certainly one to snap at her when the opportunity presents itself - and often when it does not - but he wouldn’t call her a bad mother, not to any degree. So yes, she didn’t get him the new BMX he’d asked for last Christmas but she had bought him a Sony Walkman instead which he thinks at least partially makes up for it. 

“Hello,” Karen Wheeler answers the phone in a voice that Mike thinks is too cheery to be considered genuine, shooing him from the room with her spare hand, “what?”

The way she says that one word - low, whispered, full of shock - is enough to make Mike turn back to face her. She’s standing frozen in place, fingers loosely covering her mouth, eyes wide and glassy. It all looks so wrong on her, he’s never seen his mother like this. Maybe for a split second, through her bedroom door before it had closed in his face, the night they found out his grandad had died.

“I see,” she says softly.

Mike wants some clarity on the situation - something, anything - but she just smiles solemnly to no one in particular, a lone tear rolling down her cheek. Frantically, her hand moves to her face to wipe at her cheek, mascara blending into her foundation. Mikes knows she doesn’t want him to see her in such a way but he can’t bring himself to leave. “Yes of course - I - no,” she’s getting flustered, “let me talk to my husband.”

Reaching for the notepad they always leave pinned to the front of the fridge, she scribbles down a number before finally putting the phone down on the receiver. Her fingers curl around the kitchen counter top, taking her weight as she leans forward against it, shoulders hunched and head bowed. She hovers for too long, a heavy sigh passing over her lips. It sounds defeated. Nancy laughs next door, unaware of what’s happening in the kitchen.

“Mom?”

Unsure of the situation, Mike reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder in what he hopes is some semblance of comfort. She turns slowly to face him, plastering on a smile that crumbles almost instantly, and when he sees the trails of mascara streaked across her cheeks, his heart hurts. So, for the first time in too many years, Mike is the one that pulls her into a hug. Arms wrapping tightly around her chest, he lets his head settle into the crook of her neck like he had when he was younger. It’s awkward now that he’s taller than her, he’s hunched in a way that makes his back ache, but it gives him comfort.

Mike lets her cry.

Chapter Text

sad earthly scene.

Ben Hanscom usually acts as the voice of reason in most situations and that night is no exception. The issue is not that he’s necessarily wrong - in the majority of instances, he’d almost certainly be correct. The issue is neither logic nor reason can be applied to Richie Tozier’s life, no matter how hard anyone tries.

But the losers don’t know that; they will soon find out though.

They know that Richie doesn’t get along with his parents - nearly the entire population of Derry knows that - but assume it’s nothing more sinister than curfews and strict rules. Loud, obnoxious ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier could never keep a secret like that, could he?

More fool them , Richie would think bitterly, he’s probably the best liar of them all.

And that’s why when Ben, all reason and logic, says, “he probably just had to stay in and look after his mom, he said she was feeling ill when Bill rang him this morning,” everyone in the room nods, relatively satisfied with that answer.

Everyone but Eddie of course, who’s insistent that he’s dead in a ditch somewhere off Neibolt Street, because that’s just the way his mind works. But then, when given a few minutes to mull it over, Bill says that he still doesn’t like the fact Richie has ignored all twelve of their calls over the last two hours.

And, not thirty seconds later, Stan speaks up with a comforting authority - “someone needs to go round to check on him” - and Eddie’s already standing up before he’s finished speaking. Bill’s gone round the back to get his bike and Bev’s making some joke about burning down the Denbrough house while they’re gone. Eddie can see the way the humour never quite reaches her eyes; it makes him nauseous.

Normally, at this time of night, it would take them nearly fifteen minutes to cycle to Richie’s house. Ten if it’s just Bill alone because, despite appearances, Silver has some speed on her once she gets going.

Tonight, they make it in eight.

He lives in a posh estate, the nicest of all the losers by far, littered with large residences that house the doctors, lawyers and businessmen of Derry. Nothing about the outside of his home appears to be particularly inconspicuous, even in the darkness of the night, though Bill has always said he never trusts a man who keeps his garden quite as pristine as Wentworth Tozier does.

“His dad’s car isn’t here,” Eddie notes, feeling a sense of relief, as he gestures over towards the empty drive.

Bill’s features rearrange into something that resembles a frown, “it’s pruh-probably just in the g-guh-garage,” he supplies but even he doesn’t sound convinced. Eddie hums in agreement even though he knows - they both know - that Richie’s dad never leaves his BMW inside. Something about ‘keeping up appearances’ . Often, Eddie thinks he loves the damn car more than his own son.

The pair of them throw their bikes to the ground in sync - Eddie’s only slightly smug when he sees Silver’s left wheel dig into the perfectly manicured lawn - and walk up to the front door, knocking thrice. 

Ten seconds pass.

Twenty.

No answer.

He knocks again.

Nothing .

Eddie bristles past him, what little patience he has waning, and pushes the door open before Bill has the opportunity to protest. “Erm, hello?” He calls out, quietly grateful when there’s no immediate reply. He looks back at Bill, who shrugs as if to say ‘go ahead’, so he does, walking further into the house with the taller boy following close behind.

“Richie?” He raises his voice.

At the same time, Bill shouts, “Mrs Tuh-Tozier.”

Still no response.

That’s when the little voice at the back of Eddie's head - the one that’s always screaming about bacteria and exotic diseases - tells him that, actually, the silence isn’t a good thing and he should probably start panicking right about now. The anxiety that’s perpetually present in the pit of Eddie’s stomach, albeit at manageable levels, begins to unfurl. Twisting and turning violently. It seeps into every cell in his body. He fumbles in his pockets for his inhaler hoping, praying , that a hit of salbutamol will make everything okay again. Bill’s hand finds its way to his shoulders in comfort.

Eddie takes one final deep breath, steels himself against whatever atrocities his brain tells him is inside, and says, “right you check his bedroom, up the stairs, third on the left,” he gestures in that general direction, “and I’ll see if there’s anyone down here.”

He sees the look on Bill’s face - the twist of confusion that pulls his brows together. For a moment Eddie shares that feeling. Then it clicks. The directions. Richie never invites them to his house. Sure, they’ve seen the front lawn on numerous occasions when they’ve called on him. Even got a peak at the hallway once or twice. Everyone except Eddie that is. 

He doesn’t really know when it started, not longer after IT he supposes. That dark night in November - when the nightmares were worse than usual and he felt trapped inside his own house. Eddie doesn’t even remember what took him to Richie’s that evening. He just knew he didn’t want to be alone - or in his own house for that matter - and the Toziers’ was the closest. It sort of became a thing after that, Eddie sleeping on his bedroom floor after a nightmare. 

The desire to explain himself follows shortly after the realisation, “I-I, after IT, I got, well, get, have -”

“Nuh-nightmares,” Bill finishes for him, his voice soft. 

Eddie nods, trying to bite down the shame that tugs at his chest. Why can’t he be like Bill, like Mike or Bev? Brave. Fearless. Full of that fire . Instead, he gets nervous when someone sneezes too close to him. When he looks up at Bill, there’s something in his eyes. Understanding. It comforts him.

 “Muh-me too,” he whispers like an admission, “think we ah-all duh-do.” A hand finds its way to Eddie’s shoulder, squeezing gently. 

Attention turns back to the issue at hand, with Bill heading towards the stairs and Eddie making his way down the hallway. He tries his best to ignore the chill that creeps up his spine, clawing at the back of his neck. It’s all too familiar to him and it builds the further he walks into the house. It is, in many ways, a warning. His body’s personal alarm telling him to stop before he finds something he doesn’t want to see. Eddie often thinks his is broken, it goes off ten times a bloody day. It does its best to stop him - raises his heart rate, alters his breathing, pricks tiny needles into his fingers - but he ignores it. His fear for Richie is stronger.

He wishes he’d taken the upstairs. It’s as he’s walking into the kitchen that he sees it, him, his best friend . Richie Tozier, laid out across the tiles, is an ungainly site. Worse are the bruises that litter his skin, staring Eddie down from the exposed skin on his stomach where his shirt’s ridden up. There’s a cut on his swollen lip, red and angry, and his hair’s plastered to the right of his face with a layer of blood.

Eddie can’t breath; goddammit he can't even move .

“Euh-euh-eddie,” Bill’s voice gets louder as he walks down the corridor, nearing the kitchen door and all Eddie can do is pray he hurries up. “He’s not uh-up there, I-I’m stuh-starting to get worri- FUCK . ”

Bill’s actions are in complete contrast to his own. He jumps straight into action, not a moment’s hesitation to stop him, skidding to his knees at Richie’s side. Hands hover above the boy’s fragile form as he decides what to do with them. Eventually, they settle for his cheek. He brushes a strand of hair from his eyes, sanguineous liquid painting pale skin, before two of his fingers slide down towards his neck. They feel for a pulse.

Eddie notices the steady rise and fall of Richie’s chest, he takes comfort in that.

“Cuh-call n-nine one o-one.”

He still can’t bring himself to move. He wants to. But it’s like his muscles are just ignoring his brain entirely. They pick their fucking moments to be petulant.

“EDDIE.”

He doesn’t even realise that he’s crying until a choked sob tears free from the back of his through. Loud and guttural and scared .

“Eh-Eddie,” this time he speaks softly, quietly, and Eddie wishes he has at least a quarter of his strength. He crumbles under pressure, without fail. “He n-neh-needs you.”

That’s enough. He comes back to life.

“Th-th-the thuh phuh-pho-pho-phone.” His stutter’s always worse when he’s stressed - like in the stupid group presentations that Mrs Boardman still forces him to do - but he uses every ounce of force he has left to get those important words out. “C-c-cu-cuh-call nuh-nine whuh-one one.”

Eddie remains unnervingly still.

“Bill his stomach.” His voice is small. Perhaps smaller than it’s ever been. Because he wants so badly to be wrong and something about speaking those words into existence makes it feel even more real to him. He’s almost surprised when the other boy hears. “The colour of them.”

Through glassy eyes, Bill looks up at him. Confused. He can’t see what Eddie does. How could he? He’s Bill Denbrough, the eternal optimist. The one that tells them everything's going to be okay, even when it isn’t. The one that runs headfirst into situations, convinced he’ll make it out alive. Worrying is Eddie’s job. And damn does he do it well. Sometimes, he thinks that he was born to play that role. Like it was laid out for him before he was even thrown into the world. While Bill just sees bruises, Eddie sees the way the purples bleed into yellows, blues and that eau-de-nil kind of green. Dancing across the porcelain of Richie’s stomach in intricate, intentional , patterns.

Eddie knows what that means. For once, he wishes he doesn’t.

“The colour of them Bill,” he tries to explain but it hurts him to say it. He stares at them, hoping - willing - that it’s just some trick of the light. It isn’t. He feels sick. “They only turn yellow after nearly two weeks.”

His face remains blank for a few months longer, then it crumples in pain. Eddie gets to witness the painful moment when the penny finally drops. When Bill realises what that really means. When he realises just what kind of a monster Wentworth Tozier is and that maybe, just maybe, he really is capable of a class A felony. 

“That b-buh-bah-bastard,” his voice is low, and steady, and dripping with so much rage it almost scares him, “I’ll fucking kill him.”

He doesn’t stutter once.

The ambulance takes twenty-one minutes to arrive which Eddie, quite rightly, deems outrageous. He sees no problem in telling the paramedics just that. “He could have bled to death, or - or what about hydrocephalus, or he could have had a haemorrhagic stroke, do you even know what that is?”  He’s seething, and appears to overlook the years of training that paramedics are required to undertake, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing. “Well, clearly not if you think twenty minutes is a suitable amount of time to leave him on the fucking floor . ”

“Eddie,” Bill says solemnly, a gentle hand pulling him out of the way, “leh-let them do their juh-job.”

The first paramedic offers Bill a nod in gratitude, kneeling down next to Richie as she puts her ear to his mouth. The second is more sympathetic, giving Eddie a kind smile as he promises, “I’ll do everything I can to help your friend.” It only makes Eddie feel slightly less sick.

Richie makes a noise, something low and pained that crawls up his throat. His head moves; Eddie feels Bill’s breath hitch beside him.

“Breathing’s steady, airway’s clear, pulse is a little slower than we’d like,” she holds a small light, the size of a pen, to each of his eyes for a few moments, “pupils are responsive.”

He makes another incoherent sound, eyes flitting rapidly.

The two paramedics - a flurry of cables, tubes and beeping machines - whirl around Richie like a hurricane. They fit a cannula, press on his stomach until he groans - and Eddie’s ready to fight them - they mutter about broken ribs, GCS scores and possible concussions. Bill’s hanging onto their every word, always the adult of the group, but Eddie’s doing everything in his power to tune it all out. Overwhelmed and anxious, he counts the second hand as it journeys around the clock on the kitchen wall.

“Richie dear, can you look at me,” she says it softly, with equal parts authority and concern, and Eddie’s attention snaps back down to the floor. All his work undone. Richie doesn’t seem to be listening. His movements become more frantic so she tries again. “Richie?” It’s louder this time, more firm, but her tone doesn’t lose any sincerity. It’s too late, Eddie thinks, and Bill gives him a look that says the same. He knows what a panic attack is like, they’re well acquainted, and there’s no staving it off now. The panic has already set in, seeping into his bones, as he begins to writhe under their grasp, breathing becoming increasingly erratic.

“Matt hold him, keep him steady,” she orders her partner, clear that she is the more senior of the two paramedics. “He’s got a few broken ribs he’s going to make the injuries worse.”

Matt complies without hesitation, bracing him firmly. Larger hands grab Richie’s shoulders, dark against his pale skin which dimples where the man’s fingers dig in. Strong enough to anchor him down; gentle enough not to harm him further. Bill’s hand slips into Eddie’s.

“Richie, you’re okay,” she says once more.

His breathing speeds up.

“Richie.”

He’s beginning to fight against them. He’ll hurt himself.

She’s going to give him something, he knows it. Diazepam, probably. Sedation. Or at least enough to calm him down. Confirming his suspicions only seconds later, the paramedic reaches into her medical bag, removing a small glass bottle and syringe. 

Eddie’s brain is just one long list of carefully curated ‘what if’s’ and it won’t stop screaming at him. Drowning out all logic. They’re trained professionals, they know what they’re doing, but his mind’s still telling him that he won’t wake up from sedation, or he’ll have some kind of anaphylactic  reaction and the next thing Eddie knows, they’ll be at his funeral. In stupid black suits with a load of people who pretend to care about him.

“Rich,” this time it’s Eddie who speaks. Soft and hopeless and so quiet, he’s surprised anyone even hears him. But they do, because Richie’s head snaps towards them - too fast to be comfortable - and his body finally falls still, eyes fixed on him. Scared. Fragile.

He can hardly believe that this is the same Richie Tozier who clobbered Henry Bowers with a steel bin lid outside the Aladdin when he was twelve; the one who’s always the first to jump in the water at the quarry, or throw some stupid joke in Belch Huggins' direction, purely to rile him up. It’s the same Richie Tozier who stripped stark naked and ran down Westgate Road at two in the afternoon last week for five dollars and a half eaten mars bar - and nearly a charge of public indecency if that police car hadn’t turned the other way.

Fear has never looked quite so foreign, Eddie thinks, than it does on the face of Richie Tozier. But he’s now coming to terms with the fact that, to Richie, it may be more than a passing acquaintance.

Richie’s arm starts to creep across the tiled floor towards Eddie, weak and feeble. Like it’s taking every last ounce of energy he has just to move. It’s hopeless, so desperately hopeless. And Eddie wants to cry again. He can’t though, not now that he’s awake.

Eddie looks at the paramedic, seeking affirmation, and when he gets the answer he was hoping for - a sullen nod and a reassuring smile - he lets Bill’s hand slip out of his. He walks across the room. Fall on his knees beside his best friend.

“Eds,” he croaks, like his throat is raw, and Eddie can’t bring himself to chastise the use of that nickname. Instead, he just lets Richie curl into his side. Body racking with choked sobs. Carting his hand through Richie’s curls, Eddie tells him that it’s all going to be okay. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if that’s a lie. It scares him. But right then, he promises himself that he’ll do anything in his power to make it so.  

Richie Tozier doesn’t cry, it’s a simple fact of life, and yet this is the second time it has happened in the last five hours.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

“I’ll kill the bastard.” 

That’s the first thing Richie hears when the initial wave of consciousness hits him. Though there's something too soft about the word ‘hit’. Consciousness doesn’t hit him; it fucking batters him. It’s not like in the movies, with soft fluttering eyes and gentle focus. Everything hurts. Everything . His eyes, his ribs, his stomach, his head. God, his head . He feels like he’s gone ten rounds with Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. Doesn't need to see what happened to know that he lost every damn one. He can feel it.

 I will kill him, ” the voice comes again, firmer. With more conviction.

It doesn’t sound right - not just because it feels too far away, like he’s underwater - but because he is almost certain that it’s Stan’s voice and Stanley Uris never says things like that. Richie wants to say something but he still can’t move, like his brain’s awake but his body isn't 

“I’ll help you.” It’s Bill this time, he was sure of it, though that is certainly less out-of-character where he’s concerned.

A few voices sound in agreement.

At first, he’s wondering just who they are planning on murdering. Does that mean he’s an accomplice? Ugh, they could have waited to consult him before dragging him into all this. Richie hopes he doesn’t have to dig any graves; he hates gardening.

That’s when the memories start to come back. They’re hazy at first. Fragmented. A scream. A siren. Blood. So much blood. Dead. Hot chocolate. Pain. More pain. Bill. Eddie.  

They piece together slowly. Like a mosaic. Not quite whole but altogether there.

“Doubt you’ll need to,” another voice appears but it feels even more distant, he can’t work out who it belongs to. “You know what happens in prison to people who hit their kids.” It’s louder this time. Sweet but fiery. 

And so brilliantly Bev .

“I’d do it for a dollar.”

“I’d do it for free .”

 Richie loves them, fucking adores them.  

“Hell, you could charge me and I’d still do it,” Mike grumbles, his voice an octave deeper than the rest.

“You’d make an awful hitman.”

To begin with, consciousness seems to evade him. Prodding and poking but never quite reaching . He wants it to grasp him, embrace him, drag him out of the darkness. It happens slowly, then all at once. Breaks like a wave across him. Drowning him, it’s down his throat, in his eyes, his nose, stretches across his skin.

The world twists back into focus; it makes him nauseous.

Or maybe that’s just the concussion. 

His friends have yet to notice, too busy debating who would pay more for the honour of killing his father which, in some twisted sort of way, he finds quite endearing. 

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment,” he finally decides to speak and fuck his throat is raw. He’s choking on the words, “but Billy you have about ten dollars to your name, Mike you’re probably only marginally better off and Bev, I doubt any hitman would take payment in the form of a half empty box of marlboro.”

Richie’s hunting for a laugh, really thought he might get one for that. He’s wrong - apparently - they all just stare at him blankly. It would be comedic if it wasn’t so damn depressing. Even Bev looks worn down. Then Eddie tops it all off by bursting into tears. That wasn’t the desired effect, he really hopes he isn’t losing his touch.

“Do yourselves a favour,” he tries again, this time forcing a smile, “and don’t bankrupt yourselves in my name.”

“Working on the farm pays better than you think,” Mike smirks, trying to reign in some kind of normality and Richie is truly grateful. He probably would have braced himself, had he the forewarning, but Eddie launches himself across the room before he has a chance to process what’s happening. Enveloped in a hug too tight to be doing his ribs any good, he finally feels safe.

“Jesus Eds,” he laughs half-heartedly, trying to bite back a wince. “I don’t need you to break any more of my ribs, m’dad already did a good enough job of that.”

Eddie pulls back sharply and - seeing the guilt that crashes over his face, drowning his features - Richie’s quick to regret ever opening his mouth. Humour is his best defence. It always has been. It hasn’t failed him before but, somehow, it feels like it’s failing him now.

 “Beep beep, Richie,” Bev mutters. Softly, her lips pull into a ghost of a smile but Richie notices the way that it never quite reaches her eyes. Dimples not even making their characteristic appearance.

Richie’s starting to become more aware of his surroundings. The too-bright lights, the white-wash walls, tubes, wires, that incessant rhythmic beeping that only gets louder the more he focuses on it. He kind of wishes it would just stop. Well, he doesn’t because that means he’s dead, right? Or is that when it wont stop beeping. That sounds like a double kick in the face.

 He hates hospitals. Like, really fucking hates them. Twice in one night; he must’ve done something really shit in a past life to deserve this.

“W-wuh-why d-d-duh-” Among the stress and the pain of the last few hours, Bill’s struggling to get his words out. To say what’s on his mind, on everyone's mind.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Stan finishes for him, failing to hide the concern in his voice. They don’t normally do that. Usually, they wait patiently for however long it is that Bill needs to speak. 

“We could’ve - we.” Ben stops to compose himself, looking like he’s about one wrong word away from a breakdown, “we could’ve helped, Richie.”

There are many words that people often use to describe Ben - fatty, lard-arse, dumpy, flabby and tits, that’s Bowers’ personal favourite - but Richie has always felt that they constantly forget to mention the most important one. Kind .

 Kind has always seemed like such a boring word until it came into contact with Ben Hanscom, that’s where it truly finds a home.

“We could have stopped him, or-or called someone, we could’ve done something.” When Eddie finally finds his voice, it doesn’t take long for Richie to begin to wish he hadn’t. “I would have strangled the fucker myself I am not joking , deadly serious.” But god Richie loves his fire, “you could’ve stayed with me, I mean you’d have had to have climbed through the window but what’s new, or-”

“Stop,” Richie whispers. It’s the only word he manages to force out. His intention was to make some lew remark about already spending a few nights a week at Mrs K’s and how grateful she is for it. The joke dies on his tongue. He’s too overwhelmed.

“-or you could stay at Bill or Stan’s, because they’d be happy to, I’m sure,” Eddie continues. Whether he doesn’t hear his quiet plea, or whether he simply ignores it, Richie’s unsure. “And-and their parents are way less neurotic than mine-”

“Please stop.” It’s a whimper. If Richie had the energy, he’d actually be embarrassed. That’s the worst part, the pity. He can see it on all their faces, even the ones trying to hide it behind soft smiles and good. He just wants to play-pretend, like when they were kids. Like he just cycled into a curb on his way back from the arcade; like his mother’s at home making dinner, like his father’s on his way to the hospital because he cares . Like everything is okay .

Bill reaches out for Eddie’s arm, but it’s like his mouth has a mind of its own because he doesn’t stop talking, “-so like they wouldn’t mind and you’d be safe Richie, he couldn't hur-”

“STOP.” he shouts, desperate. “Stop, just please stop it.”

They’re breaking his little façade. It’s shattering between his fingers because he knows . He knows his mum’s dead, he knows what his dad has done and, above all, he knows that he’s completely and utterly alone now. Head between his knees, his hand reaches to tug at his hair, pulling, twisting, nails digging. Clawing at the pounding in his head. It’s all  too loud and too bright. He barely knows what he’s shouting at anymore, Eddie or everything else.

Either way, it works. Eddie stops talking, frozen almost. Then, for the third time in as many hours, Richie bursts into tears.

He really fucking hopes he isn’t starting to make a habit of this, that’s all he needs.

Bev’s reaching an arm out in comfort, it lands on his shoulder, pulling him into her chest. She soothes him, whispering promises. That everything’s going to be okay. That he’s not alone. That they’re always going to be there. He wants to believe them. So he does, for now. 

The doctor that enters the room a split-second later isn’t one of the ones from earlier. He’s shorter for starters, and younger than most of the staff he’s seen wandering the halls of the hospital. There’s a nurse too, in a white dress - that Richie thinks is the worst colour to wear in a place like this - and a hat that makes her look like a Scoops Ahoy server. Despite strong protests - particularly from Eddie who claims that he needs friends right now and she clearly doesn’t give two fucks about his mental health - she manages to usher each and every one of them out of the room.

She responds by slamming the door in his face. 

The pair fuss over him for what’s left of the hour, taking readings, pressing on his stomach, prodding, poking, blood samples - “careful love, that stuff's precious” - temperature, vitals and a shit ton of drugs. At one point, he asks if he can have more sedatives. Benzodiaze- whatevers , Eddie would know what they’re called. The doctor just laughs like it’s all just some big joke. For once in his life, Richie’s being quite serious.

When the examinations are finally over, Richie half-expects the losers to come bounding back into the room, most likely arguing about who’s going to beat his high score on street fighter next weekend - nobody will, for the record, he is the self-proclaimed king of that arcade. Instead, he’s faced with a rather portly woman, blonde curls scraped into a tight bun on the back of her head. The first thing he notices is her horrendous taste in clothing. Not that Richie has much ground to stand on in the way of fashion, but her cashmere jumper could make his Hawaiian shirts and coke-bottle glasses look like they’ve come straight out of a six-page spread in Vogue Italia. 

“Hello Richard,” she says curtly, but it’s not unkind. She’s walking over to the seat at his bedside and all Richie can think is, if he gets a job that makes him as depressed as she looks, he may have to resort to a life of alcoholism like his mother.  “I’m Janet from Maine Social Services and I’ll be handling your case.”

So, Richie hates her on principle - the salmon pink sweater-vest, the falsified smile and that godawful perfume that nobody under the age of sixty-five should be wearing. His nose itches and it aggravates his already-pounding head, but he thinks that telling her to sit at the other side of the room wouldn’t constitute the best first impression. Considering that his entire future currently lies in her hands, that’s probably something to aim for.

So, in typical trashmouth style, he says, “Jesus Christ,” nose all scrunched up, “did you bathe in that perfume this morning, you smell like a hooker’s handbag.”

Richie, unsurprisingly, has no idea what that is meant to smell like. Regardless, he decided half-a-second prior that it wouldn't be too far off the stench of cheap perfume, sweat and cigarette smoke. Just like the woman sat to his right, staring at an equally garish folder through green horn-rimmed spectacles.

The look of indignation on the face of ‘Janet from Social Services’ is downright comical and definitely worth the questionable first impression. Had it not felt like someone had dropped a tonne of bricks on his ribs, he’d have been in stitches over the whole affair. She opts to ignore him, instead jumping into the details of his father’s arrest: charges, warrants, bail and a load of other stuff Richie doesn’t even want to think about, never mind talk about.

It doesn’t help that she keeps apologising for his mom’s death like she’s the one personally responsible for it. “Slip ‘er a cheap shot of cyanide when she weren’t looking, did ya?” One of his voices bubble to the surface but not even he quite knows which it is meant to be. Cockney maybe?  Something like that.

Unsurprisingly, he’s ignored again entirely as she continues on her spiel about responsibility and morality.

He cracks jokes at the worst moments, tunes out at the best, but it’s what she says next that really knocks the humour out of him. “We’ve contacted your aunt in Indiana, you’re going to be staying with them from now on.”

Promptly, he vomits on her shoes.

Chapter Text

a vision of hell

“Cousin.”

The word bounces around his head like some sort of miserable echo. Again and again, one long endless loop. A cousin. Mike has a cousin . One that he didn’t even bloody know about until two seconds ago. And an aunt too for that matter, or had at least. What’s next? Dad’s screwing the next-door neighbour? Nancy has a twin sister who was separated at birth? God, he doesn’t know what would be worse.

“Michael,” the voice is harsh, enough to tell him that it's not the first time they’ve called his name. Head snapping up, his brown eyes meet his mother’s red-rimmed ones. Mike Wheeler has sat through more than his fair share of awkward family dinners in his time, but this one takes the biscuit. Hell, it takes the entire fucking packet.

He’d put it above that time his Grandma Pam had come for thanksgiving dinner with her new toyboy, as Nancy had so politely put it, in tow. But, mercifully, it comes in below his sister’s last birthday when their father had walked in on her and Steve in the middle of what he decided to call ‘stuff’ . The evening only was made more tense on account of him forcing Steve to stay for the entire meal.

Nancy couldn’t look him in the eye for a month but Mike had found the whole sorry state of affairs wildly entertaining. For nearly three long weeks, he got his kicks out of taunting her about it. Would’ve been longer too, had she not threatened to throw his bike in the quarry. A large part of him knew she wouldn’t hesitate to do it and he wasn’t quite ready to play with fire.

This evening isn’t like that though. It’s something else entirely.

“I said,” and she takes in a breath, deep and grounding, “your cousin is coming to live with us.”

“What?” Nancy speaks softly, but everyone knows she heard just fine. 

Mike doesn’t quite know how to feel. Dead aunt. Cousin coming to live with them. Is there anything else he should know? Does that mean he has an uncle too? He wonders what happened to him, maybe he went on a ‘work trip ’ to New York and took his secretary along for the ride. Yeah, that seems suitably dramatic given this conversation, Mike thinks.

Turns out that Mike thinks wrong. The truth is a whole lot worse. Like been arrested for child abuse sort of worse. That knocked any sarcastic retort right out of Mike’s lungs. He just sits there, mouth slightly agape, while his mother begins on what must be round six of crying her eyes out. Surely she must be bordering on dehydration right about now.

“What? How lo - how bad?” It’s a jumble of words. A mish-mash of half questions that Nancy stumbles over as she tries to settle on the most pressing.

“A while, they think.” It’s their father that speaks up this time, hand resting steadily on his wife’s shoulder. Mike thinks it’s meant to be comforting, it probably is to an extent, but her quiet sobs don’t seem to let up. “They’re not sure exactly what’s happened yet, she said that she would fill us in with more details once she has the chance to speak to him, he hasn’t woken up yet.”

“Woken up?”

Mike knows what that means before he even says it. His dad’s wearing that look that tells him something’s bad. The way his mother strides out of the room only serves as further confirmation.

“This time was bad,” his dad sighs, taking his glasses off to rub at his forehead. Mike doesn’t think that he’s ever paid that much attention to his family photos but now, he can’t look away from them. He usually complains when they’re taken and whines even more when his mother shows them off to all of her aerobics friends. Now he almost feels embarrassed about acting in such a way. When his cousin, god .

The one that catches his attention is a few years old. Six to be precise. There’s a young Nancy - back when she was going through that teenage phase of straightening her hair all the time - throwing water at him out of an old red bucket. It was taken at Tippecanoe Lake, the last holiday they had before Holly was born, and Mike can’t stop thinking about how happy they all looked. And then, for the first time in his life, his heart aches with nostalgia for a time passed.

There’s times he doesn’t get on with his mum, and there’s times when his Dad drives him up the wall, there’s times where he tells Nancy he wishes he didn’t have a sister. But - after all his childish anger - he loves them, he really does. They make him feel safe. Mike can’t imagine them doing anything like that .

“That’s awful,” Mike finally says, “hopefully social services will find him some nice family.”

His dad looks up. There’s a look in his eyes that Mike hasn’t seen before. It’s weirdly uncertain. Nancy clocks it before he does and somehow that’s no surprise to him, she’s always been the smart one. He doesn’t understand until she says it.

“He’s coming to live with us.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement. She already knows the answer. 

He just nods. That’s all the confirmation they need.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

Mike barely sleeps that night. Doesn’t even know it’s possible to have many thoughts bouncing around inside their head. Is this how other people live? It’s exhausting. When he rolls over for the hundredth time, the clock reads 2:43 . He hasn’t been counting; he’s prone to exaggeration though.

He doesn’t know how to feel about anything. Five hours ago he was at school, eating chocolate pudding and complaining about their English assignment; now he’s lying in bed, thinking about a cousin he didn’t even know about, his dead aunt and an uncle who’s been arrested for child abuse.

There’s something there that feels like anger. In many ways, it’s unfair. Why didn’t they tell him he has family in Maine? He has a right to know, doesn’t he? And now his life’s about to turn around. 

Mike’s comfortable with his life. All five of them. It’s been like that for so long and he doesn’t want it to change. Doesn’t want some cousin coming into his life and turning everything upside down. That’s already happened too many times. When the demogorgon came. When his best friend was possessed. When he stumbled upon another reality. When his best friend ‘died’.

Things have been normal for a while now. He likes that. Needs it. Mike won’t admit it, but his family home has grown to feel like something of a safe place. Where everything feels normal. It’s the same childlike naivety that makes him feel like his duvet could shield him against anything. He doesn’t want someone encroaching on that.

With that comes the guilt. Mike doesn’t want him to move in but he hates that he doesn’t want it. It’s selfish, he knows it. Can’t help it though. But after everything his cousin’s been through, he deserves somewhere safe to stay.

Mike sighs, wishing sleep would come to him sooner.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

Will looks at him - the slump of his shoulders, the deep rings of purple under his eyes, the greyish pallor of his skin - and realises that Mike isn’t okay. The others haven’t noticed yet. Dustin and Max are busy arguing about their high-scores on Dig Dug and Lucas is trying to defend her; partly because he feels obliged to, mostly because Will knows that he thinks she’s way more intimidating than Dustin.

It’s one of those days where the party is eating together, one of the days that Will notices are becoming less frequent. It was nothing at first - Dustin going off to play with his football friends, Lucas spending lunch with the literature group - but now eating together feels more like a force of habit than anything else. 

Will swallows his last mouthful of tuna sandwich and kicks Mike under the cafeteria table - not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make him jump - and nods towards the main doors when he makes eye contact. When he wanders over to the entrance, Mike in tow, it’s with a fair amount of speed, offering the others some half-arsed excuse about Mr Clarke and science projects. They buy it, even though they’re only half listening, and that’s what matters.

The October air is cool on their skin. Will pulls his jacket tighter around his body, trying to conserve heat. Ever since, ever since - his mind shields him from the memory - ever since then , he’s always cold. A chill has resided in his bones and, as far as Will’s concerned, he’s always cold.

They sit down on the wall that runs around the back of the high school, near the picnic benches that are always decorated with crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers. Will doesn’t say anything, not at first, because he knows Mike will eventually start talking. It takes a minute of silence but, eventually, Mike talks. “Mom got a phone call last night,” he pauses for a moment, not tearing his gaze away from his shoes. “Social services or some shit, turns out I’ve got a cousin, same age.”

Will thinks that he’d like to have a cousin. Someone in his family his own age. Not that he doesn’t love Jonathan because he does, bloody adores him, but he’s an adult now and has his own shit going on. There’s something in the tone of Mike’s voice that tells him his friend doesn’t share the same sentiment. He decides not to voice that opinion.

There’s a question playing on his mind, one he thinks is okay to ask. “Why were social services the one to tell you that?” Karen Wheeler is a kind woman, whose only fault is perhaps caring too much. And Ted Wheeler, despite his penchant for laziness, truly does love his children. Neither of them could be the reason social services had made the call - not unless everything Will knows is wrong, and Will is rarely wrong - which means that the issue is on this cousin’s end.

He watches Mike thinking, debating whether to answer him. He’s always been like this, ever since they were kids. Acting like everything is his own burden to carry. He wouldn’t keep things from Will though, even if they have drifted lately, they’re still best friends. 

“His dad’s been beating him,” he sighed, head in his hands, “ badly , he’s coming to live with us.”

Will can’t help the way he recoils, or how his brow creases in horror, and he regrets it immediately as the look of guilt in Mike’s eyes only grows. Will’s always been good at reading him. But he wasn’t expecting the guilt. Shock, definitely. Anger, fair enough. But guilt? If he has to take a shot in the dark he’d assume that he doesn't want the kid to move in. That’s understandable, Mike’s always been protective of his family. Will knows he feels safe in that house, he admitted it once, years ago. That’s as far as his insight will take him. He’ll have to ask if he wants more information but he hardly feels like the time.

“ Jesus ,” he breathes gently, “I hope they’re okay.”

Will is quiet for a moment longer, thoughtful, as he gives his mind a moment to truly process what Mike has just told him. His heart hurts for the boy, it really does. He’d been through some shit in his time, and that’s putting it lightly, but the people who were meant to love him have always done so.

This kid doesn’t even have that.

“It didn’t sound good,” he shakes his head feebly; Will can tell he’s worried. “Dad said he’s getting discharged from the hospital in a few days, he’s been in since Monday.”

The hospital? God , this is worse than he’d expected.

“The bastard,” Will says quietly, dangerously. 

“Yeah.” When Mike laughs, it’s humourless. Hollow. He repeats himself with more conviction, “ yeah .”

Although he wants to know more about the cousin, Will knows not to press. Mike is in a weird frame of mind - confused and upset - and he knows better than to interrogate him at a time like this. So, instead, he turns his line of questioning to Mike himself, asking the one question he’s sure nobody else would have bothered to ask, “how do you feel about it?”

The sigh he releases is heavy. The kind that takes a weight off your chest but does nothing to clear your head. 

“I don’t know,” comes the only answer he gives, “conflicted.”

Mike’s lied many times in his life, but not once had he lied to Will Byers.

Chapter Text

the wake of your leave.

“Well I was intending to spend my last night at Mrs K’s, give her a proper send off, y’know,” Richie smirks through a mouthful of salt and vinegar crisps, crumbs falling onto his lap. “But, what can I say, I guess you guys will have to do.”

Eddie groans loudly. He’s so damn used to Richie’s stupid mom jokes that he doesn’t even bother with a response, it normally only makes it worse. 

There’s a chorus of, “beep beep Richie,” from all around the room. Richie takes it as he always does, as a round of applause. It’s as familiar and as comforting as it’s always been. He’ll miss it, truly.

Richie allows himself one of those brief moments of silence that are commonplace for most people but a rarity to him. A smile crawls across his face. The pillow that’s caught between Bev’s fingers clatters into the side of Mike’s head. He grabs at it, of course, but that sends his right elbow careening into that godawful antique vase that Bill’s mum bought at a car-boot sale a few years back. Fortunately for Bill’s sake, Ben is able to catch it before it hits the floor; unfortunately for Eddie, that doesn’t stop all the dead flowers, and the stagnant water that comes with them, from cascading over him.

For a fleeting moment, there’s silence. Everyone stares at Eddie and Eddie just stares right back. “Shit” , Someone whispers. He’s not quite sure whether it’s Stan or Bill. 

Finally, Eddie screams.

“WHAT THE FUCK.” It’s almost deafening. Mike flinches and Stan brings a hand to his ear. Richie’s almost certain that the male vocal chords shouldn’t be able to produce a sound that high though, if anyone can be considered an exception to nature’s rules, it would be Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Hey Eddie,” Bill begins, softly,  but he’s soon cut off with more shouting.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GERMS ARE PROBABLY IN THAT WATER, MILLIONS BILL, MILLIONS, ” he screams, the panic evident in his eyes, “I’M PROBABLY GOING TO GET CHOLERA OR, OR SYPHILIS, OR SOMETHING EQUALLY FOUL.”

Eddie’s breathing quickens, coming in short sharp pants. If he was in some cheesy kids’ cartoon his heart would probably be jumping right out of his chest. He’s about two-point-seven seconds away from a complete breakdown so, characteristically, Richie responds with something entirely useless, “incorrecto Eduardo, syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease and you’re definitely not getting any at th-,” he pauses, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that’s definitely not alluring, “unless that’s why you were looking for Vicky Donnely last Tuesday, huh Eds?” 

Perhaps entirely useless is an overstatement. Mostly or somewhat would be better words to use because those mostly useless facts he spews out at times of crisis like this are Richie’s rather ingenious way of steering Eddie out of the path of an oncoming panic attack. He annoys him to such a great extent that it distracts him from whatever had been annoying him in the first place. Richie’s been doing it for nearing five years now and he’s still yet to catch on.

Eddie turns beet-red in a matter of seconds, stumbling over a few vehement denials but Richie’s too busy listening to his breathing. It steadies, slowly but surely, as his brain replaces every fact it knows about water borne diseases with thoughts of Vicky Donnely.

Even Richie has to admit, it really doesn’t smell that great. 

Bill, who retreated upstairs when the shouting started, returns with a towel in one hand and a clean t-shirt in the other, offering both to Eddie, “yuh-you know where the shower is, just duh-don’t use like half a bottle of soap like last time.”

“His body must naturally secrete the stuff by now,” Richie jibes, “his sweats antiseptic and his shits probably smell like Chanel N o 5.”

Eddie then decides to grab the towel from Bill’s hand only to whack Richie over the face with such force, it sends his glasses flying across the other side of the room. Instinctively, his arms go to protect his face. “Ow-fuck, that was a compliment really.” He squints his eyes but it does little to help his failing vision. “Better smell like that than Big Bill’s,” he reasons and a chorus of agreements sound throughout the room.

“Oi, I can throw you all out my huh-house you know,” he says, but Richie’s too caught up watching Eddie as he waits for the perfect time to make his move. That moment makes an appearance a split second later when Eddie turns to reply to the threat. Richie springs into action, swiping his legs from beneath him so that he ends up tumbling onto the sofa. But Eddie’s fast when he wants to be. Fast enough that he has time to grab Richie’s wrist as he’s falling. The two form a jumbled mass on the settee. His ribs flair in pain but he manages to hide it. He doesn’t need everyone walking on eggshells around him. 

Eddie doesn’t miss a beat before throwing himself back towards Richie, tackling him to the ground. Most of the others roll their eyes, watching on with that fondness that's reserved for only their closest friends. They make no effort to break up the spat.

“I’m blind as a bat,” Richie forces the words out between laughs, ignoring the pain in his ribs. Eddie batters him over the head again, his face gleeful. “You can’t attack the handicapped - ow - that’s unfair.”

When Eddie’s unnecessarily bony elbow makes accidental contact with his ribs, this time he can’t hold back the sharp inhalation of breath. His face contorts in pain, eyebrows knitting together. Eddie leaps back like he’s been electrocuted. “Oh my god Richie I’m so sorry I didn’t think, I didn’t mean to, I -”

The rest of the room goes silent; none of them know what to say. Since that fateful day at the hospital, they’ve made an effort to avoid the subject - with the exception of humouring Richie whenever he jokes about it. Admittedly, that’s quite often. Stan runs over to his side to help him but Richie’s too busy trying to convince Eddie that he’s done nothing wrong with questionable success. “Eds look it’s fine, no harm done, certainly less damage than that time I pushed you off your bike when we were ten so I guess we’re even now yeah?”

Eddie smiles weakly but he still looks as if he could burst into tears at the slightest inconvenience. That inconvenience arrives a few seconds later when he notices the cut on Richie’s side that’s begun to bleed through the blue fabric of his shirt.

It takes ten whole minutes and a group effort to finally calm Eddie down and he only stops crying once Richie promises that he’ll let him clean up the stitches and drown him in rubbing alcohol. He doesn’t quite understand why Eddie can’t just be consoled by a hug and a piece of chocolate but he guesses that everyone has their quirks. Eddie more than most.

“Ow, why does it fucking burn, didn’t realise you were such a masochist Eds, coulda given me a heads up,” Richie complains in the bathroom, not ten minutes later, after Eddie’s scrubbed his skin red-raw in the shower. Eddie just slaps him over the back of the head. “That didn’t help your case,” Richie adds.

“Shut up,” he huffs, batting Richie’s hand away from the cut, “don’t touch it, it’ll get infected.”

He sighs, leaning back into the chair, trying to ignore the feeling of Eddie’s cold fingers brushing across his skin. Richie also makes a point complaining every single time he dabs at the cut with the rubbing alcohol. In his defence, it bloody well hurts.

“That's what antibiotics are for,” he retorts, “had to take some last summer when your mom gave me that spot on my - ow.”

Eddie presses particularly hard with the cotton wool and Richie’s not all that sure it’s an accident. He just glares at him and Eddie fixes him a smile that shows all his teeth. The conversation feels more forced than usual, like he’s the only one really trying. He soon finds out why. “So you’re going tomorrow,” Eddie says. It’s a juxtaposition in itself. He tries to say it all casually but there’s nothing casual about it.

“Uh yeah,” he replies, not really knowing what to say. “If Janet from social services has her way, which I mean she probably will, she did threaten to call the police when I said I’d run off to Vancouver.”

“Why Vancouver?”

He shrugs, “I like maple syrup.”

“You can literally buy maple syrup at the store down the road.”

“Don’t think that the general store is the best place to hide out from social services.”

Eddie’s still not meeting his eyes. He’s too busy fiddling with the screw cap of the alcohol bottle. Richie finds himself watching, staring really. His gaze lingers, eyes brushing over the curve of his jaw, the smattering of freckles on his cheeks and that little silver scar behind his left ear which was probably Richie’s fault, if he remembers right. Eddie’s hair has gotten longer too, it’s like it happened without him realising. It always begins to curl when it reaches his eyes but his mom doesn’t let that happen often. Richie considers it one of Sonia Kaspbrak’s many crimes. 

“You could just stay here, you know?” Eddie finally looks up at him and Richie’s quick to avert his gaze.

“What in this bathroom,” he chortles, “eating soap and drinking toilet water? But worst of all, this fleur-de-lis wallpaper,” Richie gestures vaguely around them, “ really isn’t my style.”

“No, in Derry ,” he huffs.

“You know you look real cute when you’re annoyed, Eds - cute, cute, cute.”

“SHUT UP , please just shut up for one fucking minute goddamnit.”

Richie does, not necessarily because he’s been told to - that usually has the opposite effect - but because, honestly, he’s stunned. He’s never heard Eddie talk like that before. Doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so angry. So serious. They bicker all the time because they’re Richie and Eddie, what else are they meant to do? But they never mean it, not really. Richie gets the uncomfortable feeling that he does this time.

“Is this all just some fucking joke to you?” He continues, “you’re leaving tomorrow and you don’t give a shit .”

“Oh, oh okay so this is my fault now?” He stands up from the side of the bath he’s perched on, grabbing his t-shirt off the towel rail. Eddie wasn’t done cleaning his wounds but he’d just have to deal with that. 

“No, I didn’t say that.” Eddie’s fists are curled into tight balls at his side, his lip trembling. “But it’s really starting to look like you want to go.”

“Why the hell would you even say that?”

“Because you’re not doing anything. You don’t even seem sad about it.”

Now Richie’s angry. Like pain in his chest, fire in his veins angry because what fucking right does Eddie have to lecture him. “What the fuck do you want me to do Eddie? Bill’s parents are barely around, Stan’s are too clean cut to take a kid like me in.” He laughs hollowly. “Your mom hates me, Mike’s grandad hates everyone , Ben’s mom is sick and Bev’s dad died a year ago, if Social Services even hear a whisper that she’s living on her own in that flat, she’ll be in exactly the same position as me. So, I’ll ask you again Eddie, what the fuck do you want me to do?”

Eddie’s crying down - bottom lip trembling, tears on his cheeks - but Richie’s too angry to care. He pulls the shirt over his head, turning to Eddie one last time to say, “you know what, fuck this,” before he storms out the room, the door slamming behind him. 

When he barges into the living room to get his shoes, he nearly knocks Bev and Bill clean off their feet - or knees really since the pair of them were crouching by the door. They look guilty, as do the other three if he’s honest, so it’s no secret that the group have been listening in on their conversation. Argument. Whatever. He doesn’t know how much they heard but it must’ve been enough because they’re all staring at him with that pitiful look he despises, like he’s some damn charity case. He hates it.

When Bill goes to say something, Richie just brushes him off. It’s probably something kind but he doesn’t want to hear it. Instead, he grabs his shoes - doesn’t even bother putting them on - and strides out the front door without another word. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

Waking up in a police holding cell after a small local manhunt resulted in one of the sheriffs finding him asleep at the edge of the quarry probably isn’t the best way to get on the good side of your social worker. Doesn’t stop Richie from doing just that though. 

When he opens his left eye, she’s staring at him with that disapproving look adults always seem to think is the pinnacle of authority. If anything, Richie just finds it amusing. 

“Mornin’ Janet.” He yawns, stretching his arms high above him until his back clicks. “If you’re looking for somewhere to stay in Derry, I’d really recommend this place, quality service, ten out of ten, really comfortable.” he pats the wooden slab of a bed that he’s been lying on. It rattles beneath his fingers. “And, oooh is that for me ,” Richie who, now he thinks about it, is bloody starving, reaches for the two slices of unbuttered bread and glass of water on the ground beside him, “see, breakfast in bed is even on the house, amazing .”

“Your bus is in an hour,” she says in a tone that’s entirely flat, not even attempting to humour him. An excessively manicured finger extends towards the rucksack at her feet, “I went to get your stuff but I couldn’t find the rest of it, we’ll have to loop past yours so you better hurry.”

There’s a jangle of keys, metal on metal, and one of the young officers comes into view. There’s grease stains on the brown of his shirt and his hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in the better part of a fortnight but Richie thinks that, somehow, he probably still looks worse. 

“You’re welcome,” the officer says as he clicks open the holding cell lock. Richie nods, pulling himself to his feet but the moment the sole of his left foot hits the ground, it flares in pain and he falls back onto the bench. “Oh yeah, I forgot to say,” the man adds, gesturing towards the bottle of TCP on the floor, “there’s glass in your foot.”

“Well thank you for pointing it out so quickly.” Richie can’t hide the sarcasm from his tone but the man doesn’t even turn back to look at him as he heads back down the corridor. He turns to Janet, trying to decide if the hideous coral suit she’s wearing is worse than the salmon pink jumper from last week. He thinks that it probably is, which is saying something if he’s honest. “You don’t need to look quite so stressed out, that’s my only bag, the bus station is like ten minutes away. We have ages.”

Richie expects her to look relieved but, instead, it’s confusion that shrouds her features. She looks down at the bag between them while he bandages his foot. “That’s it?” He nods. “This isn’t a couple weeks away you know, this is permanent.”

“Yeah, thanks for the constant reminders.”

“You sure you don’t want anything else then?”

Richie shrugs, shakes his head. “Nah, that’s all I have that matters.”

Janet looks sad about that; it pisses Richie off.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

They’re there forty minutes early in the end. That also pisses Richie off. It wouldn’t be so bad if Janet wasn’t hanging around, trying to make conversation with him. He wants to just be left to complain about the impending twenty-three hour bus journey in peace. Though he guesses that means he wouldn’t have anyone to complain to.

“Hey.” The voice comes softly, kindly, as a hand rests on his left shoulder, “are you okay?” He turns to face Beverly, the only loser who is joining him on the journey, and a little bit of his anxiety shifts. She booked the same bus back to Portland - she’s been meaning to visit her aunt for a while - which means that at least someone would be with him for part of the journey. That’s some company that he is actually grateful for.

The lump in his throat is almost painful. He swallows. It only grows. “Never better love,” he replies in an English accent that’s somehow worse than usual. For once, Bev doesn’t bother to tell him.

When the bus pulls into the station, it’s with this metallic groan that reminds him of the time he’d put his entire lego set in the washing machine when he was seven. He’s certainly no mechanic, but even he knows that this engine doesn’t sound healthy. 

He wishes he’d stood his ground with Janet, refused to leave unless his friends were able to wave him off at the bus stop. She’d been so adamantly against it - ‘it’ll only make it harder Richard’ - and he’d been so close to crying that he feared so much as a single word would leave his mouth only as a sob, so he hardly fought back.

He hoped they’d have turned up without him asking; perhaps it serves him right for ignoring them yesterday and Eddie . God, he can’t believe he left things like that with Eddie. Beverly must sense his distress as a hand slips into his, thumb brushing gently across his knuckles in a gesture that’s purely comforting. 

“Come on,” she says softly, leading him towards the bus. Beverly steps on first, after standing aside to allow a young woman and her child to go first. Richie goes to follow. He pauses when his foot hits the first step. Everything suddenly seems so real.

It’s then that he hears it. “ Richie .” It’s quiet at first - he almost thinks he imagines it - but there it is again. Louder. No, closer . “ RICHIE .”

He feels him before he sees him, arms wrapped tightly around him, a body thrown into his. Green apple shampoo and anti-bac. Home . He still can’t see the boy’s face - he doesn’t need to - as it’s pressed squarely into Richie’s shoulder as he cries, sobs, his whole body shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it Rich, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” he breathes, running his fingers through his hair. “Eds, why all the tears?” He tries to smile but it’s a weak attempt. “This ain’t a funeral - Jesus ,” he cuts himself off, noting the way Eddie is breathing, or rather not. Deep gasps like a fish out of water, it can’t be helping all that much. “Did you run the whole way?”

Eddie nods but Richie only catches it out of the corner of his eye because he’s busy rummaging through his backpack for the spare inhaler he always carries. It’s not like he has asthma himself, but he never goes anywhere without it. “Here - now breathe because it might well be a funeral if you don't.” 

With a steady hand, Richie holds the inhaler to his mouth and Eddie finally begins to slow his breathing, taking in one big draw of salbutamol. “Do you think I look strong enough to carry your coffin down the aisle, eh spaghetti? Because if you do, I can tell you that you’re wrong,” he laughs, “you’ll have to give me six months at least before you go trying anything like that again.”

Eddie looks like he’s caught halfway between laughing and crying which is a sad sight really. Richie’s never seen him quite like this. He can’t help but feel responsible. He pulls him into another tight but brief hug and Eddie finally finds the words to whisper, “I don’t want you to go, I- I can’t lose my best friend. I can’t.”

“You’re not losing me Eds,” he ruffles the smaller boy’s hair with more affection than Eddie might even know. “I’m only a phone call and a twenty-three hour bus journey away - I know,” he continues at the site of Eddie’s discontented expression, “twenty-three hours it’s a bloody joke, think me nan could’ve driven faster than that and she was legally blind.”

When the English accent returns, it’s not the posh one that most of the losers have become accustomed to. It has a little cockney twang to it, like Dick Van Dyke yet somehow worse. It’s worth it though because it earns a laugh. “Don’t call me Eds.”

“I can’t make a promise like that Eduardo.”

One moment, Eddie’s arms are the only ones wrapped around him. Then there’s another, and a third, and all of a sudden there’s six pairs of arms around him and he’s crying into someone’s shoulder.

This. This is his family.

Chapter Text

your vibrant youth.

Karen Wheeler feels sick.

Not the same kind of sick she had felt the Wednesday prior when she’d allowed, or more accurately persuaded, Ted to make the dinner for a change. He hadn’t cooked the chicken properly, really she shouldn’t have been surprised. A part of her thinks he’d done it on purpose so that she’d never ask him to cook again. If her suspicions were proven correct, she’d have to begrudgingly admit that he’d succeeded. She won’t be eating a single thing that man bothers to cook - on the rare off-chance that he actually does - for the foreseeable future.

But this kind of nausea, it’s something else entirely.

It’s a deep-rooted anxiety that bubbles in the pit of her stomach. The eternal what if? Her mind tells her that everything that could possibly go wrong will do just that. What’s the saying again? The best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry. It fits. 

What if he hates them? What if they hate him? Where her only son is concerned, this may be a legitimate source of worry. What if he never arrives? What if he’s a delinquent? What if he’s awful? What if he doesn’t fit in? What if? What if? What if?

She sighs with a degree of exaggeration, head in her hands. It’s midday, ten past the hour, and she needs to set off soon if there’s any hope of her arriving there on time. Well, that’s not strictly true. Karen is the type of woman who is always convinced that she’ll be half an hour late to everything when, in actuality, she never fails to be almost frustratingly early. She agreed with that annoying social services woman on the phone two days earlier that she would meet her nephew part-way. They agreed on Pittsburgh, a seven hour drive from Hawkins, and she booked the only motel she could find that didn’t look like the set of one of those procedural cop shows that Ted loves.

Running through a mental checklist of everything she needs, Karen grabs the car keys from that little dish on the side table and makes her way out of the front door. 

She checks the post-box before she leaves. Nothing particularly pressing is in there: bills, a credit card statement, an advert for some new takeaway in town and a local paper. Not the one Nancy works for, the other one that Karen secretly prefers. She also hates Nancy’s on principle since the bastards that work there won’t give her anything more than back page articles to write. She’s worth more than that. 

Karen leaves the important letters in there for Ted, scrumples up the advert and then goes to throw the paper on the passenger seat of the car before she catches sight of the back page. 

“DONNA BRANDON, 15, MISSING - SECOND CHILD TO DISAPPEAR IN HAWKINS THIS MONTH.”  

The girl in the paper is smiling like she hasn’t a care in the world. It’s an old school photo, she assumes that much at least. Karen can’t imagine what it would be like to see one of her children’s photos on that page. She still remembers the state Joyce Byers was in a few years back. 

It's a small article, nestled between a much bigger piece on the new mall opening in December and the some pointless story about the mayor's new house. Both of which, given the respective sizes of the print and photographs, seem to have been deemed more important by the editor than the missing girl. God, it angers her. Donna's picture isn't any bigger than a postage stamp. 

“Hi Mom,” a voice calls and a car door slams. She hadn’t even noticed the ford pull up. “Just dropped Mike off at school, I made sure he remembered his history project, and I took Holly in too, Hawkins elementary looks a lot nicer than when I was there.”

It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from the article. “Mom?” Nancy asks. 

“Yeah sorry love.” Her eyes snap upwards, face rearranging into something happier. “Thank you so much for taking them,” she adds, smiling, “I’ve been rushed off my feet this morning making sure I have everything.” 

She’s not listening though, not properly at least, her eyes are downturned towards the paper. Her brow creases and her eyes turn sad. “There’s been another?” She asks softly, “I wanted to report on the last a few weeks back, they wouldn’t let me though. They've barely been reported on, troubled kids, no parents, so people have just decided they've probably run away. It's bullshit.”

“It is.” Karen shakes her head, not even bothering to correct Nancy's language. She throws the newspaper down on the seat. “Anyway, I should be leaving now, thanks for taking Mike and Holly. I should be back late tomorrow, and that’s if the traffic’s not awful. Your dad is working quite late tonight too so I’ve left some money on the side so you can all get takeaway. There should be enough there for Jonathan too if you want to have him over.”

“Thanks mom.” Karen’s pulled into a hug, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She’d do anything for her kids. Anything. “Drive safe.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

Richie Tozier is bored.

Well, Richie Tozier is always bored. It suggests that everything is as it should be. This time though, he’s bored . There’s a difference.

“How long has it been?” It must be the third time he’s asked so far. 

Bev sighs, turning her wrist so that she can see her watch despite already knowing that it’s been five minutes since he last asked. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

Twenty-seven minutes, twenty-seven. It feels like like forty fucking hours. The piece of chewing gum on the back of the seat in front that Richie’s been staring at for the journey so far is getting more boring by the minute. He thinks it looks like a dog with three legs but Bev doesn’t agree.

He has close to an entire day left on these buses. Someone up there clearly has it out for him. Richie thinks that this journey is perhaps the worst thing to ever happen to him. Then he just laughs at the absurdity of that thought, given the circumstances.

The silence makes him uncomfortable. Makes his skin crawl. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say. Normally, the journey would be spent running his mouth off about everything he can see: the young child throwing up into a McDonald’s bag, the man with two teeth missing who’s snoring louder than Eddie’s mom and the old-lady two seats across knitting the worst jumper he’s ever seen. Richie feels sorry for her grandkids if she has them, they won’t be having a fun Christmas that year. The holiday photos will be brought up for years to come. 

With a sigh, he pulls his mind from its reverie. He just doesn’t know what to say. Nothing seems quite good enough. She promised - they all promised - that it won’t be a permanent goodbye but those little insecurities still whisper. Still tell him that they’ll be happy to see the back of him. That they’ll rejoice in the peace and quiet he’s taken from them for so long.

He remains in silence for the rest of the journey - well, to Portland at least - only speaking up to thank the bus driver as he trails down the steps. Bev lets him sit with his own thoughts for a while, he’s grateful for it. They commandeer the seats at the far end of the bus station, the ones next to the vending machine. He’s about to say goodbye to Bev when she plants herself right down next to him and tells him that she’s not leaving his side until the next bus comes. He refuses of course, not wanting her to waste her time hanging around a place like this, but she ignores him. He’s more grateful than he lets on.

A long five minutes pass before he finally finds the courage to speak. “I’m scared Bev,” he admits, barely even a whisper. She just looks at him with so much pain and sympathy in her eyes. 

“I know.” The way she speaks, softly and filled with love, almost makes it worse. “Though I was beginning to doubt that you’d ever admit it.” She wraps an arm around his shoulder in comfort, allowing his head to fall onto her shoulder. Absent-mindedly, she wraps a lock of hair around her finger, playing with his curls.

He tries to hold back the tears - really, he does - but it makes his head ache and his throat hurt and god he’s exhausted. Maybe Richie Tozier does in fact cry; he’s not particularly fond of this newfound revelation. 

Until a week ago, it had been three years since he last cried. Three years since that summer. When It had Eddie and god Richie had never felt fear like that in his life. He thought he was about to watch him die, there and then in the house on Neibolt Street. He’d already seen some versions of him die that day, blood pouring from his mouth as he reached out towards him. He doesn’t think he’d have been able to handle the real thing. It would have finally broken him. 

They won that day. They beat the bastard clown. But Richie still went home and cried like he never had before. He cried until he couldn’t breathe, until his head sang and his eyes burned. He cried until he couldn’t feel anymore.

Richie realised something about himself that night. Well, perhaps deep down he’d known it all along but that was the first time he acknowledged it. 

“It’ll be okay, you know,” Bev finally speaks once he’s calmed down slightly. “It may not feel like it right now, but it will be one day.”

Beverly Marsh is a wise girl. The smartest he knows - though, he doesn’t exactly know many girls but he’s sure that none of them would be like Bev. It’s not even academic, though her grades are by no means bad. It’s just in life, world wise. She just knows things about things. It’s not eloquent but it’s true.

“Bev I’m losing everything,” he mumbles into her shoulder. His head is still resting there and he has no plans to move it. “I know you’re all only a phone call away but it’s not like that, it’s not the same.”

It’s everything else he’s going to miss. It’s the lazy summer days in the clubhouse. It’s the stupid remarks and the little smiles. It’s beating Eddie on streetfighter and lawding it in his face for days. It’s making jokes about his mom and watching the way his face creases in annoyance. It’s everything. 

“Look, if you managed to find six of us losers in the whole of Derry,” Bev pulls his gaze to meet hers, “you will be able to find at least one person in this Hawkins place, I can promise you that.”

“But they won’t be you guys.”

“No they won’t.” That’s something he’s always loved about Bev, she never lies. "But maybe that isn’t a bad thing, hell you might even get on with them better than us, you might find someone with the same twisted sense of humour as you.”

He laughs, dejected. “Not possible, my humour is as unique as it is brilliant.”

“Although,” she continues, tone thick with mock condescension, “I would have to resent them wildly if you do decide you prefer them to us.”

Bev has a way of comforting him that no one else can ever quite manage. Eddie’s presence alone soothes him, Stan approaches every situation with blunt sarcasm and undeniable logic and Bill can make anyone feel safe. But Bev has this glorious habit of saying the right things precisely when they need to be said.

“Well that won’t be hard,” he grins, “you lot are the most annoying group of people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Wanker.”

“Tosser.”

Their conversation lapses into that innate kind of chatter where they talk about everything and yet nothing at all. They laugh, they cry some more, they play slapjack and they barely even notice the time passing until Richie’s sprinting to his next bus so that he doesn't miss it entirely. He doesn’t need Janet to launch another manhunt when he doesn’t turn up at Pittsburgh.

Beverly pulls him into one final tight hug before he boards - he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s crushing almost every rib he’d had broken - and kisses the top of his forehead gently.

That’s the moment it dawns on him, what he’s about to do. As new and scary as it seems, Bev’s already done it before him. She’d moved to live with her aunt in Portland and sure it’s hardly as far as Indiana, but it’s still something.

And if Beverly Marsh can do it then maybe he could, at the very least, attempt it.

⭒ ✯ ⭒ 

“An Americano please, large, with milk,” she tells the waiter when he ambles over to take her order. He’s a young boy, probably just shy of sixteen, and if the dark circles are anything to go by, he’s just as exhausted as she is.

“Steamed?” he asks with a smile that seems surprisingly genuine for a customer service role. Karen makes a mental note to tip him a couple dollars when she pays because he looks like he’s earned it by this point. She nods in response, telling him that’s all, and he scribbles it down on his notepad before returning it to the barista who looks grateful for something to do. 

It’s eight-forty-three in the evening and Karen has ended up in some ‘open-all-hours’ greasy spoon a short distance down the road from the motel. She checked in an hour ago, using the phone at the reception to dial home and tell Ted she’s made it safely. She was just going to stay in the room until it was time to head to the station but she caught herself half-falling asleep and she didn’t want to miss Richard’s bus getting in.

The coffee comes shortly after, it’s cheap and it tastes as such, but she needs something to keep her eyes from closing against her will. She tries to ignore that Cosmo article she read last week on the ageing effects of caffeine but she doesn’t have much luck. Not that it stops her from polishing off the entire mug in a couple minutes.

She decides to read the paper to pass the time she has left - the local Pittsburgh one in the hope that it’s less depressing than the Hawkins one this morning. It isn’t. Hardly a surprise. 

‘Statewide Drugs Crisis Worsens With 172 Reported Deaths This Month.’

‘Three Dead In Pittsburgh Home Invasion.’

‘Body of Young Girl Recovered From Lake Eerie.’ 

As she flicks through the pages, she does manage to find some more pleasant ones. Namely, the large photo on page twenty-three of a man holding at least three kittens in each arm with the words - Local Firefighter Brandished Hero For Saving Thirty-One Animals From Pet Shelter Blaze - inked in bold underneath.

When the clock reads half-nine she closes the paper,  leaving it on the counter with a few dollars’ tip which the boy gratefully receives. She makes a dash for her car in the rain and takes a moment to compose herself as the nerves set in once more. The drive only takes her eleven minutes but, as she frets and worries the entire distance, it certainly seems like longer.  

It’s only once she’s parked the car and is standing inside the terminal, inspecting every teenager that enters, that Karen realises she actually has no clue what the boy - her own nephew - even looks like. Only one in her life has she ever met him, nearly fifteen years ago when he was as bald as a coot and only six months old. She and Maggie had their final falling out not long after and she never heard from the family again.

In reality, when she finally does lay eyes on him not ten minutes later, there isn’t a doubt in her mind that he could be anyone else. The resemblance he holds to her Michael is nothing short of disconcerting, they could have been twins. As he gets closer, Karen begins to notice the little differences. His eyes are slightly darker and his cheekbones a little sharper, but that means she also notices some other things. The smears of purple that streak across his face like paint, the half-dried cut on his lip and the slight wince of pain that follows every step he takes.

It makes her sick.

The anger rises, hot and sudden. It curls around her chest, fills her veins and makes her fingers tense. There are some sick people in this world. She’s going to make it her God-given duty to ensure not a single person ever raises a finger to that boy again.

“Auntie Karen?” he says when he’s close enough to ask, still unsure if he’s even speaking to the right person. For a boy who’s nearing six foot at only sixteen years old, she can’t help but notice how small he seems. The way his shoulders curl in on himself and his head is slightly bowed. 

“Richard,” she responds and his eyes brighten a touch at the recognition. He lifts his head and stands a little straighter which is when she really takes note of how tall he is. He has at least half a foot on her and is probably a couple inches taller than her own son.

“Aye ma’am that’d be me,” he replies in an accent that Karen can’t quite place; she suspects it’s meant to be English. “Erm sorry I mean yeah that’s me, but,” he pauses for a second, “is it okay if you call me Richie?”

He’s absurd really and that just makes her laugh. It seems to make him smile. “Follow me then Richie.”

He falls into step behind her as she heads towards the car, though one of his strides seem to account for two of hers. One of the first things Karen Wheeler ever truly discovers about her nephew is that he talks when he’s nervous. A lot.

Within seconds, he starts to talk about anything and everything, and yet somehow nothing at all. He talks about the rain, the thunder, the boy in the hideous yellow cagoule. He talks about the way her hair barely moves an inch in the wind - “What hairspray do you use Auntie Karen? It must be a damn good one” -  and a good minute is spent talking about issues he finds in the quality control service of the Greyhound buses. 

“I’m sorry,” he speaks up after a minute’s silence; they’re sitting in the car park waiting for the engine to warm up so they can put the heater on. Richie’s hands have turned a disconcerting shade of purple in the cold - testament to the fact that he wasn’t even wearing a coat, never-mind a pair of gloves or a hat - and Karen isn’t faring much better herself.

“For what?” she replies, confused at his sudden apology. Handbrake off, she reverses smoothly out of the space as she turns the wheel to pull out onto the road.

“For talking so much,” he smiles, shaking his head slightly as he fiddles with his thumbs, “I’m nervous, I didn’t really know what to say so I guess I just said -”

“- everything,” Karen supplies with a laugh. Richie nods in response. “Well that’s nothing to apologise for.” She finds that she really does mean it, for now at least. It’s nice having someone like him wanting to talk to her, Mike only ever seems to utter a word in her direction when he’s shouting for no reason or he wants to know when dinner’s going to be ready. Even Nancy has her moments where she dismisses her. 

“I forget people aren't used to it.”

“Are you telling me this isn't a one time thing?” She laughs, in many ways grateful that the conversation isn’t too awkward up to this point. She wonders what it will be like having him around the house. She hopes he’ll fit in, that he’ll get on with Mike at least. He looks like he needs a friend.

“Nope, sorry,” he laughs, only mildly apologetic, “guess you’re going to have to get used to the noise, or buy some ear plugs.”

“Oh you don’t know the amount of noise my youngest can make,” Karen laughs properly this time, the tension finally seeping from shoulders. “If you can make more noise than she does when I tell her she isn’t allowed any more chocolate, I’ll be impressed.”

“Oh okay, see now that sounds like a challenge to me and -” he’s cut off by the loud rumble of his own stomach, reminding him that the last thing he ate was a packet of crisps nearly ten hours ago. “Sorry,” he cringes, “haven't really eaten properly today.”

Karen’s expression turns pensive for a second as she captures her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. Then, with only a brief glance in the rearview mirror, she brakes hard, turning the wheel sharply to the left, forming a U-turn in the middle of the road.

“Is that even legal?” Richie grins, clinging onto the seat so that he doesn’t fall to the side. Pride rises in her chest when she notices the respect in her nephew’s eyes.

“Probably not.”

They both just smile.

Chapter Text

verisimilitude.

“I’m really sorry,” Will says in a way that he hopes will come across as genuinely apologetic. He really does mean it. Though, at the same time, part of him is grateful that he has to leave early because he’s been sitting in exactly the same position for three hours and his neck’s beginning to hurt. He certainly prefers being the artist to the subject. “I promised I’d help Mike.”

Audra gives him this look at the mention of his name - the same one she always gives him when he brings up Mike. The one that says he’s a jerk and she doesn’t like him. On certain days he’ll be spared the look, but that’s only because she decides to tell him outright. 

In a way, he doesn’t exactly blame her. She’s listened to his every thought and complaint about the party’s crumbling friendship over the past six months or so since they met in art class. If you asked Will Byers who his best friend is, he would instinctively say Mike Wheeler. Though, perhaps these days he would be better off saying Audra Phillips.

“You don’t like him, I know,” Will as he stretches his arms above him in a way that makes his back crack. It’s satisfying. 

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” she starts but then adds, when Will raises an eyebrow, “okay yes it is. He’s been a shit friend to you. You deserve better that’s all, but you keep going every time he calls.”

They’ve had this conversation before, more than once. Audra’s gathering up her watercolours when he walks out the front door of her house. He leaves her with a goodbye and a promise that he’ll be around soon so that she can finish her painting. 

When Will finally arrives at the Wheeler household, Mike isn’t happy. Though, to some degree, that suggests the world is turning on its axis and all is as it should be. He’s been offered an ultimatum: clear out the basement by tonight or be grounded for the rest of the month. Mike wastes a good amount of time and energy arguing his case but his father merely turns a blind eye, tuning out for most of his complaints, then provides him with the same two options again once he’s finished. 

“It’s not the end of the world Mike,” Lucas reasons, not five minutes later, when they’re shifting boxes of old campaign books up the stairs. Dustin nods in agreement. Mike had recruited the three of them to help him clear out the basement - Max and El were invited too but they’re both apparently busy which Will just thinks is code for the can’t be bothered. He doesn’t blame them.

Will, who usually has the patience of a saint, is starting to get annoyed at Mike’s borderline temper tantrum. “Exactly,” he agrees with Lucas, “and who knows, he’s our age right? He could be pretty cool.”

“This is our basement though, not his,” Mike whines, throwing himself down onto the sofa behind him. “It's where we play D&D and have sleepovers, and where we made El’s fort, it’s our place.”

Even Will has to admit that the statement annoys him. They haven’t played D&D for nearly two years - and not for want of trying on his part. They  haven’t even all been over to Mike’s house in months. One of them is always busy and it’s never Will. Dustin will be out training with his football friends, Lucas will be out at a poetry class and Mike? Fuck knows where he is most of the time these days. Usually with El.

The point is, there’s been no ‘ our basement’ for a long time.

So when he finally decides to respond to Mike's complaint, Will's voice is a little harsher than he intends for it to be, “ you move then.”

His eyebrows pull together and his head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left - like Chewie’s do when he’s learning a new trick - and even though no words leave his mouth, Will knows it’s a question. The same way he knows that Mike doesn’t really want an actual solution, he just enjoys complaining.

“You move into the basement, give your cousin your room,” Will replies in way of an explanation. He picks the blu-tack off the back of that Empire Strikes Back poster Dustin had got him for his thirteenth as he awaits the impending wave of indignant refusals. When it doesn't arrive, Lucas jumps in to back up his point, “yeah you can do it up a bit, like your own den and then we can still keep it as our space.”

Mike looks at him as if he’s thinking - something which he doesn’t do all that often, he’s always been more of an act first, think later kind of guy - and eventually arrives at a conclusion. “Yeah, okay.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself but then adds, with more conviction, “ yeah , let's do it.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Faced with the fear of coming across as impolite, Richie scans the shoddily-laminated menu for the cheapest thing he can find. Really, what he wants is the most expensive burger. The one with the double patty, with bacon, Monterey Jack, pickles - which, if he was home, he’d take out and feed to Bill the little weirdo - onion rings and lashings of burger relish. The one that would clog his arteries in a single mouthful.

“Just a hamburger and small fries please,” he says, disheartened, to the waitress when she pulls the little notebook from her apron pocket. Working in a greasy motel diner can’t be the most exciting job Pittsburgh has to offer but Richie thinks that she should offer some kind of a smile at least. Just as the words leave his mouth, another waitress walks past holding a silver tray lined with an entire table’s worth of the burger he does want. He can’t stop himself from staring. 

Richie’s stomach rumbles; he curses it.

As it turns out, his aunt is an observant woman. For when she notices the way he’s looking at the other table, borderline salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs, she turns to the waitress who’s chewing loudly on a piece of pink gum and says, “actually,” she points across the room, “that burger over there, he’ll have one of those instead please.”

Richie opens his mouth to lodge a protest but she speaks over him, not giving him the chance, “and make it a large fries and,” she turned back to him, “do you like strawberry milkshake?” 

He nods; it’s his favourite actually.

“That too then please,” she looks at the menu again while the woman amends the order,, “and I’ll have the salad, hold the dressing, with a bottle of water, still not sparkling.”

Now, as he watches his aunt steal one last glance at the table across, Richie decides that it’s his duty to return the favour. “Do you actually want that?” He asks, his left eyebrow raised, “nobody comes to a diner to eat rabbit food out of choice, think my old gerbil probably had more exciting meals than that in its lifetime.”

Admittedly, he fails to mention that the poor thing - Gerry, original , he knows - had only lived a few months since its last ‘exciting meal’ had just so happened to be the fudge section of a sky bar given that Richie only realised that chocolate was poisonous to rodent upon finding her dead the next morning. Suffice to say, he wasn’t ever trusted with a pet again. His dad wasn’t best pleased about that one. 

“I’ve got to stay in shape.” Now there’s a useless argument if Richie’s ever heard one. Everyone deserves a treat once in a while. It should be like state-mandated or something. 

“Bullshit, I can promise you now,” he starts, unsure of where he’s really going, “that one meal will not make the slightest bit of difference, and that’s based on erm, actual science” he pulls a load of nonsense from the back of his mind, “my third year biology textbook, yep that exact quote, biiiig letters, first page.”

“Is that so?” she asks, tone of voice all exaggerated like she knows he’s made it up. Which he has, and they’re both aware of it, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is right. About treating yourself, that is, not the biology textbook. Richie thinks that, maybe on any other day, she would have put up more of a fight but he can see the bags under her eyes and the way she’s looking at the burger across the room.

The waitress clears her throat. Impatient. 

Richie beats his aunt to an answer, “she’ll have the same as me.”

He swears he hears the waitress whisper, “finally,” but then she plasters on one of the most sickly customer service smiles he’s ever had the displeasure of being faced with and says, “a good choice if I do say so myself.”

As she leaves to take their order to the kitchen, Richie pulls his rucksack from under the table, fumbling around the inside pocket until his fingers brush against a small glass bottle. Setting it down on the table between them, he zips the bag closed. Watches as Karen inspects the table. Tozier, Richard; Codeine Phosphate 60mg.

All she can come up with is, “that’s strong.”

“This hurts,” he gestures towards his ribs, smiling weakly.

“I asked them for oxycodone,” he continues, attempting to lighten the situation, as he takes note of the look on her face, “to kick-start my lucrative black-market pharmaceutical business, I thought it was a good idea but they didn’t like it quite so much.”

Although his intended foray into drug dealing never quite came to pass, he did sell four codeines to some kid behind the Aladdin for ten dollars, half a packet of wagon wheels and a McDonald's happy meal toy. It wasn’t one of his finer moments, but the biscuits were only a little bit stale and he got a final cinema trip for him and Eddie out of the tenner so he still considers it a win.

“Maybe if I throw myself down the stairs I can convince them to prescribe me some morphine,” he jokes, a smile on his face, “or go track down my dad, it’d be just as effective.” The last part’s hidden under his breath, spoken more to himself than anyone else. Doesn’t stop his aunt from hearing though. He sees pain in her eyes. Guilt too, perhaps. She recoils slightly, upset, mouth opening as if she wants to speak but is struggling to find the words. 

Inwardly, Richie curses, guilt hanging over him. He has a habit of saying all the wrong things at all the wrong times. A habit which, in all sixteen years of his life, he’s never quite managed to shake. It’s his coping mechanism, how he processes trauma. Always has. He likes to joke about things, make light of the shit hand life has dealt him. The issue is, it upsets people, makes them uncomfortable. Richie hates that.

“ Fuck - no, shit , ah,” he corrects himself. It’s only marginally better, “sorry, I always say the wrong things.”

Richie’s eyes drop to his hands, resting on the table as he picks at the skin around his fingernails. Before he gets the chance to look back at his aunt, another hand settles on top of his, squeezing gently. “Promise me, you’ll stop apologising about this,” she says softly, letting his language slide. Richie thinks he’s done a pretty good job of not swearing so far, a damn sight better than usual anyway.

He nods, not missing the way her eyes begin to water. “It’s just,” he sighs, exhausted, “I can either laugh or cry you know? And if that’s the only choice I have then I’ll laugh about it ‘til the day I die.”

“Then you have a strength that I don’t.” The way she talks, it’s like she actually means it. There’s conviction in her voice. Richie’s never been told that he’s strong, not by anyone older than him. He’s been told that he’s weak, useless, a waste of space. That he’s stupid. That he’s going to amount to nothing. Never, not once, has he been told that he’s strong. Maybe living with his aunt won’t be so bad after all. 

“Bullshit,” he calls, turning straight to humour, “you managed hour long phone conversations with that social services woman, I usually hung up on her after five minutes”

Attempting not to laugh, a choked sound catches in her throat. She takes her hand from its place on top of his, covering her face as she laughs properly, head tilted back. It’s that guttural ceaseless laugh that leaves you at its mercy, makes your stomach hurt and your muscles ache. Richie only manages to keep a reasonably straight face for the better part of ten seconds before he joins her in rambunctious laughter. Other tables turn to look at them by the time the tears begin to fall; Karen manages to compose herself just enough to force a sentence out through a number of choked giggles. “Her voice was a little grating, wasn't it?“

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot .”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

All in all, Will decides that the day’s been a success. Mostly at least. Audra finished the general sketch for her painting, they managed to clear out Mike’s bedroom in record time, and he was only mildly fed up by the end of it.

He’s alone, bike wheels weaving between the painted lines that run the length of Westbrook Road. Being alone, even after all these years, makes his skin crawl and his mind wander. Like something’s just waiting to jump out at him from behind Mrs Thompson’s hydrangeas. He doesn’t trust the trees, the darkness, the all too familiar rows of houses. He doesn’t trust anything once the sun goes down. 

Dustin and Lucas had left him, under protest, a few blocks back when they turned off down Maple, heading over to their side of town. They always offer to stay with him for the entire ride home and he always point-blank refuses. It’s a routine of theirs now. As much as he’d like the company, he’s not going to let them add an extra twenty minutes just because he’s too much of a pussy to cycle back in the dark. He’s not that selfish.

Anyway, regardless of how much they insist, he knows they’d both be hoping he says no. It’s November for God’s sake.

There’s a clatter on the road behind him. Metal on metal. Harsh and dissonant. His breath catches in his throat, heart stutters, and his mind floods with a million worst case scenarios. If overthinking were an olympic sport, Will Byers would take home the gold medal. He’s been training for it his whole life. 

It’s back, Will’s brain tells him. The base of his neck prickles, anxiety crawling up his spine. It feels different to Halloween, but also the same. Like a cheap copy.

He peddlers harder, faster, until his muscles burn and his breath comes in short gasps. Neglects his brakes too, feels like he’s breaking the land speed record. He sails down the hill like he’s indestructible. 

Will Byers, of all people, should know that’s never the case.

He reaches the end of the road in record time, plucking up the courage to stop. Slowly, he turns his head back towards the source of the noise, mind telling him to expect vines and monsters and other dimensions. What he actually sees, however, is a scabby looking ginger cat rummaging through the bins out front of one of the houses. Will releases a shaky breath, cursing his faltering nerves and his damn stupid brain. His heart rate begins to slow.

He cycles faster than he needs to for the rest of the journey home. Takes him nearly half the time it should have. Those warm feelings of comfort and safety flood through his veins, unfurl in his chest, when Jonathan and his mom’s cars come into view, parked on the grassy patch up to their house. Amber-toned light pours out of the windows, pooling on the drive - if the dirt track out front of his house can be called that - like the gold alcohol ink they have in the art rooms at school. The TV is on too, he can see it in the way the blue light flickers behind the curtains.

He rests his bike against the front porch, as he always does, and wanders over to the front door. It’s been repainted in the last few weeks. The old peeling grey-green now lacquered in cherry red. Will likes the colour, it was his choice, brings some vibrance to the house.

Though, when his fingers close over the rusted brass doorknob and he pushes the door open, Will knows something’s wrong. Feels like he’s been doused in a bucket of ice-water. From out on the concrete porch, he can see the warm pools of light, can hear the voices on the TV. Through the netted veils of the kitchen window, Jonathan’s silhouette is making a cup of tea. But the second the latch clicks and the front door swings open, the noise stops, life ceases and the house is left dark and silent.

He slams it shut again.

Noise, laughter, that lamplight glow - “mom, do you want any tea?” - life, safety, family - “yes, sweetie.”

This time, he pushes it all the way open, taking a tentative step inside. 

Silence.

Will feels sick. Like someone’s just reached right into his stomach and pulled his insides clean out. It’s an empty, hollow nausea. He always feels empty these days, like the creature had taken a part of him with it back into the upside down.

The air’s too thick, he can’t breathe. Like drowning on dry land. There’s a rhythmic pounding beneath his temples, in time with his shallow breaths, and his vision begins to blur. One, two, three, four, he begins to count steadily in his mind, just as Jonathan had taught him to. Hold for four, out for five, in for six, breathe .

God , breathing should be so damn easy - innate, natural - but, in this painful moment, it feels like the hardest task he’s ever been asked to do. He could cry. It’s a miracle he hasn’t already.

“Mom?”

With a second roll of his stomach, the world begins to twist back into focus. Slowly, then all at once. In many ways, he soon wishes it hadn’t. Will can see the vines clearly now, crawling over every inch of his home. Reaching between the panelling, curling around the kitchen countertops. It’s the place he’s meant to feel safe.

“Jonathan? help me,” he whispers feebly. It’s futile, he knows it, but the fear and desperation are too much. “Please.”

Will knows he’s here. Not here , but here. He wants Jonathan. He wants his mom. He wants Dustin, Lucas, El, Max. He wants Mike. God , he wishes Mike was here, he always knows what to do.

Something isn’t right. Given the circumstances, that seems almost too obvious to point out, but it’s not just that. Even this warped sense of reality, this entire other dimension is in itself wrong. Equally as awful, but ultimately different.

Will remembers the smell vividly. The years haven’t allowed him to forget. It choked him, forced its way down his throat, up his nose. Overwhelmed every sense. It was mephitic, rotten, like the smell of decaying matter. And yet somehow worse, it coated every fibre of his being. It rested on his tongue, seeped into every pore.

Will doesn’t know what death tastes like; that left little to the imagination. It felt hopeless, inevitable.

This is different. It's popcorn and candyfloss and something more sinister.

Someone laughs. Out there in the dark.

Will’s eyes shoot open.

Chapter Text

let the tide in.

“ Fuck me.”

And it is with those two words, that Mike knows this introduction is going to be twice as bad as he had initially expected it to be. 

“Auntie, did you clone us?”

Though, in actuality, he’d later deem it to be worse.

Mike doesn’t know what he expected of his cousin. If anything, given what he’s been through, he would have thought the boy may be reserved if not a little timid. But the universe has thrown him yet another curveball because he doubts Richard could be any more excitable if he tried. 

Though, he has to admit, his cousin may have a slight point about the whole cloning thing. The resemblance is slightly unnerving. He hopes, however, that he hasn’t inherited the same gormless expression that Richard is currently wearing - jaw slack, mouth agape - because it’s hardly a good look. 

“Because if you did, that’s like seven levels of illegal .” He turns to look at her, flashing an approving sort of grin, “but I also kind of respect that.”

Nancy’s standing just to his right, trying - and mostly failing - to bite back a smile. Mike considers elbowing her. 

He refrains for the time being. The urge doesn’t die down though. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒

A tall man, with suspiciously dark hair for his age - Richie will have to see whether there's a box of ‘Just For Men’ in the bathroom cabinet - clears his throat audibly, not too impressed with his language. That must be his uncle. Though Richie hardly pays any attention to him because he’s too busy staring at his cousin, a few feet further down the hall

It’s uncanny. 

Like top secret, government experiment, breaking international human rights laws kind of uncanny. He briefly wonders if his uncle is a member of the CIA but is quick to dismiss the notion as Ted Wheeler looks like he’s barely even aware what day of the week it is. Either that, or he’s got a damn good cover. 

Richie takes a moment to look, to really look. That only deepens his cousin’s scowl which, given that it’s been plastered on his face in a way that would imply Richie had just run over the family dog, he wouldn’t have expected would be possible had he not seen it with his own two eyes. Admittedly, his own two largely dysfunctional eyes but he’s wearing his glasses so that shouldn’t count for all that much. 

Though, the closer he looks, the most apparent the differences become. Mike’s eyes are set a smidgen further apart than his own, his cheekbones higher, more defined, and his nose is splattered with freckles in a way that Richie’s isn’t, like someone’s just come along with an old toothbrush and a tub of watered down paint. Much to Richie’s childish delight, he also appears to be around two inches taller than his cousin which leaves him feeling more smug than he cares to admit.                    

With little thought, Richie’s attention flickers to the mirror at his right, taking note of his own reflection before turning back to his cousin again. Thrice more is the action repeated before he finally decides to speak. “ Jesus, does that mean I look like Kermit the Frog too?”

Richie realises, albeit point seven seconds too late, that it probably wasn’t the best comment he could have made when Mike’s left eye behind’s to twitch every few seconds and Richie finds himself growing increasingly concerned over matters such as adolescent strokes and involuntary manslaughter. All appears - mostly - well though as his aunt doesn’t look all that concerned about the new development, indicating that it may not be as rare or concerning as Richie had initially assumed.

Nancy, who appears to have done a stand up job of holding her laughter up to this point, loses the grasp on her self-control with an impressive snort that Richie takes as another win. However, it’s promptly followed up by a shrill screech as her younger brother sends a rogue elbow careening into the space between two of her ribs. And if the left corner of Ted Wheeler’s mouth ever-so-slightly upturns - just a fraction of a millimetre - Richie doubts he would ever admit to it.

Karen decides to play the voice of reason, or the peacemaker or whatever, at that point with an over-enthusiastic, “right, how about we have Michael here show you upstairs to your new room?”

It also seemed to be a deflection from his earlier comment, meaning that she mustn’t have been all too happy about it. Richie knows that mothers are supposed to regard their own children as one of the most beautiful things in the world - a peculiar facet of motherhood that Richie could never quite understand as he personally considers most babies to be really fucking ugly - but surely she can see the resemblance.

If she doesn’t, she’s either in denial or she has never seen the muppets. Given that she has three children, his money is on the former. 

Mike huffs, a petulant scowl plastered onto his face. “Guess I should be grateful that they can’t clone bad taste then,” he shoots back, tone toeing the line between sarcastic and vicious a little too heavily to be considered as humorous as his own. Richie shrugs, aware that he can’t really argue back in this instance; he’d all but challenged Mike to say it. Though he had expected it to take it with a little more jest that he actually had.

“ Michael .” A sharp whisper floods the hallway and Mike’s attention flickers over to Karen, who is giving him a look so stern, it would have sent Rambo running for the hills. The look she receives in return is a peculiar mix of teenage petulance and a conscious guilt. 

“S’alright auntie,” he looks down at his Hawaiian shirt - blues, pinks and yellows intertwining to form an equally hideous pattern - and laughs loudly, turning to his cousin “yeah I’ll give you that one.”

“You’d be deluded if you hadn’t,” Mike returns, under his breath and a little harsher than Richie considers to be all in good humour.

“A touch rude.”

“You did just call me a muppet.”

It was a fair assessment.

“The truth hurts Michael,” he counters.

With a low rumble, Ted Wheeler clears his throat before the conversation can descend any further into impropriety and hands one of the cases to his son. They’re hefty things - the kind that Pan Am would demand your left kidney and your first born child to store in the hold - but in a way, they’re surprisingly small considering that Richie’s entire life is split between them. 

The rest of the Wheeler family settle back into something of a routine. Nancy is quick to return to her room and Mike makes some scathing comment about her always being on the phone to her boyfriend, while his aunt follows her husband into the kitchen in search of a glass of wine.

Michael is left with the responsibility of showing Richie up to his room, something which he doesn’t seem all too enthused about but he does it anyways, trailing one of the cases behind him and gesturing for Richie to follow. 

It was about halfway along the interstate highway - somewhere between junction forty-eight and junction fifty-three, if he has to make a rough estimate - that the codeine had begun to wear off and so now, a further four hours later, they’re doing a sum total of absolutely fuck all to take the edge off the pain. He’d take some more if it weren’t for the fact that he hasn’t eaten since that greasy dinner near the bus station.

It hurt when he clambered out of the car, it hurt when he tugged at the door handle, and it really fucking hurts now that he’s attempting to drag this stupid case up the stairs. He has to pause halfway up, leaning back against the wooden panelled wall as he tries to breath through the sharp twinge in his ribs.

“Are you alright?” A few steps further ahead of him, Mike has stopped in his tracks, looking somewhat unsure of himself. 

Richie doesn’t like people worrying about him - never has - so he slaps on the biggest grin he can muster and grits out, “peachy,” in the hope that it sounds more convincing than it feels.

Clearly, it doesn’t because Mike mumbles out a few half-hearted apologies as he hops back down a few steps, reaching out to take the other case. “Um, here. Let me.”

He pulls the bag from his hand, not really accounting for the fact that he was struggling to carry the first himself, never mind adding another one into the mix. It seems that the both inherited the same physique - like an out-of-date green bean, Eddie had once said. Mike seems to manage though, taking them one at a time and dragging them backwards with both hands wrapped around the top handle.

“Jesus Christ,” he releases a heavy breath when the second case finally summits the top step, letting go of it almost instantly. “What the fuck do you even have in here?”

Richie snorts, amused. “My entire life?”

Mike’s eyes widen just a fraction, unable to keep his emotions from his face, as he realises his lack of foresight. He looks guilty; Richie just finds it amusing. He mutters a few more awkward apologies as he makes his way across the landing to one of the far doors.

The walls of Richie’s new bedroom are blue, not the kind of blue that feels cold and hostile - like that shade of pacific slate his mother had attacked every bathroom in the house with - but the kind that’s calming, like the colour of Bill’s bedroom when the sunlight passes over it on the mornings. It reminds him of his friends back in Derry, of sleepovers spent binge-watching R-rated films and filling Stan’s shoes with popcorn. It reminds him of home. He’s only been gone for two days, less technically, but the wave of grief that surges in his chest pays no mind to that fact, prodding at his heart regardless. 

Fucking hell, he thinks, I’m getting soft.

If this continues, he’ll need to have a firm word with himself.

It doesn’t feel much like a bedroom, not at the moment anyway. The room has been stripped bare, save for a Star Wars duvet cover that - Richie gets the impression - wouldn’t have been there if Mike had more of a say in the matter. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, staring at the ground as he shuffles his feet. He isn’t being rude, or that’s not his intention at least, but sincerity has never been something that Richie can be comfortable with. He makes crass jokes, stupid grand gestures and never takes a thing life throws at him with any amount of sincerity. It’s easier that way; it always has been.

If the moment’s silence is anything to go by, Mike’s trying to hunt for something to say. Eventually, he settles on a weak, “yeah well, don’t take anything,” which leaves Richie with an eyebrow raised. He scans the room once more, just to make sure that a brand new television or a stack of cash -  or literally anything that was worth more than the old sheets - hasn’t materialised over the last minute and a half that he’s been standing there.

None had, just to clarify. 

“And what is it that you think I’me going to steal? Your dignity?” he snorts, almost offended at the accusation, quick to slip back into his humour.  “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you won’t be getting that back anytime soon.”

The comment doesn’t seem to garner the same response that his antics usually receive. In the case of his friends, a chorus of groans and a ‘beep beep Richie’ - though he wouldn’t have expected that comment from his cousin - or an exaggerated roll from anyone over the age of thirty. Mike, however, just contorts his face into an even deeper scowl than before and Richie just laughs.

It doesn’t last for long though - the laughter, that is, not the glower - because he moves to sit down on the edge of the bed, thinks he’s being careful about it too, but the moment he makes contact with the mattress, the way it jolts his ribs sends a blaze of fire burning deep in his bones. There’s an audible hiss, traces of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he takes in a deep breath through gritted teeth. 

He can see Mike looking at him with something close to concern - more of a what the fuck do I even do as opposed to any actual worry for Richie himself - but, having always hated people worrying about him, he’s quick to try and deflect. 

“You don’t happen to know where I can find the local drug dealer's number, do you?” Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, Richie pulls out a handful of miscellaneous items. “Do you think that he would sell me some morphine for… two dollars, twenty-three cents, a piece of old chewing gum and - fuck I don’t even know what that is.”  He prods the green sticky blob that had attached itself to one of the quarters, “ urgh.” His finger retreats sharply, the half-chewed sweet moving with it. Violently, he shakes his hand and it takes a good few attempts before the thing finally breaks its grasp on his nail bed, soaring across the room until it eventually comes to a halt, smack-bang in the centre of his cousin’s forehead.

“Calm down Kermit, I’m joking.”

He is.

Joking, he means, because nothing about his cousin appears calm right now. That being said, Richie does think that, had wanted to, there would be no better time than the present to embark on his descent into drug abuse and alcoholism. Though, that didn't turn out too well for his mother.

His attention wanders back to his cousin. Mike is nearly shaking. 

Richie just sniffs his finger.

“Ohhhh,” he exclaims, realisation dawning, “it’s that toxic waste from last tuesday, I forgot about that,” and with that proclamation, he gets back up from where he was sitting - moving slowly enough that the pain is just about bearable - and pulls the sweet from straight between his cousin’s eyes, popping it in his mouth with a smile.

Mike shuffles uncomfortably on the spot, mouth repeatedly falling open in what seems to be some vain hope that he’d find the words he’s hunting for but - given that he just turns on his heel and storms out the door - it’s to no avail.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Richie lowers himself back onto the bed, sprawled out across the mattress lazily, arms dangling off the sides at peculiar angles. He lies like that, quite uncomfortable, until the blood begins to run to his head and he starts to fear that, if he doesn’t move, he may just pass out.

He’s already fucked it, it’s becoming a reoccuring theme on his part, so he hardly needs to add a five hundred dollar ambulance bill into the mix. Not that a mild stupidity-induced fainting episode warrants a trip to A&E, but he feels that his Auntie Karen has the kind of parental anxiety that would land him in the hospital with a papercut. 

Not to mention the fact that he’s only been in his new home for less than twenty minutes and he can say, with relative confidence, that his cousin already hates him. 

It’s the eye twitch that gave it away.

Richie doesn’t mean for these things to happen - honestly, he doesn’t - but every time he opens his mouth the words start falling and, regardless of how hard he tries, they always appear to be the wrong ones. 

Richie lies there for a few moments longer, moving only because he hadn’t the common sense to retrieve his pills from the front pocket of his rucksack before he had laid down on the bed. There’s not all that many left in the bottle, a stark reminder that he needs to register with a doctor in Hawkins sooner rather than later, but he shakes two out into the palm of his hand, knocking them back without the need for any water. The first time he’d tried that, he’d nearly choked, spat them right back up onto the carpet, but he’s found the knack to it.

With the amount of meds he’s been plied with over the last week, he’s had the practice. 

It’s only now that he’s in his own company that he realises just how tired he is. Given that he hasn’t slept in nearly twenty seven hours, it’s hardly surprising. Richie fights against it though, tries to keep his eyes open even though the room is starting to blur in front of him. 

He can’t remember the precise point at which his resolve caves, but one minute he’s staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, the next he’s prising open his eyes as he peels his glasses off the side of his face.

He looks across to the digital clock on the bedside table - which is definitely designed for kids if the cartoon cars on the side are anything to go by - it reads two hours later than it had before he fell asleep. His gaze shifts slightly to the left, where a glass of water now sits on the table.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Jonathan Byers is the kind of light-hearted optimist who doesn’t think that there is much in this world that can’t be solved with a good cup of tea, something which he gets from his mother. Though, she tends to lean in favour of hot chocolate or a warm mug of Horlicks. Sadly, the creature that plagues his brother’s nightmares is not from this world - or this reality at least - but it doesn’t stop him from offering. 

It starts late into the evening, when he’s making a pot of tea after a day of studying with Nancy. “Mom, do you want any?” he yells across the hallway, momentarily forgetting that Will is already asleep. His mother raises a finger to her lips but nods, offering up a smile and a grateful, “thank you, sweetie.” 

He’s reaching for the teabags in the top cupboard when he hears it; he doesn’t know why she still keeps them there given that she’s a good two inches too short to get them without a kickstool.

It starts off as a whimper. He barely hears it at first, not over the noise of the water beginning to boil on the stovetop, but it steadily morphs into something louder, more abrasive, and somewhere along the line the screaming starts. Jonathan is already out the kitchen doorway when the spoon he was holding clatters on the floor, splattering milk across the worn linoleum. Digging his heels into the carpet, he slows to a stop when he reaches Will’s bedroom at the end of the hallway, his mother appearing behind him with impressive speed. His fingers press into the painted wood as he pushes open the door slowly, as not to wake him, and Jonathan’s heart breaks at the sight before him.

Will writhes underneath his sheets - shaking, terrified - hair slick to his forehead as the tears begin to mix with the layer of sweat that clings to his skin. Swiftly, Joyce moves to settle on on the mattress beside him, a hand reaching out to cup his cheek in comfort. Jonathan’s hand curls around his brother’s own, squeezing gently to let him know that he’s there. That he’s not alone.

Will told him once - at three in the morning when their mother was away, when the sweat and the deafening fear of a nightmare, night terror , still clung to every cell of his body - that he knew when Jonathan was there with him, he felt him take his hand. So every nightmare, every scream, every tremble, every breath out of place that Will makes when he’s asleep, his brother is there in an instant, holding his hand.

It calms him, it always does.

Expect this time, that is.

If anything, Jonathan thinks the screams get louder.

Joyce is already in tears, Jonathan isn’t far off himself. If he weren’t holding himself together for the both of them, he would have been in a similar state.

Will releases one final shaky cry, tensing in his mother’s arms, and his eyes shoot open, breaths slowing to something that’s still a far cry from normal. His eyes flit around aimlessly, like an animal cornered, right before the predator goes in for the kill. Jonathan pushes that thought from his brain. 

His younger brother doesn’t say anything - Jonathan isn’t sure he even can at this point - so instead, he wraps an arm around his mother’s waist, the other still clinging onto Jonathan’s hand, and pulls his body into their laps. They stay that way for a while, at least it feels like that to him, it’s probably closer to fifteen minutes but his mom’s eyelids start to droop and he gently needles her into going to bed. After all, she had just come home from a twelve hour shift.

She’s reluctant at first, wanting to stay with her son when he’s struggling but, with a few gentle words, Jonathan manages to convince her that he will be fine with him. Gently, he pries his fingers from Will’s grasp, reaching across to tuck him under the sheets like he used to when he was younger and the most worrisome thing he had to deal with was the same old nightmare that any other five year old would be having. Not this .

The kettle’s whistle breaks through the silence of the house. Will seems reluctant to let him go but eventually settles when he promises to return. He does, about three minutes later, with two mugs of tea in hand - one with milk and two sugars, the other with more milk than water - and sets the latter down on the bedside table beside him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, settling down on the end of the bed, legs crossed like he's in a kindergarten assembly. Jonathan knows that his brother is about to lie to him. It’s okay though, because he knows that the truth will follow shortly after, as it always does.

The lie arrives seconds later. “Just a nightmare,” Will mutters and not even he sounds entirely convinced. Jonathan knows that the lie isn’t for any lack of trust between them, rather it’s his way of protecting them. Like he believes that keeping all his issues to himself will keep everyone around him safe. Trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, terrified that he’d drop it and hurt someone else. 

“ Will ,” he said softly because that’s all it ever takes.

He sits there for a few seconds - as worried as he always is, hiding it as he always does - waiting for his brother to open up to him about the tremor in his hands and the sharpness in his breath. Will reaches out for the mug, slender fingers curling around the ceramic as he brings it to his chest for warmth. “It was just a nightmare,” he repeats, “I think. I - I don’t know. I don’t even remember going to bed, I didn’t even know I was asleep.”

The last part is whispered. A confession hidden under his breath.

Will is good at hiding his emotions, he always has been, but he spares his brother that facade. There’s no distracting from the fear on his face, etched across every inch of his skin and god it makes Jonathan sick to his stomach.

“With the upside down I know, I always know.” Jonathan remains quiet, listening to his fumbled explanation. “I know when I’m there and when I’m not, but this - this , it was different,” he pauses, thoughtful but melancholy, “I can’t even work out which point tonight all this took over from reality.”

Jonathan takes in a sharp breath. So this is more than just a nightmare. He expected as much, from the visceral reaction Will had given, but suspicions are one thing, confirmations are something else entirely. 

“Wait,” he whispers, brow creasing, as he tries to make sense of the information he’s being handed, “so it wasn’t the upside down?”

He wanted so badly for this just to be another nightmare, for them to drink their tea and make stupid jokes until Will’s hands stopped shaking. For him to tuck his brother back into bed and take him to school the next morning like nothing was wrong and they were just a normal fucking family. Normal? God, they’re not even close.

Will sighs, some of the tension seeping from his shoulders. It’s not enough, but it’s better than it was a few moments ago. At least the shaking has mostly stopped. “Yes,” he finally admits, though Jonathan can tell from his tone of voice that he isn’t all that convinced of it, “but also no.”

Not entirely sure what he means by that, Jonathan stays quiet, hoping that his gentle encouragement will be enough to keep Will talking. It's always been a hard task to get Will to open up, he never has much liked talking about his problems, but it’s a challenge that Jonathan has risen to on a number of occasions. He’s come to master it over the years.

“It was, it looked like it, but I don’t think it was. Not really.”

Jonathan doesn’t know who seems more confused at this point, himself or Will. Neither of which helps the anxiety. A month has passed since his brother’s last nightmare and the optimist in him had hoped that, after finally forcing the creature from his body, all would now be well.

Optimism has failed him on numerous occasions; this time is no different. 

Hands trembling, Will brings the mug to his mouth to take a sip of the tea. Jonathan’s is too hot to drink for the time being, but he always adds a dash of cold to Will’s, just to bring it to the right temperature. “You know when mom buys that rip-off nutella,” he begins and Jonathan really isn’t sure where he’s going with this. Regardless, he nods. “It’s the same thing, and it looks the same - but it doesn’t taste the same. It’s nutella but it’s not. That’s what this was like.”

“The upside down, but not.”

Will nods weakly. 

“Yes.”

His heart sinks.

Chapter Text

these quiet sacred things.

Crawling through the window is a harder task than Richie expects it to be, there’s a safety catch installed and it only opens a couple feet at most but - with a little persistence and a lot of flexibility - it takes him about five minutes in the end. He’s prouder than is really necessary, makes a mental note to find out what a career in contortionism entailed and whether the pay’s any good. Well, he’s quite aware that he’s probably fucked his ribs in the process but the codeine he knocked back half an hour earlier is starting to kick in so he really doesn’t care all that much. It seems like a tomorrow problem if you ask him, most things are.

The cigarette hangs loosely between Richie’s lips as he cups his hand around the lighter, trying to get the flame to burn for longer than a split second. He sighs, frustrated, and curses himself for leaving his only good lighter at Bill’s house before he left. He’d tried to buy another from a seedy corner shop in Portland but the woman behind the counter had been a bitch about it, refusing to sell it to him without an ID. He didn’t understand why - it’s not like any cops were around and he was going to pay for the damn thing - but he couldn’t be bothered to fish his fakes from the bottom of his bag so he left her with a roll of his eyes and a lewd comment that earned him a good telling off.

It’s been a long day, the majority of it spent travelling, and Richie almost wishes he could just bring his duvet out here and sleep on the roof. It's peaceful. He needs a shower - can’t be bothered to have one now - but the sweat clings to his clothes, undercut by the sour smell of vomit thanks to the kid next to him who brought back up an entire tuna sandwich all over Richie’s trainers. His mind wanders, thoughts trailing back to Derry and the rest of the losers. They’re probably all crowded around Bill’s TV watching that VHS copy of Empire Strikes Back that he could probably quote word-for-word by now. Ben’s probably giving them a scene by scene account of how the film’s breaking almost all the laws of physics, but Eddie will be too busy worrying about which kinds of food poisoning he could get from whatever takeaway they’d ordered to pay any attention.

Richie clicks the lighter twice more and, mercifully, it finally conjures a big enough flame.

“You know, those things aren’t good for you,” a voice calls out as he takes the first drag, inhaling deeper than usual. He finds comfort in the way the smoke sits on his tongue, warm and viscid, bitter but with something sweet hidden underneath. Watching the way it fades into the night air, he turns towards the source of the noise where the girl with the curly hair and wry smile is hanging her head out of one of the windows.

“Yeah,” Richie tilts his head to the side, smiling, “neither’s four broken ribs and internal bleeding according to the doctors,” he gestures down towards his stomach, catching the way she grimaces slightly, “but here we are.”

The girl, Nancy he thinks her name is, clambers out of her bedroom window with a lot more grace than he’d managed and Richie finds himself slightly aggrieved that hers doesn’t have a safety catch on it. If he manages to find a screwdriver somewhere, he’s sure he can pry it off tomorrow. Karen would be none-the-wiser. 

There’s a chill in the air that evening, the kind that singes his skin and steals the feeling from his fingers, but Nancy doesn’t seem to be all that bothered as she takes a seat next to him on the roof. Not expecting her to take it, he offers up the cigarette and she takes one long draw with all the skill of someone who’s done that before. 

“You know,” he says softly, mimicking her accent, “those things aren’t good for you.”

She laughs at first, staring off into the trees on the other side of their street. Then her expression falls to something more sombre, “I used to tell Steve off for smoking all the time,” she pauses, “he'd always tell me I was making a fuss over nothing, that they made him look cool or whatever, but then…” Richie honestly thinks she’s about to tell him that the boy’s dead or something, prepares himself to try and comfort her which he’s pretty shit at really so he’s glad when he doesn’t have to. “Then you realise that there are things out there that are so much worse, real monsters, and everything else that seemed so important before is now just trivial, meaningless.”

He’s reminded of pasty white flesh, the acrid smell of the sewers and something darker - like death itself. And Georgie, sweet little Georgie with his wellington boots and yellow raincoat who looked at Bill like he was his entire world. He shivers; blames it on the cold. “Yeah,” he finally breathes, “I get that actually.”

Nancy stays silent for a moment, takes in another breath and Richie thinks about asking for it back. “Your dad’s a bastard,” she finally says, releasing a lung-full of smoke. It curls through the night air, catching the light in a way that makes it look its own kind of beautiful. 

It conjures memories of that summer, when the air was thick with the smell of the Kenduskeag and Bev and Richie were sitting out back of the Aladdin, having just snuck in through the fire escape to an afternoon showing of A Nightmare on Elm Street. They were perched on the railings, passing a cigarette between them as she taught him how to blow smoke-rings. 

In the middle of some conversation about the film and Richie had made some passing comment without even thinking - ‘yeah, Glen looked good in that crop top’ - and Bev just stared at him with a hint of something knowing in her eyes. He thought he was going to be sick, but she laughed like it was nothing at all and said, “yeah he did didn’t he.” A week later, she’d cut out a picture of the actor - some new guy called Johnny - from a teen magazine and pressed it into his hand while Bill was destroying Eddie at Donkey Kong. It became their little secret after that; she never told a soul.

God, he misses her already. Misses all of them.

He laughs. It sounds kind of forced, but there’s something real in there too. Richie decides he likes Nancy, she’s blunt, tells things how they are. For the last seven days, he’s heard people call it everything under the sun - the ‘incident’ , that ‘unfortunate event’ , or even simply just ‘what happened’ - but never once what it actually was. He knows what happened, the social worker knows what happened, every bloody person in Derry who reads the shit local newspaper or listens to their neighbours gossiping in the front garden knows what happened. 

Richie doesn’t need it sugar-coating and he certainly doesn’t need people pussyfooting around him - he got a VIP ticket to the main event. That’s more than any of them can say. He realises he’s been silent for nearly a minute, Nancy’s been watching him the whole time, so he replies with, “yeah, he’s a real stand up guy.”

“Do you miss him?”

The question catches him off guard. He instinctively goes to say no - because why the hell would he - but then he takes a moment to really think about it and, eventually, he still answers, “no,” but there's more to it than just that. “I don’t miss him, but,” he has to pause to try and find the words, “but I wish he wasn’t in prison you know.” Richie sighs, he needs another cigarette but he doubts that his lighter will oblige that wish. “When I woke up in the hospital and that social services woman with the fucking horrendous salmon pink jumper told me what happened, I was so mad, so mad ,” he’s getting frustrated just thinking about it, “it wasn’t even because he hurt me, but because the bastard was stupid enough to get himself caught.” 

She’s staring at him with a knowing look in her eyes, like she kind of understands but she wants him to explain anyway. This time, when he laughs, there’s something bitter about it, “my friends back home, in Derry, they’re my family y’know, and he took that from me.”

Richie’s lying back, he doesn’t know why but he wants to watch the stars. He never used to understand it, when Ben would point to the sky and tell him all these stories about warriors and mythical beasts, all he would see was white ink splattered across a black canvas. He thinks he gets it now; when he looks up to the heavens and he doesn’t just see stars, he sees Orion the hunter, Andromeda the chained maiden and he even thinks he could point out Sirius if he had to. 

“I had one of my friends taken away from me too,” Nancy breaks the silence, but it’s barely a whisper.

“By your monsters?” 

She nods.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

“This,” Lucas’s finger is pointed in Mike’s face, waving around in a way that Will thinks is meant to back up his point but he doesn’t quite know how, “is not a code red.”

Dustin’s standing not too far behind him, arms crossed over his chest, sporting an expression that makes him look a bit like Mrs Henderson. He looks tired, they all do. There’s bags under his eyes and Will can’t help but notice the way El’s head keeps dropping forward like she’s falling asleep. 

The party was awoken at six-thirty in the morning to Mike’s frantic ramblings that were barely intelligible over the radio but the words ‘code’ and ‘red’ were definitely thrown in there somewhere. Even Steve had heard it - Dustin bought him a Walkie-Talkie as a ‘thanks for saving Dart’ but Will often gets the impression that he’d rather just be left alone. In a voice that sounded like he was either half-asleep or extremely hungover, Steve had told them all to piss off and not call back unless someone was dying.

“Code red is death and destruction,” he flings his arm behind him in Will’s general direction, “or the mindflayer’s back or something .”

“This is something ,” Mike responds petulantly, wearing that expression Will’s seen a hundred times before when Mrs Wheeler lectures him about getting back late or spending too much time in the basement.

“No,” Dustin cuts in this time, “this is not something , this is your cousin’s annoying you a bit.” 

“But, he’s insufferable .”

They’re at the old park; the one a couple hundred yards off the back of Westfield Avenue that’s been long forgotten by the people of Hawkins. The slide’s all rusted, the roundabout doesn’t turn and, even with the weight of Dustin, Lucas and Max on one end, the see-saw refuses to budge. Will’s only half listening, his gaze fixed on the little slithers of sunlight as they begin to poke through the gathering of pine trees. He’s sitting on one of the swings, not moving because they make a godawful racket. Max was quick to take the other. She’s been staring at him out of the corner of her eye for the last five minutes so he’s just waiting for her to speak up.

“You alright?”

He smiles softly, offering up the answer he already has prepared, “just tired,” he says and it’s not exactly a lie, an omission of the truth perhaps, “didn’t expect to be woken up at the crack of dawn for all this.”

It wasn’t even the crack of dawn; it was pitch black outside when they got the message and it took nearly ten minutes to convince his mom that he wasn’t going to get kidnapped on the way there. He could well have, for all he knew, but he didn’t think that would settle her nerves. Now it’s the crack of dawn and the six-am darkness of the early morning sky had morphed into something warmer. Cardinal hues bleed across the horizon, dousing the fields with vermillion. It’s beautiful, he wants to paint it.

Max snorts, “yeah me neither, can’t say I’m surprised though.” 

It wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure out that Mike was exaggerating over the two-way that morning, years of friendship told them that much. It didn’t stop them from all dragging themselves out of bed and cycling down to the park though. It’s a rule that’s not to be broken: if a party member needs the party, everyone goes, no matter what. 

“Maybe we need a new code,” Max suggests, raising her voice slightly so that it carries over to the roundabout where the rest of the group are sitting. “Like an ‘ I need you all here but no one is actually dying’ type thing,” she adds, making quotation marks with her fingers.

Dustin and Lucas seem to take the idea on board, nodding thoughtfully while Mike just rolls his eyes, clearly still wanting to complain about his cousin. Then El suggests, “code pink,” and, just like that, the matters settled. Will often wonders how they got anything done before the girls joined, they probably didn’t if he’s honest.. 

There’s a pain in his temples. A heavy sort of ache that Will knows is going to hang around for hours if he doesn’t do anything about it. He wants some paracetamol, thinks there might be some in the cupboard below the sink but the pipes were leaking last week so they’re probably unusable. 

“You got one of your headaches?” Max asks, concern evident in the way her brows pull together. He gets them a lot these days - nosebleeds sometimes too - because, apparently, having your mind invaded by an interdimensional creature hellbent on destruction doesn’t come without its drawbacks.

He thinks about lying, decides against it. She’d be able to tell anyway. Lucas might be to explain Faraday’s law of induction while Dustin details the physics behind the doppler effect, but Max is a whole different kind of smart. She notices things where other people don’t, knows when to pry, knows when to stay silent. Will has some of that kind of smart too, he’s a good listener - perceptive.

“Yeah,” he nods gently, bringing his head up from his hands, “actually I think I’m going to head over to the store, mom’ll be there now, they’ll have some painkillers.” 

Max looks like she’s going to say something. She stops, biting her lip and backing down. Will knows she was about to offer to join him - can tell she still wants to - but he would only turn her down. He hates the way people act around him nowadays, like he’s only one wrong word away from crumbling. He thinks that’s why he’s grown to like spending time with Max. She doesn’t wrap him in bubble wrap or treat him like he’s different, doesn’t mention the mindflayer or the upside down or the weird lab and the demodogs at any given opportunity. 

He kind of just feels normal around her, which is rare these days.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, acknowledging what he knows she wants to say, “thanks though, and,” he turns his head to look over to the others who are engaged in an argument about god knows what, “do you mind not telling them I’ve gone until they notice, just want some peace and quiet.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, “yeah, you’re not going to find much of that around here.”

Will knows they won’t notice his absence for a while, actually he’s counting on it. Being the quiet one does come with its uses sometimes, he’s often grateful for them. There’s a part of him that knows, deep down under a lot of trauma and some definite wishful thinking, that he doesn’t quite slot into the group as effortlessly as he once had. Before. God, before seems like a lifetime ago. Like he’s watching from behind glass, through a television screen. The main character looks like him, but it’s not his life.

One day, the world just decided to flip on its axis and, rather rudely Will thinks, it chose to drag him with it. He didn’t get a warning, or an option to politely decline - everyone else must have so perhaps his letter just got lost in the post. Now he spends most of his days just watching, like an outsider. That’s how it feels. 

It’s the mundanity of it all that gets to him, the typicality. It’s going to school and solving maths equations; it’s Sunday afternoons spent drawing by the fire; it’s watching Max obliterate Dustin on Dig Dug and Defender; it’s watching films and eating KFC with Jonathan; it’s all of it. Some other dimension decided to pick him up, play around for a while, then spit him back out when it got bored, and now he’s just expected to pretend the world is normal again. 

He sometimes sees traces of it in other people. In the way his mom checks his temperature each Monday without fail, in the darks of Jonathan’s eyes when he offers to pick him up every time he goes to Mike’s, and in the unspoken agreement that Will and Dustin seem to have, always cycling back to his with him without even offering first. He knows it’s a long trip out of their way, he should really tell them to stop. 

Can’t bring himself to though.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Joyce Byers hates her job.

Well, she doesn’t hate it exactly, maybe that’s a bit strong. She certainly doesn’t like it though. That week alone, she’s stacked enough tins of Campbell’s cream of tomato soup to feed the whole of Hawkins twice over with probably a few to spare.

Regardless of her grievances, she does want to keep the job. Needs to really if she hopes to surprise Johnathan with the new camera part he’s been saving up for or treat Will to some good quality watercolours this Christmas. That’s why the boy in front of her - with the mess of dark curls and the coke-bottle glasses that make his eyes double in size - is driving her up the wall.

“Right, I’ve told you four times already,” she sighs, massaging her temples with her finger tips, “no ID, no lighter.”

Maybe Joyce is the one who needs glasses because, for a split second when he first entered the store, she honestly thought it was Mike - she almost called out to him. The boy definitely looks like her son’s best friend but there are differences too. He’s taller up close, only a few inches but it’s noticeable, and he’s blind as a bat if the lenses in his glasses are anything to go by. Joyce will admit that he has a better haircut too - or lack thereof, he wears it long, in curls that aren’t far off grazing his shoulders..

“And I’ve just handed you my ID,” he grins, gesturing towards the piece of plastic clasped between her fingers.

Her left eyebrow migrates a centimetre or two up her forehead, “you mean this one here that tells me you’re a forty-two year old man from the state of Louisiana.”

“Well ma’am, this ,” he gestures towards his face, putting on possibly the worst southern accent Joyce has ever heard, “is your reminder to always wear your sunscreen.”

She bites back a laugh - unsuccessfully - and the boy looks triumphant, “well,” she peers at the name on the driver’s licence, “ Bruce , how are things down in the Pelican State?”

“Just great sugar, the pelicans are all fine and dandy.” She loses it at that one, laughter bubbling over. He’s not far behind her, his resolve crumbling fast. A rather austere old lady looks up from the bread buns, over by Joyce’s immaculately arranged soup display, and sends them a glare that is clearly intended to convey her disapproval. The boy has the decency to look a little apologetic but Joyce doesn’t give two fucks. It’s the same old bat that tried to haggle with her over a 15 cent can of beans last Tuesday because the label had a tear on it. 

“Look kid,” Joyce gives in, though not completely. She isn’t losing her job over this. “Take a right out of this shop,” she gestures towards the window and he looks like he’s trying to concentrate on the directions, “head down to the end of the street, there'll be a corner shop on your left, if you give them something vaguely believable they’ll probably sell you one.”

The boy grins, pulling out a battered wallet. He spends a few moments flicking through the cards - Joyce wonders how many there are, the hopes he isn’t some sort of career criminal because, according to the Gazette, they start young these days - and he eventually pulls one out. “How about Derrick, twenty-two from Ohio?” 

“Better,” she laughs, “much better, now out.” 

He then goes as far as to salute her, lazily and with a grin that screams all sorts of trouble, before he starts walking backwards towards the shop doors. “Ma’am, you are a shining example to your town and community,” he says but she’s too busy worrying that she’ll have to stack all those displays again for the third time in fewer days. Joyce releases a breath of relief when he safely makes it past the instant coffee, waving wildly at her. 

It’s at that exact moment that the store owner, Donald, decides to wander over and she swears if that little twirp gets her fired she’ll be furious. Instead, he surprises her. “Are you the big guy?” He shouts across the store, continuing before Donald even has the chance to answer, “just want to say, the lovely Joyce over there, excellent customer service, ten out of ten, I’ll definitely be shopping here again.”

Donald must be in his late sixties, not that she’s ever asked him, but the creases around his eyes and the wisps of grey hair coiffed atop his head suggest that much. The bell clangs, tinny and metallic, as the boy leaves the shop, wandering past the window with a bounce in his step. 

Her boss looks a little taken aback. She doesn’t blame him, the kid’s certainly got a big personality. His eyes follow him, until he disappears down the street, before he turns to Joyce who just offers up her best retail smile, “the importance of good customer service.”

He just nods, impressed for once, “about that advance.”

Chapter Text

burns so bright.

Richie’s humming a tune. Some cheesy new-wave pop song that Eddie always plays when he thinks no one else is around. Richie hates it, he can’t even remember the name of the band - Spandex Ballet maybe? Something like that - but now it just reminds him of home. He needs that kind of comfort. 

His skin’s mottled red from the heat of the shower, hair falling in front of his eyes in damp ringlets that leave patches of dark blue on his top where the fabric soaks up the water. There’s the smell of bacon in the air and a shout of, “Richard, there’s pancakes if you want any,” and Richie thinks that maybe this new life of his won’t be so bad after all.

“Mornin’ Auntie,” he sings, trying to bite back a groan as he slides into one of the seats at the dining table. The weather’s nice outside, nicer than Maine at least but that’s hardly an achievement. It’s pleasant he supposes, but the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds is beginning to aggravate his headache and he wishes, not for the first time this week, that the remnants of his concussion would politely fuck off and leave him be.

“Good morning Ri-” She stops, just for a second, but it’s long enough for Richie to acknowledge it. Karen shakes her head, plasters on a smile “did you sleep okay?”

He knows it’s the bruises, they’re worse in the daylight. Bev said they looked like a Monet, melded shades of blues and purples painted across his delicate skin like watercolour. Richie had just told her that they looked like a court case waiting to happen. Only one of them was actually right.

Doesn’t help that they’re getting darker with every passing day.

Richie ignores the question, thinks that the dark rings under his eyes should answer for him, “I get breakfast made for me too,” he nods over to the pancakes she’s plating up for him, “can I just say that the service in your establishment is exceptional .”

Her head tilts back in laughter, curls bouncing in a way that couldn’t be achieved without an arsenal of expensive products, “that’s funny, my Michael doesn’t think the same, what was it he said when I made him wash the dishes last week?” She pauses for a moment, the pan grasped in mid-air as she thinks, “ah yes, do I not know the difference between a household and a labour camp, that was it.”

He’s somehow not surprised about that, irrespective of that fact he’s only ever exchanged about ten minutes worth of conversation with him. Richie laughs - it’s actually kind of funny - and says, “ahhh, so that’s why you offered to take me in, another inmate for your workforce.”

“Am I that transparent?” She gasps, feigning an expression that falls halfway between shock and offence. Laughing, Richie turns to look at the girl who’s been staring at him for the last few minutes. He smiles softly, tilting his head slightly so he’s closer to her level, “hiya, you must be Holly,” he says gently, offering a little wave. 

She doesn’t respond, just stares up at him with those big brown eyes. In a way, she reminds him of Georgie - all silent stares and curiosity. His eyes are - were - blue though. Even after three years, he still forgets sometimes. Doesn’t mean to but it just happens. 

His mind conjures a memory. Bill’s showing Georgie how to make a paper plane, the kind with the little flaps at the back that make them go faster. Then Richie’s chasing after it, pretending to fall over so that Georgie gets there first, grabbing the paper triumphantly and holding it up for all to see. Richie pushes the memory away, not wanting to think about it now. It’s a happy one, but it still hurts in his chest.

“Don’t want to talk to me huh,” he teases gently. There’s a discarded piece of apple on the plate next to him, browning at the edges where it’s been left out in the open for too long. Richie picks it up, curls his lips around it in a way that makes it look like some cartoonish sort of frown. He pulls a face, like those cheap mimes you see in the city, and trails a finger down his cheek as if a tear’s falling.

Holly laughs, a shy little giggle that catches in her throat, and he uses his tongue to flip the piece of fruit so that he’s smiling. Timorous giggles soon grow into full blown laughter when Richie pulls his glasses further down his nose, making his eyes grow as wide as saucers. 

“I’m Holly,” she finally says and that little hint of nervousness returns. He can see it in the way she looks at the table when she speaks to him, poking at the piece of pancake on her plate. 

“Well Miss Holly,” he decides to put on one of his accents, the posh middle-class English one he picked up from Ben’s undying love of Bond films, “my name is Richard but, because you’re my favourite, you get to call me Richie, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He extends a hand out towards her, weaves between the vase of lilies and a half-empty glass of orange juice, letting it hover in the air between them. Holly looks at him strangely at first, like she doesn’t know what he’s doing, so he reaches forward to clasp her hand in his and shakes firmly, “that means we’re friends now.” 

She leans forward, chin resting on the table with her eyes narrowed, “does that mean you have to play with my dolls with me?”

“Of course,” Richie says like it’s a given, “and you have to read my comics with me.”

Holly frowns.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.” Protesting his innocence, his hands rise up next to him.

Richie can feel another pair of eyes on him, watching the conversation unfold. His aunt is smiling at them; he’s seen Bill give them the same look when he used to play with Georgie back in the day. Out of Bill’s friends, Richie had always been Georgie’s favourite. Maybe it’s the voices, or the jokes, or - as Eddie had once remarked - maybe his face is just funny. Either way, the youngest Denbrough had formed an attachment to him and, as an only child himself, Richie really didn’t mind.

“How much syrup do you want on your pancakes?” 

Richie purses his lips in that way he often does when he’s making a decision, “verging on diabetic coma,” he answers after a moment’s deliberation.

She lets out a short breath that sounds like a ghost of a laugh, Richie knows that’s a firm no which she confirms by saying, “how about we settle for a mild toothache instead?”

“Fine by me Auntie Karen.”

The pancakes are fucking glorious, heavenly. He feels like he’s ascended. After years of cooking for himself - courtesy of a largely absent father and a mother he wouldn’t let within half a mile of a kitchen - Richie decides that he’s been robbed of a lifetime of culinary ecstasy. Ego aside, he’ll admit he’s a good cook. It would be embarrassing if he wasn’t really, with all that practice. He’s no Karen Wheeler though, that much is for certain.

His aunt’s upstairs now, getting Holly ready for some playdate she’s arranged with a few of the other mums in the neighbourhood so Richie thought he’d do the washing up, feels like he should help out somehow. There’s a bottle of dish soap on the windowsill, orange blossom and bergamot. He doesn’t have a clue what that’s actually meant to smell like, but it’s nice. 

Only ten minutes pass while he stands over the kitchen sink, scrubbing at the plates. It doesn’t take him long to get it done, he’s used to it now. Shortly after he places the last dish on the drying rack, Karen emerges down the stairs followed by his youngest cousin, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. His aunt herds her down the hallway and Richie offers them a cheery goodbye and a promise to Holly that he’ll play with her dolls later. Just as Karen’s fumbling around in the china dish next to the front door - where the hell are the damn car keys? - Richie tells her that he’s going to wander into the town centre.

He needs a working lighter.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

If Jonathan has spent the entire morning worrying about his younger brother, Will doesn’t need to know about it. 

It’s dark inside the room - that’s kind of the point - but Jonathan’s eyes have long since adjusted. In the same way that he barely notices the metallic smell of acetic acid and ammonium thiosulphate that seems to bother Nancy so much when she joins him on her lunch breaks. Speaking of, there’s a knock at the door. He knows it’s her, can tell from the rhythmic sort of tune to it, plus he heard her heels clicking down the hallway a few seconds prior. 

“Two seconds,” he shouts and Nancy never complains because she understands the science of it all now. His last photo - the one of Mrs Barnaby and her cat that one of the local kids saved from the RadioShack roof - only has a minute left in the fixative. 

“Okay, sorry,” Jonathan calls and he hears the gentle click of the door behind him - appreciates the way she opens it as little as possible - as he plunges the photography paper into the washing fluid. He feels her arms snake around his waist, chin resting on his right shoulder as he works. Nancy sighs gently, her breath tickles his neck.

He spins in her grasp and, now that he’s facing her, presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before saying, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Nancy’s had one of those little frowns on her face since she came down for her morning break three hours ago. The kind that makes her lips pucker and her eyebrows pull closer together than usual. Given the timing, it’s most likely that prick called Bruce giving her some pathetic back-page story to write. It annoys her; it annoys him too. She’s so much better than that and he doesn’t understand why the other employees can’t see it. She’s going to be one of the world’s finest investigative journalists someday, he knows it. His very own Nancy Drew.

“Only if you tell me what’s wrong first.” Jonathan goes to protest - to give her some childish argument like ‘I asked you first’ - but Nancy raises an eyebrow and he knows that she isn’t going to back down. There’s no point in trying. 

“It’s Will, I -” Jonathan shakes his head as if to convince himself that he’s just letting his mind run away from him. He always used to worry about Will - he’s an older brother, that’s his job right? - but now, it’s almost constant. The upside down has thrown itself into their lives on two occasions, who’s to say it won’t take that liberty again for a third time? “It’s nothing,” he sighs, turning to inspect one of the photos hanging from the wires he has strung across the room. He can see the faint outlines of a house beginning to form on the paper, blurred and muted but definitely there. That’ll be on the front page tomorrow morning. 

“It’s not nothing to you,” Nancy reasons, using her hands to tilt his head back towards her, “and therefore it’s not nothing to me either.”

Jonathan releases a sigh, one that’s probably been building up all morning, and leans back against the side of the bench. If he’s being honest, he’s not even sure exactly what it is that he’s worrying about. He guesses that’s sort of the problem though.

“He had this nightmare last night, I think, maybe, I don’t know.” There’s another sigh, feels like he needs a hundred more. The older he gets, the more he understands his mother. The constant worrying, the phone calls, the tight hugs every time he or Will leave the house. He’s starting to see it in himself now, it’s involuntary. “He said it was the upside down, but it wasn’t,” he continues, fumbling over his words in an attempt to explain, “like, it looked like it, but it didn’t feel like it, he didn’t even remember going to sleep.”

“If it didn’t feel like the upside down, and it happened when he was asleep - it never used to,” Nancy reasons and sometimes - all the time - he’s so bloody grateful to have her in his life. She balances him out; they balance each other out.  “Then it probably is just a nightmare,” she continues.

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then we deal with it,” she says and god he wishes he had her resolve. Nancy Wheeler burns so fucking bright it blinds him sometimes. That fire, that tenacity, it warms his bones, ignites his soul. “We’ve done it twice before, what’s a third time huh?” A smile is on her face but there’s something kind of melancholy about it, “I’ll be right here with you the whole time.”

She wraps her arms around him, tighter than usual, and Jonathan lets his head fall into the crook of her neck. He takes comfort in the scent of her perfume - floral, with something spicier underneath - the permanence of her breathing and the way her fingers cart through the length of his hair, moving down to rub circles on his shoulder.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Will’s cycling up Richmond Drive, not to be confused with Richmond Way at the other side of town, this is the one that curls round towards Melvald’s and the little RadioShack next door. The one that Mike crashed his bike on when they were twelve - he still insists that the lamppost wasn’t there the day before - and Will had to drag him up to the pharmacy where Lucas’ mum works.  

The pressure that’s been mounting in his head over the morning has lessened slightly. Maybe it’s the walk, more likely it’s the solitude. His mind’s always clearer when he’s by himself. It used to be the opposite - when supernatural entities and different dimensions played a role in his life - he could forget it all for a moment when he was around his friends. Now his biggest problem is his friends, or at least the way he can see the party disintegrating around him, falling between his fingers like sand. Will can’t seem to do anything to stop it. That’s why he appreciates the time away from them these days, he can just pretend like everything is as it used to be. Yesterday, he almost caught himself missing the days they spent chasing monsters. 

Then he remembers that some people actually died and he hates himself for thinking something so selfish.

Will’s only a few minutes away from the general store, he doesn’t know if he still wants the paracetamol - doesn’t know if he even wanted it in the first place - but he thought he’d stop by to see his mother anyway. That always makes her smile. 

It’s as he’s passing the laundrette Mike’s sister used to work at, the scent of detergent irritating his nose, that Will Byers nearly commits his very first case of vehicular manslaughter. Hopper wouldn’t be impressed. 

The boy came out of nowhere, well he came out of the small gap between the beat-up Ford Cortina and a marginally better looking Toyota, but to Will that seemed like nowhere. Fortunately, he manages to swerve out of the way of the boy - and any hypothetical lawsuits - just in the nick of time. Unfortunately, when he slams the front brake a little too hard and turns the handlebars a little too sharply, his body hits the tarmac with a force that would make anyone wince. For a moment, he just lies there staring up at the sky, a little dazed but not dead - or a murderer. That’s a relief.

With that cleared up, he can move on to the next most pressing thought: fuck, that hurt.

“Shit,” the boy drops to his knees beside him, his face the perfect picture of concern, “are you okay?”

Will grimaces, pulling his body into a seated position. There’s a sharp pain in his right shoulder, he’s taken the skin off his elbow, and his knees are bloodied but, “yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he says, “sorry for nearly running you over.”

Years ago, there’d be tears in his eyes. He’d have to bite back a whimper and his voice would shake but now, besides the flicker of pain on his face, there’s nothing. He’s had worse; it really puts things into perspective. 

“Considering you just threw yourself at the pavement to avoid running me over,” he smiles, but he’s busy inspecting the cuts on Will’s knees, “ I should be the one apologising to you .”  

Will takes an opportunity to get a look at the boy -  from what he can see under his mess of hair that is. He’s pretty sure that he’s not from around here, doesn’t recognise him and he seems like someone you wouldn’t forget easily. Seems like someone who wouldn’t let you forget him.

It’s something else that commandeers Will’s attention though. There’s a deep brush of purple - mottled with flecks of blue - melting into the cut of his jaw, trailing up to his temples in a way that feels awfully deliberate. He looks up at Will, catches his eye, and he can see something click, “ah, this,” he gestures towards the bruises, “got it in a fight, these three old ladies were robbing the local bank, one caught me with her handbag - probably see it in the papers tomorrow.”

“Let me guess,” Will says, the least he could do was humour him after he really mowed him down like a damn bowling pin, “you run around the streets each night, clad in spandex, bitten by a radioactive spider…”

“Radioactive rabbit actually,” the boy puts his hands above his head like ears, catches his bottom lip with his teeth, “I can chew through anything , you seen Monty Python?”

Will shakes his head, trying his hardest not to laugh. His hardest doesn’t seem to be good enough though because a few manage to escape anyway. “How come I just face planted the tarmac, and you still manage to look worse than me?”

The boy snorts, saying, “you’ve clearly not seen your haircut then,” and Will feels like he should be offended but there’s something about his tone of voice that just makes him laugh instead. Supposes he’s right too, he loves his mum but she’s no hairdresser. 

Now that the boy’s facing him, hair pulled back from his eyes, Will manages to see past the bruises and the bust lip and the glasses that are definitely too big for his face, and look at him . That’s when the realisation hits him, clatters him over the head really.

“You’re Mike’s cousin,” he finally concludes and he doesn’t know why it took him so long to put two-and-two together because, now that he’s realised, it’s so blindingly obvious. If it’s not for the fact that he looks scarily similar to Will’s best friend, the bruises should be a dead giveaway. Mike told him what happened.

The boy, who looks like he hasn’t brushed his hair in a year, places a hand on his own chest like Will has just complimented him greatly, “didn’t realise I was famous,” he says, sounding shocked, “want my autograph, I’ll even write a special message just to you.” He finishes it off with a wink and Will can feel his cheeks going beet red.

“I’m honoured,” he deadpans.

“You should be.”

Somewhere not far behind him, there’s the sound of a car horn, once and then again a few seconds later. That’s when Will realises he’s still sitting in the middle of a road. It probably wasn’t the safest place to be and, having just crashed his bike, he didn’t particularly fancy getting himself run over to top of what’s shaping up to be an unfortunate morning.

“Right, come on then,” he grabs both of Will’s wrists in a firm grasp, pulling him off the tarmac before he really knows what was happening. One hand reaches down to grab his bike while the other remains on Will’s wrist, guiding him down the pavement carefully.

He finally asks where they’re headed, just sort of accepting he was going with him at that point, and Mike’s cousin replies, “can’t leave you looking like that,” he drops his wrist and gestures towards Will’s knees and elbow. “It’ll get infected and fall off or something,” the boy explains, then shakes his head with a fond sort of smile, “god, I sound like Eds.”

They leave the bike - having added to the collection of chips in the paintwork - leaning against a recently painted park bench that’s been there for as long as Will remembers. The pharmacy smells as pharmacies usually do, medicinal. Will doesn’t like it, hasn’t for years. The smell of antiseptic and the overly-white gleam of the counters only remind him of his hospital room in Hawkins’ Lab. Not one of his fondest memories. Sensing something’s up, even though they’re barely acquainted, the boy - Richie, he thinks Mike said - asks if he’s okay. By the look on his face, he doesn’t quite believe the gentle nod of Will’s head but he’s grateful that he doesn’t push it any further.

Will’s staring at all the little coloured bottles lined up on the shelves behind the counter - Acetaminophen, Phenylephrine, Nifedipine, Diphenhydramine, Rabeprazole - trying to figure out how to pronounce the names of half of them. He’s not really listening to what Richie’s saying to the lady, something about rubbing alcohol and infections, but suddenly he’s being guided behind the desk and over to a little room at the back. Richie’s muttering a thanks to the pharmacist - a small, plump woman who reminds him of his third-grade teacher - and she smiles at them before returning to her place on the shop floor.

“Here, sit,” he pats the only section of counter space in the little break-room. It’s next to the sink and there’s a little water splashed on it but he doesn’t really care, he just obliges Richie’s request and hoists himself up. “Okay,” he says, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, cotton pads in the other, “this’ll sting a little, I'm sorry.”

Air pushes its way between the gaps in Will’s teeth as he draws in a sharp breath. The pain’s more intense than he expected, like Richie’s taken a hot poker to his knee - he almost checks to see - because hell , it’s worse than the injury itself. “Fuck me,” he hisses, his grip on the countertop tightening.

Richie’s eyebrow quirks and Will already knows where this is headed. “Least take me out to dinner first.”

Blood rushes to Will’s cheeks again, hot and prickling. He’s starting to realise what Mike means about all the offhand jokes and lewd comments. It doesn't annoy him in the same way though. It embarasses him, sure, but it’s weirdly nice to have someone talk to him like he’s actually his own age and not still some twelve year old kid. Will finds himself retorting with something slightly out of character, “you don’t even know my name.”

Pain shoots across Will’s knee; Richie’s pulling at some chips of gravel embedded in the broken skin, mumbling his apologies as he does. He pulls back, inspecting his work and, looking satisfied, he says, “we’ll I’m on tenterhooks here, you’re going to have to tell me.”

He snorts, grateful that Richie has abandoned the rubbing alcohol in favour of gauze and surgical tape, “it’s Will.”

“Ah William,” he grins.

“Just Will.”

“Wilhelm?”

His eyes do that little roll he picked up from Max, the one he usually saves for the party. “Will,” he says firmly, but not unkindly.

Richie’s washing his hands in the sink, water tinged a slight pink, as he turns to look at him. “Okay,” he looks thoughtful, “Wilbur?”

“Definitely not.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, a grin spreading across his face, “it’s Wilbur now.”

Chapter Text

vive la france.

The dial tone seems to continue endlessly, an incessant shrill screech that makes Richie’s right ear hurt. That’s why he considers that gentle click, when the phone line connects and the bloody thing finally stops ringing, one of few small mercies in this world.

“ RICHIE , Richie is that you? It's been two days, two days , the bus could have crashed, I checked the news to see if you were dead . I didn’t know if they’d let me skip school for your funeral and I -”

He clears his throat. 

“Richie? Wait, who is this?” 

Fishing out an accent that not even Richie himself can place, he asks the boy on the other end of the phone, “is this the Kaspbrak household?” It’s that formal sort of tone, the one adults always adopt when they’re calling someone important. When his father would ring up one of his patients to tell them they need all their teeth removed and it’s going to cost them a small fortune for the pleasure. 

The accent - maybe it’s a little Midwestern actually - seems to work because a shy voice replies down the phone line, “erm, yes?”

“Hello, this is Dr Connie Lingus from the Derry Medical Centre,” Richie continues. He doesn’t really know where he’s going with this - he honestly thought that Eddie would have clocked on by that point - but he just sort of makes it up as he goes along. Hoping for the best. “I just want to confirm that we’ve received Sonia Kaspbrak’s prescription for,” he pauses for a split second, as if he’s reading some fabricated medical notes, “ah yes, vaginal thrush cream and we’ve sent it to -”

“RICHIE I SWEAR TO GOD.”

Holding in the laughter is near impossible. It just bursts out of his chest like that John Hurt scene in Alien. Less blood though. And significantly less of Stan nearly throwing up into his popcorn bucket while Eddie’s emetophobia is going haywire in the background.

“You’re getting slow Eduardo, took you a while to realise,” Richie’s grinning like a kid in a candy store, it’s all too easy, “then again, guess you haven’t had much experience with Dr Connie Lingus.”

Neither did he, nor does he ever plan to. But no one needs to know that. No one but Bev, that is. Bev knows all his secrets though so that doesn’t count.

“I swear to God himself Richie, if you don’t stop talking I will hang up,” and he adds for good measure, “seriously, you know I will, I’ll do it”

He won't. It’s an empty threat, it always is.

“Well if I have to stop talking, that kind of defeats the point of a phone call now doesn’t it,” and Richie knows his smirk is evident in his voice. Wants it to be. “And I’m an atheist so that kind of defeats the point of your threat too - and actually you’re also an atheist,” he sighs, forcing some disappointment into his tone, “you really didn’t think through did you Eds.”

He forgets how much he loves winding Eddie up. It’s so satisfying. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie finally says but there’s no venom behind his words.

He forgets how much he loves it when Eddie bites back. It’s even more satisfying.

“Me and my right hand are very well acquainted, I'll have you know.” 

“Not surprised,” the boy from Derry doesn't even miss a beat. Richie almost feels like a proud father. “I doubt any girl would look twice at you with a haircut like that.”

Richie looks across the room to the full length mirror resting against the wall, one of the few pieces of furniture that Mike didn’t pillage before his arrival. His curls are a mess, Eddie’s not wrong, but he doesn't really care. Just lets them do their thing. And if that’s falling in front of his eyes in a way that means half of his vision is obscured, so be it. “Touché, mon ami.”

“What happened to the Spanish?”

“New state, new me.” Richie tries to lie down on the bed, stretching Nancy’s phone cord as far as it’ll go, but there’s no use. It’s too far. Eventually he has to settle in a position with his legs on the mattress, head on the floor - well aware that his back would pay the price later. “Plus I ate three croissants for breakfast this morning and they were fucking glorious, vive la France.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot, an actual certified idiot,” Eddie’s voice comes babbling over the speaker and Richie knows he’s about to go off on one of his tangents. He’s been waiting for it. “Like there is actually something wrong with you? Why am I friends with you, does that mean there’s something wrong with me too?” If Richie thinks the polo shirts, extreme hypochondria and the entire bloody pharmacy he ties around his waist is anything to go by, the answer is probably yes. “And you know what’s worse? I missed you. I thought you were dead .” Extreme exaggeration bordering on nihilism needs adding to the mental list. “Then you ring me up to talk about vaginal thrush cream, wanking and croissants.”

“Aw, you missed me spaghetti-man?” It gives him a weird warm feeling in his chest, followed by something colder. More painful. He misses Derry. Well, not Derry . His life there. His friends. God, he really fucking misses those losers. So damn much. It hasn’t really hit him until now; it hasn’t really had time to. Suddenly, he finds himself wanting to end the call.

There’s a silence. He’s so tempted to slam the handset down on the receiver. “Yeah,” Eddie breathes like an admission, his voice solemn, “we all do Richie, it’s not right here without you, and with Bev gone for a few weeks too,” he sighs, “it’s just strange. I don’t like not having my best friend around.”

For once Richie’s silent. It’s a rare occurrence - one which he’s sure his cousin would love the key to - but he just doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he was home. Winding Eddie up in person, or beating Bill at Donkey Kong down at the arcade for the hundredth time, or lounging on the fire escape behind the Aladdin with Bev, smoking cheap cigarettes and chatting shit. Christ, he’d even listen to one of Ben’s bloody architecture lectures right now. Like actually listen . Not just nod along and pretend he knows what’s being said.

“Yeah, yeah me too,” he finally says.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Will’s starting to get used to being the third wheel.

Getting used to it doesn’t seem to make it hurt any less though. Or maybe it does. It’s more of a dull ache now, a longing for times past. He can mostly ignore it, or accept it at least, which is more than he used to be able to do.

It’s just past six on a Sunday evening and the sun has long since set on the town of Hawkins. His mum’s at work, predictably. Donald made her take the late shifts that week but she doesn’t seem all that bothered by it. Will knows they need the extra money. 

Minutes pass and he scratches absentmindedly at the scabs on his knee, they won’t stop itching. It’s a good thing Richie was there to clean them, though if he wasn’t there in the first place his knees would still be intact. Will doesn’t think he’d have bothered properly himself. Maybe just wiped it with a damp cloth and picked at the gravel a little. Richie seemed to know what he was doing and, given what Mike had said about his father, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Will's stomach turns uncomfortably at the thought.

Upon his arrival a few hours earlier, it only took Mike the better part of two minutes before he was crouched on the floor, inspecting Will’s kneecaps like a concerned mother. He’d reeled off a list of questions. What happened? Did you clean it? Properly? With antiseptic? Is your bike okay? And, as the list went on, Will's frustrations grew. He hates being treated like a child. Most of his friends do it anyway though. He hadn’t even told Mike what had happened. Not in full anyway. For some reason, he felt like he should omit the whole part about meeting his cousin, it would only turn Mike’s mood sour. So he did. As far as Mike’s concerned, he cycled over a pothole outside the pharmacy. 

“Easy miss, I’ve got you,” the voice comes through the television set, crackling slightly because of the old speakers.

“You - you've got me? Who's got you?”

Mike makes some comment like, “wouldn’t it be so cool to be like him, like saving people and everything,” and Will just takes one look at Christopher Reeve on the screen and thinks that he would actually quite like to be Lois Lane in this situation. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s because he’s already had enough of chasing monsters for one lifetime. Yeah, that’s it.

He doesn’t say that though. Instead, he just replies, “nah El’s saved your ass too many times, she’s the superwoman.” El seems to like that answer, flashing him a smile from across the room where she’s tucked under Mike’s arm. 

Evenings at the Byers’ house are often spent like this. Mike and El captured in each other’s arms on the sofa, Will sits by himself on the armchair, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere , else. It’s practically El’s house too now. Hopper’s only a few days a week away from having moved in, most of his free timing being taken up by Will’s mum. It’s sweet really, he’s happy for them.

He wants to be happy for El too - and Mike - he really does. But he just can’t, however hard he tries. They’re just always there, together, and he misses the days when it was just him and Mike against the world. When the four of them would play D&D for hours on end and spend their lunchtimes in the AV room. It’s selfish, he knows, but he misses it so fucking much.

And it’s confusing because he doesn’t feel the same way about Lucas and Max - though he guesses they’re not all over each other every single time they’re together. In fact, Will hasn’t seen anything more than hand holding or a few exchanged kisses when they’re all together. He appreciates that. What he doesn't appreciate is the way Mike and El lock their faces together every damn time he leaves the room - or sometimes even when he’s still in it.

Will sighs. He can tell that they’re waiting for him to leave; not that they would ever say that to his face. It’s not even like he wants to really be there so he might as well indulge them. He stretches his arms above his head, feigns a yawn and says, “you know what, I’m getting tired and Chewie still needs a walk so I’m going to take him out.”

At the mention of his name, or maybe even just the word 'walk' , there’s a familiar jangle of metal on metal from the other room. When his mother was on shift at Melvard’s, she’d overheard one of the local housewives mention an article in People Weekly that said dogs could sense the supernatural or some bullshit like that. Regardless, she came home two weeks later with a bundle of brown fur trailing behind her and the biggest grin he’d seen her wearing in a long time. Secretly, Will thinks she just adopted him to have someone with him when he’s home alone. For once he didn’t complain about her fussing. He adores Chewie.

“I’ll come with,” Mike’s already reaching for a beat-up pair of Adidas, removing his arm from El’ shoulders without even waiting for an answer. It’s sweet really, he’s always been the mum of the group, but Will just wants to be alone. Well, he doesn’t to be honest but he’s already sick of the alternative.

“Nah, you guys stay, I'm fine on my own,” Will says, carting his fingers through Chewie’s fur. Enthusiastically, the spaniel licks up the side of his arm leaving a trail of saliva that glistens in the light of the table lamp. Ugh , he groans but it’s affectionate. Loving.

“Are you sure?” There’s something hopeful in his tone. Slight, yet definitely there. Will tries to ignore it, look past it, but he can hear it in the inflection. The little lilt his voice does on the final word. El’s got a small smile on her face too. Looks up at Mike with something in her eyes.

Will forces himself to look away, saying, “yeah certain, come on boy.” He gestures towards the front door - which is half painted dark green now because his mum thought it needed ‘sprucing up’ but they ran out of paint part-way through - and Chewie bounds across the room with glee.

And Mike’s saying something - or is it just the TV? - but he really can’t be bothered to listen so he just calls, “see you,” over his shoulder, in something fake and cheery, then slams the door shut behind him.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Mike feels weird, unsettled maybe. 

He’s been staring at the same small tear in Leia Organa’s right arm - from the time Dustin kicked a chair into the wall - for the last ten minutes. His mind keeps wandering back to Will’s house earlier. Not to the time he spent with El, though that was - he smirks - great. But just before that, when Will bolted out the house like the kitchen was on fire. Mike almost checked for smoke. There’s a knock to jerk him from his reverie, followed by the familiar creek of the basement door and a streak of light cutting across wooden steps. Paints lines across Mike’s face.

“Christ,” comes a voice that Mike really doesn’t want to be hearing right now, “this smells worse than the boys’ locker room, ever heard of a shower Wheeler? There's one upstairs, on the left - you should try it sometime.”

“You could’ve knocked,” he grumbles as his cousin’s trainers appear, unwelcomed, into his line of sight. The satisfied smirk that follows, as he finally makes it to the bottom of the stairs, is even less welcome in Mike’s space. 

“I did,” he answers plainly. 

“Okay,” he draws out, slow. Petulant. “Then you could have waited for an answer.”

“It would have been no,” Richie shrugs

“Exactly.”

The inside of the basement, his bedroom now he supposes, is dimly lit by a string of multicoloured fairy lights that Will’s mom had given him years ago after buying nearly ten sets of them when he went missing. Mike likes them, they calm him. Soft and warm with none of the severity of the main light. 

If Mike hadn’t pulled his knees up to his chest, Richie would be sitting on them right about now. Just threw himself down on the sofa like he owns the place. Anger prickles under his skin, reddens his cheeks, but he manages to bite his tongue. For now.

“Oh come on Kermit, lighten up,” his cousin grins, picking up an old Wonder Woman comic that Mike forgot he even owns. He flips to some page in the middle and Mike hopes, with a brief flash of naivety, that he might actually shut his mouth for longer than seven seconds. He’s wrong - of course - because Richie just makes some choked gagging noise and says, “ugh, Wheeler the pages are all stuck together, seriously? She’s a drawing, you must be desper-”

The slightly deflated cushion that Mike throws at his face, cutting him off mid-ramble, doesn’t appear to have the desired effect because Richie’s just laughing even louder. There’s some coughing in there too, courtesy of the impressive cloud of dust it released on contact, and Mike takes that small win.

Mike knows it’s a lie, knows he’s being wound up. But he doesn’t know what annoys him more: Richie’s attempts to frustrate him or the fact that they’re bloody well working. “I - it’s not - you’re lying,” he’s practically stuttering with anger. “I have a girlfriend , a real one.” God, he sounds like a child.

Momentarily, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of quick, Richie’s face morphs into something like surprise. Mike feels victorious. It’s gone as quick as it arrives. Replaced by nonchalance, with a hit of something else underneath, mischievous. “Who? Brooke Shields over there?” His finger lazily points over to a poster that’s plastered to the wall behind them, torn from some old magazine years ago.

There’s a sigh. One Mike hopes sounds something like, ‘I’m above this level of immaturity,’ but comes out a little more, ‘I’m so sick of your bullshit.’ He honestly doesn’t know what he’s done wrong in this life to end up living with this idiot. Sure, there was the time he broke Nancy’s favourite necklace when he was seven, or the time cycled through all of Mrs Barnett’s tulips the year after. He did once accidentally push Dustin off of the swing at that little park near Westfield Avenue which took some of the skin off his palms. But it really was an accident. Dustin forgave him exactly seven and a half minutes later anyway. 

Okay, so he wasn’t a saint of a child. But none of those things seem to warrant this level of punishment. So if anyone cares to tell him where it all went wrong, he swears blind he’ll do everything in his power to right it. 

Richie starts humming something that sounds like Spandau Ballet.

Everything .

Chapter Text

you're simpatico

It’s one of those miserable Indiana days where the clouds blanket the sky in a steely grey and the rain can’t decide if it would be better off as snow. So, they’re left with with this awful half-snow, sleet, that’s wet and depressing and fucking cold. Richie’s trudging through the school car park, a few paces behind his cousin who clearly doesn’t want to be seen with him. 

The building itself is quite different to his school back in Derry, newer in a way that isn’t particularly nice. All brown brick and cheap plastic fascia. Richie thinks that anyone handing out planning permission back in the fifties should have been locked up for crimes against the state. 

His morning’s wasted filling in paperwork while the receptionist brings him up to speed on every sordid detail of her ex-husband’s affair. He’s pretty sure that he’s made it into her good books after calling him an ‘arrogant prick who doesn’t know what he’s lost’, right before the headteacher walked in to speak to him. And then it’s half-twelve and he’s wandering towards the school dining hall - laughing at the lewd comments scrawled across the lockers - as he prepares himself to join the teenage population of Hawkins. Officially, this time.

Searching through the crowd, he spots his cousin at a table near the far end of the room. At first he was going to find some table to himself, maybe eat outside on the benches, but then he has one of those eh-what-the-hell type moments because he really wants to find out what kind of people choose to hang out with him. 

Mike's got his back to him. Apple grasped in one hand, he gestures wildly with the other like he’s trying to explain something important. Not that the guy - with curls wilder than Richie’s - looks like he’s particularly understanding any of it. He seems to be nodding along anyway. 

It’s not just the two of them at the table. There’s a kid whose head is buried in a copy of ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ ; a girl with hair more fiery than even Bev’s, and another with a stare so intense, he’d bet she could get even the most highly-trained CIA operatives to spill their secrets. Then finally, he sees a familiar bowl cut. “Wilbur, nice to see you again.” He slings an arm around him like they’ve known each other for years.

The look on Mike’s face is fucking priceless. He’d pay to get it framed. Pride of place above the fireplace for all to see.

“Huh,” is the only word, or sound really, he manages to get out.

In way of an explanation, though he’s aware it’s a poor one, Richie offers, “nearly ran me over the other day.”

Mike gets this look on his face, the same look Bill always used to wear in Miss Devinson’s maths class when Ben would have to explain how to solve a quadratic equation by finding the square. The same look Ben always used to wear in Mr Haydock’s English class when Bill would have to explain what the fuck Curly’s wife’s red lipstick actually means in Of Mice and Men. Richie really doesn't understand all that colour-symbolisation bullshit. Haydock would probably tell him that his bedroom curtains are blue because he’s clinically depressed. Richie’s not depressed. Or he doesn’t think he is at least, he just really likes the colour blue.

“You said you cycled into a pothole,” he finally says and that does pique Richie’s interest. That’s most certainly not what happened. He feels Will tense but he’s almost impressed at how little of that his face gives away.

“Yeah,” he removes Richie’s arm from his shoulders with a pointed look. “Then I nearly ran over your cousin, didn’t realise it was him though, was in a rush and I’ve never met him before.”

He decides to go along with it, he already likes the guy better than Mike. “Hit and run.”

“Narrowly miss and cycle,” Will corrects.

“Then how did he know your name?” Damn the redhead. She actually has some common sense unlike the others. That could be a problem

Richie has to suppress a smirk when Will replies, nonchalant. “My name’s not Wilbur.”

“You know what she means.” 

“S’on his sketchbook.” 

“How do you know that’s his sketchbook?” Mike says, all smarmy like he thinks he’s outsmarted him. 

“Because it says Will’s sketchbook on the front you dumbass," the redhead's eyes roll dramatically and the other girl just laughs.

“What’s with all the questions anyway?” Richie cocks an eyebrow, grateful that Will has scooted across to make space for him. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I was interviewing you for the role of Hawkins’ chief detective, I regret to inform you that your application has been unsuccessful. DI Kermit is off the case.” He puts on his customer service voice with the smile to boot. “Though, there is a job going in our complaints department that we think you might enjoy, you’ll get to speak to like-minded people all day.”

Richie doesn’t even know that it’s possible to snort orange juice out of your nose until he sees it with his own two eyes. 

“Dustin.”

“That went on my book man.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

“So what medium do you work in?” Will asks, about an hour later, when they’re sitting at the back of the art classroom together making small talk. “Oils, acrylics, ceramics?” Richie’s kind of glad that Will’s the only other one taking that class. Well, it’s more that he’s glad Mike isn’t . The rest of his friends seem half-decent. Particularly the Max girl, she reminds him of Bev.

“Photography actually,” he grins, “I can’t paint for shit, I try to draw a realistic portrait and it turns out looking like a damn Picasso.”

Will snorts and Richie just fixes him a look that says ‘swear down’. Maybe he’ll have to paint him some atrocity one day just to prove it. 

“My brother’s big into photography actually,” he says, thoughtful. Will’s staring intently at the sketchpad in front of him. He’s carving out a jawline, the charcoal smudging under the tips of his fingers. ”You should speak to him about it - he’s the photographer for the local paper - always trying to get me into it?”

“You don’t fancy it?”

“Nah I'm more of a fine art person,” he lifts his hands up to show off his blackened fingertips, “oils, graphite and charcoal mostly.” He looks thoughtful, “but I’ve been learning to use the pottery wheel lately too.”

The conversation lapses into silence, a comfortable one. Though, it’s hardly quiet in the room with the sleet clawing at the windows and the humdrum of students milling about the room. Richie’s drawing a mind map, planning out his project for that term. The list of theme choices for the assessed unit are pretty shit if you ask Richie: journey, departure, circles, silver, plastic - who the fuck thought that was a good idea? - nocturnal and, the one he finally settled on, life and death. There’s a lot he can do with that so he can’t complain too much. 

When he looks back to Will, he’s doing that thing that Bev always does with her tongue, curling it out of the side of his mouth as he concentrates. Richie still doesn’t understand why he lied earlier, is he embarrassed of him? He looks down at his Hawaiian shirt and recalls some of the things he said that day. It wouldn’t be surprising.

Will then says, without even looking away from his drawing, “you know,” there’s a pause, “you could just ask me whatever it is that you’re thinking about instead of staring at me like I’m going to bite your head off.”

“Will you?”

“Depends on the question,” he smiles.

“Why did you pretend we hadn’t properly met?”

This time, Will does look at him and it’s with an ounce of regret. That makes Ritchie feel good. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your cousin isn’t over keen on you.” Richie snorts, he thinks that probably gives him all the confirmation he needs. “He wouldn’t stop going on about you and it was getting annoying, I didn’t want to fuel the fire.”

“What can I say, I leave a lasting impression.”

Now, it’s Will’s turn to snort. “What, you mean walking in front of my bike so I end up faceplanting the pavement.”

“I mean, you won’t forget it.”

Will shakes his head, looking down at the table, but Richie can tell he’s smiling from the way the corners of his eyes scrunch together. He not wrong though, because he can see the scuff of red on his chin. Knows it will scar. He feels a little guilty.

There’s a clatter. Someone's knocked over a pot of white spirit, it trickles down the side of the table. It doesn’t really matter though. The room is already messy, the kind of messy that would have driven his father mad but Richie himself finds some sort of comfort in. Because it feels like his own space, like the backroom in Bill’s house or Bev’s bedroom at her aunt’s house. The kind of messy that looks like utter destruction even though everything has it's own place.

“Do you?” 

“Do I what?” Will asks, confused. 

“Find me annoying?”

Will laughs, and this time it’s a proper guttural laugh. Loud enough to make the two girls in front of them turn around. “Jury’s out on that one, I’ll tell you when they reach a verdict.”

That’s when Richie decides that he quite likes Will Byers. He intends to be his friend.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Steve Harrington smells of sugar. And Grease. And that godawful cheese sauce that has absolutely no right looking the colour that it does.

He doesn’t mind his job though. That’s not to say he likes it - he doesn’t - but there are worse places to work in Hawkins than the local cinema. 

It’s nine o’clock on a Thursday evening and he finished his shift half an hour ago. It was a busy one, it has been ever since that damn terminator film came out a few weeks back. Okay, it’s a good film. Steve enjoyed it. In fact, he enjoyed it all three times he saw it. Well, maybe not the second time when Dustin dragged him, under duress, with the rest of the rug rats. It was made worse by the fact that all he could hear for the whole damn thing was the sound of Mike and Eleven’s lips smacking together. He’s sure it’ll happen all over again in a year or two because apparently, if Arnold Schwarzenegger is a man of his word, he’ll be back.

The cheeseburger that’s clasped in his left hand is starting to make the car smell. But, Steve thinks, he already smells worse than that so it doesn’t really matter. The leather of the steering wheel slides through his fingers as he turns out of the McDonald’s car park, his cup of coke swaying precariously with the momentum of it.

It’s as he’s driving down one of the country roads out by Mr Buckon’s land that it happens. He doesn’t see them at first. He’s too busy looking at the damn oil light on the dash that’s telling him he’s been low on the stuff since last Friday. He’ll take it to the garage tomorrow. Probably. 

But yeah, that’s what he’ll later tell Jonathan and Nancy when his hands are shaking and he thinks that he’s going to be locked up in a state penitentiary before his twenty-first birthday. Because one minute he’s pressing that little blue button, jabbing it quite hard really, and the next there's a loud thud and he’s watching someone crash into his front windscreen at fifty miles an hour. A flash of white and red.

He slams on the brakes; not that it would help the person now. His neck whips against the back of his seat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .

Has he just killed someone? Oh god. 

Breathing suddenly feels like a chore.

Fuck . 

What is he even supposed to do? There’s no phone box for miles. He’s in the literal arse crack of nowhere. Oh god. He won’t survive prison.

His windscreen is cracked, shattered really, but the glass still holds in place. A spiderweb of fault lines. A weighty nausea crashes across his body, drowning him. Choking him. It feels like an age before he manages to drag himself out of the car but it’s probably fifteen seconds at most. 

He doesn’t know what to expect when he rounds the back of the Beemer but even then he’s still shocked when he gets there. It’s not blood. It’s not bone. It’s not the injured body of the poor soul he just ran over. It’s nothing. 

There’s nothing.

He whips around, eyes scanning the fields around them. Still nothing. He can see for miles, all wilting grass and wooden fences, but there’s no one else around. Now he’s as confused as he is scared. He looks under the car, on top of it, circles it three whole times and then stares out across the fields again. 

And then, when he finally walks around to the front of the car again, he’s almost certain that he’s finally lost it. He’s seen demodogs and monsters with faces that open up and an entirely different reality but the thing that finally makes him think about calling up the Hawkins’ County psychiatric facility and sectioning himself is the damn windscreen of his damn car. Because there’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing. No cracks, no chips, not even a stupid scratch on the thing. Though the slightly sticky sheen of Fanta is still there after he drove off with a cup on the roof last week.

He reaches a finger out towards the car, drags it across the glass. It’s intact. But five minutes ago it was shattered. He’s sure of it. He saw it. God , he’s going mad. Certified batshit. A few cards short of a full deck.

Yeah, that’s it. He’s going insane because, for a second, he could have sworn blind the guy was dressed as a fucking clown.

A clown. 

Jesus Christ.

Maybe Nancy was right when she said he needed a therapist.

Chapter Text

king and court jester.

Climbing up the side of the Wheelers’ garage is easier than he remembers it being. Granted, that was two years ago but his point still stands. Maybe the over-priced gym membership his mother pays for at that elitist country club that makes his skin crawl isn’t entirely in vain after all. She’d be pleased to know. If she was ever at the house for longer than a few days at a time. 

When he makes it onto the roof, he whispers a little thanks because the window is open which makes his life a whole lot easier. The curtains are drawn though and maybe that signals his first mistake because he probably should’ve knocked. The gap is tight, but it’s enough for him to tumble through, crashing into a stool that he’s almost certain wasn’t there before.

Ouch . He rubs at his hip. And his head. His shin too for that matter, they’re definitely going to bruise. He always bruises easily and it’s bloody annoying. He punches Hargrove and the boy just gets a slight hint of purple. Hargrove punches him and Steve ends up looking like he’s gone a round with Ms Mackintosh's oil paint collection.

When he finally bothers looking up, Nancy isn’t the only face staring down at him. Jonathan’s there too. On top of her. With a hand up her shirt. Oh. Oh. 

He definitely should have knocked.

“Steve?”

Jonathan finally comes to his senses, choosing that moment to jump away from her like he’s been electrocuted. Even though he’s still fully clothed, Jonathan still feels the need to place a pillow in his lap when he sits back down on the bed. Steve has to suppress a smile.

“Ah Byers,” he grins, hopping up from the carpet. He’s knocked some of Nancy’s work off of the stool, scribblings about local heroes and highlighted articles from the New York Times. Steve picks them all up - hopes they weren’t in some kind of order because they certainly aren’t anymore - and shoves them onto the desk next to him. “I was hoping you’d be here too.”

He was, truthfully, though the whole walking in on them thing was entirely unintentional - and avoidable had he decided to enter the house like any normal person. Front doors were way less fun though. Plus, as much as he loves the woman, he’s not in the right frame of mind to make small talk with Karen Wheeler. So, while climbing through the window is far from ideal, somehow Steve thinks the look on Jonathan’s face makes it entirely worth it.

“What are you doing here?” Nancy says, fiddling with the last few buttons on her shirt. There’s a little annoyance in her tone but it’s masked largely by something closer to exasperation. He puts his hands up in the air like he’s being arrested and gives her a look like he’s some insolent teenager getting lectured by his parents about missing curfew.

“Came to join, you know,” Steve gestures over towards the bed, “a little er, ménage à trois.”

Jonathan snorts with laughter, earning himself a glare from Nancy. Steve doesn’t miss the way the corner of her lips curl upwards though, however hard she tries to hide it.

“Okay Harrington, you’ve got five seconds to tell me why you’re here or I’m going to shove you right back out of the window,” she stares him down.

There’s the fire he used to love about her. Still does actually. But not in the way he once did, not anymore. She’ll always mean a lot to him though. It doesn’t change the fact that she does look quite menacing and a small - well, actually quite considerable - part of him doesn’t doubt her threat. Last time he fell off this roof, he broke his wrist and doesn’t plan on doing it again any time soon. 

“One.”

Jonathan’s looking really amused in the background.

“Two, you better have good health insurance.”

He does actually. Doesn’t particularly fancy explaining to his dad why he’ll have to claim on it though.

“Three.”

“Okay, okay ,” his hands are in the air again, “you win.”

Steve sighs. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t really know what to say. Doesn’t know how to word it all without sounding insane. Then he remembers that the whole point of the visit is to check that he isn’t insane so that’s probably not a good sign. “Have you noticed anything, you know, weird?” Not a good start Steve; he’s never been great with words.

“About you?” Nancy quips, quick as ever, “yeah your hair, it doesn’t move.”

“Thank you,” he grins, pretending to pose for an invisible camera, “Farrah Fawcett, extra strong hold. Only a dollar at Melvard’s right now.”

“Wow, really ,” she deadpans, feigning interest. Jonathan is the first one to bark out a laugh but Nancy and Steve aren’t far behind. They all relax a little after that. It doesn’t take long for that motherly side of Nancy to jump out. Before he really knows what's happening, she’s moving clothes off the desk chair and sending Jonathan downstairs to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer. He returns with a bag of frozen mixed vegetables but Steve supposes it’ll do the job. 

With the pair of them sitting across from him, he feels like he’s in a job interview. Says as much, making some half-assed joke about hoping the pay’s better than the cinema. Neither of them laugh, they’re looking at him like concerned parents and it’s unnerving him slightly. Steve’s worried the pair of them; that’s the last thing he wanted.

“What do you mean by weird?” Jonathan finally says. He thinks that Steve is talking about the upside down. In a way, he supposes he is. Hasn’t admitted it to himself until that moment but yes, he definitely is. Steve doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. Evil monsters from another dimension; clinically insane. He’s been left with some pretty shit choices.

“It’s just, like an hour ago or whatever, I was driving down that road through Buckon’s fields and I, I…” 

He’s staring at an uninteresting spot on the wall behind Nancy’s head when he realises this is a bad idea. He doesn’t want to worry them, it’s the last thing they need. Things have been normal for a couple years now. It would be selfish of Steve to drag all this up over something that could just be chalked down to sleep deprivation or too many energy drinks. He doesn’t quite believe that though.

“I, actually you know what, it’s nothing, I just need a rest.”

“Hey, no,” Nancy grabs his arm as he tries to stand up, “what is it?”

“Really Nance, I’m just tired.”

She sighs when she drops his arm and Steve knows that she’ll bring this up again. They both will. There’s no avoiding it. He’s grateful that they’re dropping it for now though, he’ll come up with a better excuse later. 

“Harrington?” 

Steve turns around, “Byers?”

“We’re here if you need us,” he says. The look he gives him is genuine and Steve appreciates it. He truly does.

“Uh, yeah same. Thanks,” he nods at him. “I’ll um, leave you two to deal with,” Steve gestures lazily towards the pillow still resting in Jonathan’s lap, “ that .”

Nancy laughs properly this time, Jonathan goes beet red while Steve offers them a smirk and a little salute. He’s grateful that he manages to climb out of the window with a little more grace that he entered with. When he lands on the concrete - only just missing the hydrangea bushes lining the drive - Mike is walking out of the front door. 

“Hey kid,” Steve calls out, he hasn’t seen him in a few weeks, but when the boy turns around to face him, he adds, “wait, you’re not Mike.”

He sure looks like him, scarily similar really. But no, it definitely isn’t him. The height and the glasses give it away, his hairs all curly too. This really isn’t helping the case Steve’s trying to make in favour of his own sanity though.

“A lovely surprise, I know,” not-Mike says, “I’m his cousin, I’ve locked him up in the basement and stolen his identity, shh don’t tell anyone.”

Steve looks a little closer, it’s dark outside but he and Mike still look like the damn poster boys for some top-secret CIA cloning experiment. It’s already clear to Steve that their personalities are worlds apart though. This kid’s got a sense of humour. It’s not that Mike doesn’t - okay, it kind of is - he’s just so tightly wound. Takes everything too damn seriously. Steve sees it in Nancy too; the Wheeler siblings really are more similar than they claim to be.

Steve’s smiling before he even realises, “you are going to fit right in here,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, adds, “I didn’t know he had a cousin.”

“Neither did he,” he shrugs, “or me for that matter.” Before Steve can reply, he seems to decide that it’s his turn to ask the questions, “and who are you?”

The kid glances up to the open window that he’s just climbed out of and Steve just knows that he’s got the wrong idea about it all. The suggestive glance just confirms it. Steve doesn’t bother denying anything, doesn’t have the energy to explain things. He’s tired, stressed and potentially the perpetrator of an unintentional hit and run. Today is not his day.

“Steve, I’m sort of the babysitter around here, long story.”

“Nancy’s Steve?”

“Uh, yeah, well no,” he fumbles over his words, “well not anymore, also a long story.”

“Huh, so you’re not dead,” the kid’s looking at Steve with some weird curiosity. That kind of unnerving stare that Dustin gives him every damn time he sees him, “interesting.”

Dead. What? Should he be dead? He’s pretty sure he looks it right now - caught a glimpse of his dark circles in the rearview mirror when he pulled up - but that’s besides the point. Steve doesn’t even get the chance to ask before Mike’s cousin swings a leg over his bike and takes off down the street. 

What the fuck.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Will’s sketching when the doorbell rings, a charcoal study of his own left hand. When he was younger, and more optimistic about the world, he used to scribble down all of his wild imaginations in crayon. Dragons, knights, mages and sorcerers. Wizards that hurl balls of green fire at their enemies. As time passed and life happened, he’d had enough of monsters and magic. Now, he prefers his drawings to be grounded in realism. He’s taken a particular interest in the human form, like those old Greek statues that line the halls of fancy museums. Not that he’s ever seen one in person.

He’s tired, has been for hours. It’s reached the point where keeping his eyes open stops being second nature and starts to become a conscious decision. One that he’s not doing a very good job of fighting against as well.

The bell rings again, followed by a loud knock. Will nearly doesn’t get it - twice this week he’s had to hold a conversation with the Jehovah’s Witnesses from two streets across and he doesn’t fancy making it a third - but eventually he resigns himself to it. He remembers leaving the living room light on anyway, they’ll know someone is in. 

“Look sorry,” he’s already saying as he pulls open the front door, “but I’m really not interes - Mike? ”

That’s not who he’s expecting. At least he won’t have to talk about the bible. Silver linings Normally he’d always radio over or give him a call to say he’s dropping by. Does this mean something is wrong? He seemed fine at school that week. The first thing he asks ends up being, “is everything okay?”

“Oh hi Will, yeah, good thanks.” He says it in a weird tone of voice, like he’s almost surprised to see him. “I’m er, just here to see El actually.”

His stomach drops. He knows he’s being selfish - she’s his girlfriend after all - but he can’t remember the last time Mike stopped by just to see him.

“Oh,” is all he manages to say. And just gestures towards the back door. They used to have an old outhouse near the bottom of their garden. It’s always been pretty empty save for some rusty old gardening equipment and a radio that could only get that weird classical station for some reason. When Hopper began spending a lot of time here, they made it up into a bedroom for El. Cleaned it out, carpeted it, plastered the brick work - very unevenly but it’s cheaper than getting a decorator in - and painted it a warm almond shade upon her request. It’s her own little space and she loves it. 

“Um thanks,” he says as he walks past. Before he reaches the other side of the room he turns to say, “you’re coming Macie Donnovan’s party tomorrow, right?” 

He was sorting hoping they’d forget. That he didn’t have to go. But his luck is at an all time low at the moment so he just has to nod and say, “yeah, maybe.” 

He’s not even invited anyway. Will doesn’t run in the popular circles. If he can’t get out of it by tomorrow he’ll just wait until they’re too drunk to notice and slip away. Mike gives him a smile, looks pretty happy about it actually, before heading out to see El. 

When he’s gone, Chewie lets out one of those little whines. The kind that tells Will he wants something. He looks at the half open door hopefully and Will sighs, “come on then boy.”

Tail wagging a mile a minute, the spaniel bounds out the front door. It’s as he’s locking the door that he nearly has a heart attack. The cause of it doesn’t look particularly sorry about it either. 

“Alright Wilbur?”

“You trying to kill me?”

Richie’s leaning back against one of the posts that support the porch, arms crossed over his chest in a way that shows he’s comfortable. His curls are ruffled, the wind’s probably to blame for that, and the moonlight brushes his cheekbones in a way that turns them to liquid mercury.  

“Nah,” he says with something of a smile, “already got one funeral in a couple of weeks, don’t need to make it two.”

In the week that's passed since he met Mike’s cousin, Will has noticed that he doesn’t like pity. Nor is he a fan of serious conversation. Humour seems to be his coping mechanism of choice and Will has taken to indulging it.  

“Wow, you’d go to my funeral, I’m honoured,” he places a hand across his chest, “are you going to bring a little handkerchief and cry over how meaningful and enlightening that first art lesson together was?”

“Nope, was going to bring a few beers and celebrate, hit and run after all.”

He actually laughs this time. “I’m sure that’ll go down great with my family.”

Chewie - the damn traitor - runs straight up to him, nuzzling into the boy’s hand, licking at his wrist like it’s one of those gammon bones the butcher gives them. Richie’s fingers curl under the dog’s left ear, scratching at the spot that’ll earn anyone his undying loyalty.

“Are you trying to steal my dog now too?”

“Ah Mister Byers, you’ve foiled my master plan,” he puts on an accent that reminds Will of one of those Bond villain types, “I’m simply befriending you so I can steal your dog.”

Will shakes his head but he’s still grinning. Richie’s wearing one of those stupid Hawaiian shirts again, with a pair of worn jeans. His converse look so battered that he wouldn’t be all that surprised if he tells him that he’s walked all the way here from Maine. The leather jacket seems to dress it all up though; it looks good on him. Against all odds. Will suddenly feels self-conscious in his charcoal stained joggers and the top that Chewie decided to put a hole in when he was a puppy.

“Oh right,” he laughs, “and how do you intend to befriend me?”

Richie gives him a look that says something like ‘ah-ha’ and reaches a hand into the left pocket of his jeans. The sandwich bag he pulls out is kind of crumpled but he holds it out between them regardless. 

“Bribery with cookies?” Richie says, but then he looks at the packet a little closer and corrects himself. “Bribery with cookie pieces .”

Will looks quizzical. “Are those Mrs Wheeler’s? If so, it might work.” He doesn’t know what she puts in them - he’s tried to get the recipe on numerous occasions - but they’re heavenly.

“Guess I’m in luck then,” he grins, “Auntie Karen sent me with them, Michael wasn’t too happy about it. About me coming, that is, not the cookies.”

“Yeah, you do wind him up.”

“It’s fun, and he makes it too easy.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

It’s sometime around ten o’clock and Will’s walking through the woods out back of his house.  Richie’s with him and, if he’s honest, he’s grateful for the company. Chewie’s out of sight, ran off through the trees so Richie asks, “um, the dogs not missing is he?”

“No,” Will laughs, “he’ll have just gone off to Castle Byers.”

“ Castle ?” Richie looks like he’s hit the jackpot, “oh Byers,” he scoffed, “I didn’t know I was in the presence of royalty .”

He knows he’s not living this one down. Doesn’t seem to care all that much though because Richie’s laughing more than he’d seen anyone laugh in a while. It makes him smile.

“Okay, okay , I named it when I was like six.”

He places a hand across his stomach, stretches the other out beside him, then bows dramatically, “lead the way your majesty.”

“What does that make you, the squire?”

“The court jester.”

“Nah,” Will says, “you can be the squire.”

When they finally make it up to the old castle, Richie acts like it’s the Palace of Versailles. Walks around it with feigned wonder, talks about the grandeur, points at the rusty nails and commends the craftsmanship. Then mentions some guy called Eddie and a tetanus case waiting to happen. Will can’t help but agree; he’s had his shots though so it doesn’t worry him too much.

Richie pulls aside the sheet covering the entrance, ducking inside the fort. Will takes a seat next to him on the old wooden crates that form some sort of makeshift chez lounge. Will doesn’t know why he brought Richie up to Castle Byers, only his closest friends know about it and he barely knows Richie. He likes his company though, he doesn’t treat Will as an afterthought. It’s refreshing. 

“You know,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him, “we could build a bigger one, not that this isn’t cool your Majesty, I love it, but you need something a little larger now.”

He kind of right, Will knows it. And it’s not a half-bad idea, if they had any idea how to build one. He supposes Hopper would help. “I’m not good at any of that stuff.”

“My friend Ben is like, a wannabe architect or something,” he grins, “I can call him and I’m sure he’ll help us with some plans, we built a treehouse last year so I remember some stuff, Knick some wood from the scrapyard, bob's your uncle.” He says it like it’s all so simple and it does a good job of convincing Will, “then you can do all the interior design and shit, put your paintings up.”

Will smiles, because he kind of loves the idea, and Richie looks so excited about it all. He can almost see all the thoughts flying around his head, a mile a minute. Richie’s mind works faster than anyone he’s ever seen. Will’s not even sure he actually considers any thought that flies into his head. Just acknowledges them and does as they say. It must be quite a simple existence really. Will’s so bloody tired of overthinking everything.

“Okay, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“ Yeah .”

The silence they fall into is comfortable, serene. Chewie curls up onto Will’s lap as he leans back against the branches that form the wall. They creak a little but, mercifully, they don’t give. Richie’s staring at the old drawings on the walls. If you can even call them that anymore. Years of rain and poor weather have seen to that.

Richie pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket, looks at Will like he’s asking for approval. When he nods, Richie clicks the lighter. The smoke tumbles across his lips like a waterfall. Will watches, he has the urge to paint it. Maybe, one day, he’ll ask him. Will’s cheeks redden and his eyes drop when Richie notices him staring. He must think he wants a smoke and offers up the cigarette. He takes the excuse, even though he never smokes, but nearly hacks up a lung after the first drag.

Richie’s laughing. Finds the whole thing hilarious. “First time, huh?” And then he’s taking the cigarette from his hands and showing him how to smoke and Will’s laughing too because it’s all so ridiculous. He goes to take it back but Richie just shakes his head, holding it out of his reach, “can’t be the one responsible for getting Prince Wilbur into smoking, it’s bad for your lungs Byers.”

Prince Wilbur? Bloody hell, this is going to become a thing. He knows it. Before he has the chance to complain, Richie’s already saying something with a curious look on his face, “can I ask you a question?” 

Will sits back, raises an eyebrow, and asks him something he already knows the answer to, “if I say no, will you ask anyway?”

He looks like he’s seriously considering it, but Will knows that it’s all just a ruse. “Yeah, probably,” he finally relents, grinning. Richie doesn’t even wait for an answer before he asks the question, “why are you friends with him?”

Will knows exactly what he’s asking but he decides to play it up a little. “With Chewie?” He scratches the dog behind the ear, who looks up at him at the mention of his name. “Don’t really have a choice, he just follows me around.”

Richie laughs, Chewie barks, and shoves him, “ Mike .”

“Ahhh, yes, he gave me a mars bar on the first day of preschool. Was obligated after that.”

“Shut up,” he’s grinning, “you know what I mean.”

Will does, but he also doesn’t. He knows what Richie’s getting at; what is it about Mike that makes them friends? But, isn’t it obvious, why is anyone friends? When he thinks about the way Mike acts around his cousin, he supposes it isn’t all that obvious. 

“I don’t think I do.”

Richie rolls his eyes - there’s a smile there though - because Will is just being awkward and he knows it. Then he looks at him, that kind of look that makes Will feel like he’s staring straight through him. “You’re not like him.”

Will releases a breathy laugh. Shakes his head. “No, I’m not, but we’re all meant to be different right? The party, we all compliment each other.” Richie looks like he doesn’t quite believe it, but he doesn’t say anything. “Imagine two Mikes.” Now, he smiles at that. Pulls a face that tells Will he doesn’t like that idea. “Exactly.”

“No, no,” his curls bounce as his head shakes, “I don’t mean like that. He’s petulant and childish, and so damn rude sometimes,” he looks frustrated. The cigarette is burning down, leaving a column of ash that’s in danger of falling. “Like, I’ve been here a whole damn week and he’s still being a dick,” Richie sighs, “I wind him up, I get it, I come barging into his life, I get it, but he could at least show a little bit of courtesy.”

He flinches, the ash catches his finger. Richie stamps on the cigarette butt, picks it up and puts it in his pocket before pulling out a fresh one. Places it between his lips.

“Look, I’m not saying how he’s been this week is okay.” Even though he’s defending Mike, that doesn’t mean he wants to excuse his actions. “But he’s not what you think he’s like.”

“And what is he like?”

Will doesn’t really know how to put it into words. He’s Mike Wheeler. That feels like enough explanation for him but he doubts it’ll suffice for Richie. They’re best friends. Always have been; always will be. Although his faith in that fact has faltered of late. “Uh - I don’t know,” he takes a second to think, “yes he’s forward, but he’s headstrong, passionate, if he sets his heart on something it’s happening, he’ll make sure of it, and he’s loyal - almost to a fault - he’ll stand by you no matter what. He’s thoughtful a-and brave, like completely stupid because he’d run head first into anything, but brave y’know and…” He trails off, embarrassed, when he realises he’s been rambling. Once he started, it all just tumbled out.

Richie’s staring at him. He’s been doing it a lot on the walk. But this time, it’s with a look that Will can’t quite place. It’s knowing, but there’s something like surprise in there too, like he’s figured something out. Maybe he’s realised that it’s worth giving Mike a chance. Will should probably have a chat with him, ask him to be nicer to Richie.

“You sure like him, huh?”

“He’s my best friend.”

Richie’s about to say something. Will can see it in the way his lips move and the cigarette drops to his side. Doesn’t get the chance to say it though because there’s a crack in the distance and Chewie’s head shoots up, alert. His ears prick, not that either of them have the chance to notice as he’s already bounding out of the castle door and into the trees.

“Dammit Chewie,” Will sighs, jumping to his feet, “wait there, you don’t know the woods,” he says to Richie, bolting in the same direction. Twigs break underfoot but he keeps running until his lungs burn. 

“What have I told you about chasing birds,” he sighs. It’s not to anyone in particular. The stupid dog isn’t anywhere to be seen. Will’s more frustrated than scared. It’s not the first time he’s done it. Won’t be the last. Chewie always comes back though so that’s something at least.

He hears something behind him. Turns. Nothing there.

His stomach drops. There’s that smell again. Like popcorn. It’s sweet, but it’s rotten. Like a sugar-coated corpse. He pulls himself up out of the dirt, dusts the branches off his knees. Somehow, when he looks up, he’s not surprised at what he sees. It doesn’t do anything to quell the fear though. The vines are everywhere - curling around the trees, writhing across the floor. They prod at his shoes. It all feels wrong.

“Chewie,” he says again. This time his voice is quiet, desperate, barely above a whisper. He kicks at the vines, stepping over the tree roots he tripped on the first time. Will’s trying to stay calm but his heart hammers in his chest, his breath quickens and that sickening anxiety creeps up the back of his neck.

“Chewie, come here boy.” When he speaks again his voice is louder but his final plea trails off quietly, “please.”

He sinks down to the floor, back scraping against the bark of a tree. His head’s in his hands, whole body shaking. Why won’t it stop. Why won’t it fucking stop . What’s he done to deserve all this? It’s not fair.

“Richie.” His voice breaks. “Mike, El, Mom .”

He hates this, all of it. He thought it was all over. Hasn’t felt anything in years. But it’s still not the same. Maybe his memory is just going.

“William.” There’s a voice. It says his name, almost giggles. It’s a weird kind of laugh, fake. It reminds him of the joker from that old batman film Dustin made them watch when they were kids. It’s slower though, more menacing. “Wi-ill.” There it is again. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Go away,” he whispers. Brings back memories of a time long gone. On the school field, shouting those words and everything going black. They didn’t work then so why should they now.

“Will.”

He puts his hands over his ears. Something wet touches his arm. He recoils.

“Will, Will? It’s me Will, Wilbur?”

Somewhere along the line, the voice changes.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Richie’s flicking the catch of his lighter. Again and again, it’s kind of soothing. It’s just a cheap disposable one from the cornershop that the woman from Melvard’s directed him to. It does the job, but he misses the proper lighter that Bev gave him for his sixteenth. Forgot about it in the frenzy of packing everything up before he left. A sound snakes between the trees, close but far away.

“Will?” he calls out. He should’ve followed him dammit. If anything happens, it’s on him. The paranoia’s still there all from all those years ago -  from it - and sometimes it just jumps out, he can’t help it. He’s gotten too comfortable in Hawkin’s in that sense. Let that little niggling feeling, that was never far away in Derry, fade into the periphery. It’s back now. With a vengeance. 

Maybe there is some God up there - though the bastard could’ve given him a heads up about his dad - because it only takes him a minute or two to find him. He’s curled up at the foot of a tree, head in his hands while Chewie licks nervously at his left arm.

“Will.”

He puts his hands over his ears.

“Will, Will? It’s me Will, Wilbur?”

His body stills and, ever so slowly, Will’s head lifts, eyes opening. God , he looks terrified, so small. “Hey Wilbur, you back with us?” There’s a little lilt of humour to his tone but he makes sure that the concern is evident. 

“Richie,” he rasps. 

“Tah-dah.” Richie really thinks the jazz hands complete the whole effect; Will looks less convinced. There’s a small smile on his face though so, as far as he’s concerned, it’s a success. 

“Come on, your majesty,” he says, offering Will a hand, “let's get you up.”  He takes it, gingerly at first, and Richie hooks an arm around his shoulders to pull him onto his feet. Will doesn’t find his balance right away - falls into Richie’s side - but he’s there to catch him. “Jesus Will, you’re freezing, what happened?”

Before Will can lodge any form of protest, Richie slips out of his jacket and places it over the boy’s shoulders. Will gives him a look to tell him he doesn’t have to - or at least that’s what Richie assumes it’s meant to say - but he shakes his head, refusing. “Like I said Wilbur, don’t have time for a second funeral at the moment so, I hate to break it to you, death by hypothermia is off the table.”

“Spoil-sport.” Will’s smile is feeble at best. 

“You going to tell me what happened?”

Will’s eyes drop to the floor and Richie knows then that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is a lie. Or, at the very least, a rehash of the truth. “I-I don’t know,” he says, stumbling over his words, “I just got so dizzy all of a sudden.”

Richie nods, places a hand on his shoulder in comfort, and Chewie’s standing so close to the pair of them, it’ll be a miracle if neither of them step on him. He looks guilty - the dog, though maybe Will to a small extent - his head’s bowed and Richie remembers some shit Bill told him about dogs sensing people's emotions. He thought Bill just read too many fictional books but maybe he was actually right.

“Come on,” his words are soft spoken, “let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

a shadow of regret.

“ God,” Stan’s saying as the bottom of his plate meets the school cafeteria table. He slides into the seat next to Ben and pulls out some notebook that Bill doesn’t recognise. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but you guys seriously need to lighten up, say something, converse, this is just depressing.”

Bill can’t help but agree. Richie and Bev’s departure - though, mercifully, hers is only temporary - has left everything feeling flat. Recently, Bill’s found himself desperately missing all the little things he used to find annoying about Richie. He's starting to think that he never even found them all that annoying in the first place.

“That’s bl-bluh-blasphemy,” Bill says, aiming for light-hearted but his tone’s dejected, “you should kn-know better, Stuh-Stanley.”

Stan just rolls his eyes which, in his world, comes as a way of saying he finds something funny. At the same time, Ben adds, “you’re normally telling them to shut up.” 

“Yeah well,” Stan snorts, “careful what you wish for”

Stan’s right, Bill knows it. Everyone has their role in the group, it’s why they work so well. Bev and Richie truly are the soul of the group, nothing’s right without them.

“It’s too quiet.”

“Yuh-yeah,” Bill finds himself saying, “Richie’s leh-left, so’s Beh-Bev and half of Euh-Eddie’s gone missing t-too.”

Eddie’s eyes flick up from the plate in front of him, narrowing in a way that’s curious but not unkind, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Stan explains, “you’ve been moping.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to protest, then he reconsiders and just sighs. Bill hates this. Everyone's so fucking unhappy. The four of them went to the cinema with Mike two nights ago and he doesn’t think that Ben cracked a smile once, Eddie barely said a word - except for when the guy behind the food counter picked up the popcorn with his bare hands - and Stan. Well, Stan only ever talks in short sarcastic insults anyway so that’s hardly a change. 

“He’ll be back Eddie,” Ben says, “he’s just gone away for a while.”

“Yuh-yeah, then everything will guh-go back to normal.” Bill knows almost instantly that he’s said the wrong thing.

“Normal? Normal?” Eddie scoffs and his voice is way too damn loud for the room they’re in, “what the fuck is back to normal, because if you mean before, when his dad was beating the shit out of him and we were doing fucking nothing, is that the normal you want to go back to?”

The force with which Eddie’s palms hit the table is enough to send the cutlery running. A plate clatters to the floor, shatters, and Stan’s glass topples, spilling juice across the surface. Ben’s chair scrapes sharply the linoleum floor as he tries to avoid the splash. 

Bill’s never seen Eddie like this. In all the years of knowing him. Not once. He’s practically shaking. He reaches into Eddie’s jacket pocket for an inhaler, holds it out to him, but the boy just slaps it out of his grasp. Bill doesn’t see where it lands. Hears it though because the hall is deadly silent. That’s when he realises that every pair of eyes in the cafeteria is trained on them. Eddie realises only a split second later.

He bolts.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Eddie shouldn’t have done that.

He finds that he doesn’t really care though. Because it hates it, all of it. Everyone’s acting like things are fucking normal. Like Richie’s just gone on some extended vacation just for the hell of it. He’s sick of people skirting around it all. 

He’s staring out across the Kenduskeag, the Barrens, watching the way the water twists and turns. Watching the tree roots and the birds and the plastic bag floating lazily down the stream. Sometimes he thinks about leaving this place. Running so far away that Derry is nothing more than a faded dot on a map and a bad memory. He could go anywhere, do anything.

He often dreams about college. About all seven of the losers going to the same one, sharing a house together and going to classes. He knows it’s just some wild fantasy, but it comforts him to pretend.

“Eh-eh-eddie?”

He can’t stop the sigh from escaping his mouth; it was only a matter of time before someone found him. He hopes that Bill’s alone. Doesn’t have the energy to deal with more than one person. There’s a crackle of dry branches as a weight settles on the ground next to him, back pressed against the same tree.

Bill doesn’t say anything for a long time. Eddie knows that he’s waiting for him to speak first. Makes him wait a while. When he finally does talk, it’s so quiet that he’s surprised Bill even hears him, “I should have known.”

When Bill turns to him, there’s this look on his face. That look of realisation as he finally clocks onto what Eddie’s been feeling this week because it’s not loss - though of course that’s there - it’s guilt . Heart-wrenching, gut-twisting guilt. But the next thing to cross Bill’s face is something more familiar. Understanding. And that’s when he realises that Bill’s been beating himself up just as much as he has. And when he looks, really looks, he sees it in the grey pallor of his face, the dark circles under his eyes and the way his head hangs lower than usual. Eddie feels less alone.

“I just, I should’ve known Bill.” He keeps talking even though his voice breaks, “how did I not realise?”

That night keeps playing over in his head like one long miserable loop. He sees it when he’s asleep; he sees it when he’s awake. Sometimes it feels like the scene has been permanently tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.

And when Eddie’s not thinking about that night, he’s thinking about every other damn night he’s seen Richie. Each and every one he can remember since the day they first met. Searching them. Analysing them. It seems so obvious now, all of it. Like it was right in front of them the whole time. Hell, there’s no ‘like’ about it. It was in front of them the whole time.

“The bruises, we’ve all seen them before, not just that night, we’ve always just said he’s clumsy b-but I…”

Bill picks up where he trails off, “ah-always had this fuh-feeling in the back of yuh-your mind that it was something muh-more,” his voice fades to a whisper, “buh-but you d-di-didn’t want to believe it, so you tuh-told yourself you were ju-just overreacting.”

It’s not posed as a question; it’s a statement. Simple as that. Eddie is clearly more transparent than he thought. Unless - he turns to look Bill in the eyes - he’s been feeling the same too. Well, at least they're together in their penitence. Because Eddie’s heart is set on self-condemnation.

“What scares me, is that he was so damn good at it, at lying,” Eddie shakes his head, doesn’t see the point in bottling it up now. “He’s been lying to our faces for years Bill, years , probably a whole fucking decade.”

“Euh-exactly.”

Eddie’s confused, it’s not the response he expects, “what do you mean by that?”

“It muh-means that you cah-can’t blame your-suh-self,” he says and Eddie hates the pitying looks he gives him. He knows it’s all in good nature, it’s because Bill cares. He still hates it though. “He was luh-lying because he dih-didn't want us to know. It’s not your fault. Don’t bl-blame yourself.”

“Do you?” He asks, “blame yourself?”

Bill’s eyes drop to the ground. He’s picking at the cuticles of his nails. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Eddie laughs, a short bitter little thing. “Hypocrite,” he snorts.

Richie’s supposed to be their best friend and they didn’t fucking notice. They let this happen. Richie plays the fool, but he’s the most observant of all of them. He’s the one who remembers every single birthday, knows all their favourite movies, the first to notice if one of them isn’t okay. Knows exactly who likes to talk through their problems and exactly who doesn’t. 

Richie would have noticed. If it was one of them, Richie would have noticed. Eddie knows that for a fact.

“There were so many signs Bill, so many,” his voice starts to crack and he knows he’s losing it. Knows that there's no way he can reign this one back in. Eddie’s throat burns, eyes starting to blur and breathing begins to feel like a chore. God, he’s really starting to wish he hadn’t thrown the inhaler across the cafeteria. This is the point where Richie would have a spare out of his bag that he carries around just for Eddie. “We could have done something, if we’d just - we could have done something.”

“Yeah, we cuh-could have,” Bill finally admits.

The tears come after that, hot and fast. Slick on his cheeks. It makes his nose run and his eyes sting and - when Bill lets him rest his head on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around him - his whole chest shakes with the force of them. It’s a while before he realises that Bill’s shaking too.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Bill’s sitting in Georgie’s room when the phone rings. He often finds himself there these days. When it first happened, he avoided the place at all costs. Wouldn’t even look at the door as he passed down the hallway. But now, as the years have gone by, Bill finds a strange comfort in the place. Like he can just pretend for a while that everything’s okay. 

His parents are away that week. Doesn’t know where; doesn’t care. They probably did tell him at some point but he barely listens, it’s not like they’re ever really home. He picks up the receiver, leaning against the wall, and says, “Denbrough ruh-residence, Buh-Bill speaking.”

“Bloody hell Billiam,” a voice - one that’s not the cold call he expects - comes through the phone, “you a receptionist now? Are you one of those ones who spends all day painting their nails and is secretly screwing the boss?”

Bill grips onto the telephone even tighter than before, like he’s scared that if he drops it, he’ll never be able to speak to him again.

“W-why did I even mih-miss yuh-you?” Bill’s grinning like an idiot, he can’t help it. This is the first time Richie has rang him since he left. His voice tears away some of the tension from his earlier conversation with Eddie.

“I would give you a list but we’d be here all day, and anyway,” he continues before Bill even gets the chance to protest, “I’ve got some brilliant news.”

“Wuh-what?”

“Well, my mom’s dead.”

Not quite the answer he was expecting.

Bill really wishes he’d picked up the upstairs handset, this one doesn’t reach the sofa. “Is that what y-you class as brih-brill-iant? Uh-also, not news, the words in the nah-name Richie - ‘new’ - we uh-al-ruh-ready know this.”

Richie’s laughing gently down the phone, Bill can hear it in the way the line crackles. He’s missed that noise, more than he realised. “Huh, never noticed that,” he says, “but no, not brilliant - bit shit actually - not new either, but swings and roundabouts, silver linings or whatever, I can’t remember what people say.”

Richie talks a lot. It’s a simple fact of life. A certainty. Like the sun will rise in the east and set in the west. Like death and taxes and Ben being in love with Bev. The thing is, even after a short lifetime of knowing him, Bill doesn’t think he realised quite how much Richie talks until this last week. Because, now, it’s too damn quiet. All the time, he hates it. And part of it is because Eddie doesn’t say all that much either these days. They come as a pair. A comedy duo. Like Laurel and Hardy or the two Ronnies.

“Wuh-which is?”

“Well, what do dead people get?” He asks, like he expected Bill to have understood.

“Uh, rigour moh-mortis?”

Richie snorts; the crackle of the telephone line hurts Bill’s ear. “No, well yes, but that’s not what I meant. A funeral.”

“Bruh-brilliant? You’re making it suh-sound like a party or som, oh, ohhh ,” and the penny drops, “yuh-you’re coming back here f-for the funeral.”

“Ding ding, ten points to Big Bill.”

He’s not going to tell Richie this - his ego hardly needs stroking - but that’s the best news he’s had in a bloody long time. Without even thinking, his eyes find their way over to the calendar by the door. There’s a few red scribbles here and there - dates, appointments, reminders - but regardless of what’s on there, he’s blocking days out for Richie.  

“When?” He asks, enthusiastically.

“Two weeks, just two more tragic little weeks.” Bill can almost hear the grin in his voice, “then the best weekend of your lives is coming. Friday to Monday.”

The marker’s already in his hands and he’s circling the dates on the calendar when he realises, nearly drops the pen in excitement, “thuh-that’s your buh-birthday weekend.”

Richie’s saying something else, probably useless knowing him, but Bill’s not listening because his mind is too full with plans and ideas. He wishes he’d come back for longer but he’ll take what he can get. It’s just a shame that Bev’s back the weekend after. They won’t be all together. 

“On a scale of one to ten,” Richie’s saying when Bill tunes back in, “how likely is it that Eddie will murder me if I don’t tell him, just show up instead, think it’ll be a laugh.”

 “Yuh-your funeral.”

Fuck . He makes the joke without thinking, nearly apologises but Richie just laughs down the phone line so he can’t be all that offended.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

The coin Richie pulls from behind Holly’s left ear is a grimy thing, and only worth twenty-five cents, but that doesn’t seem to detract from awestruck wonder that rests on her features as he places it in her outstretched hand. 

“It’s yours,” he says gently, “but don’t spend it all on chocolate, your mom will kill me.”

She smiles, but her fingers are already pressing on the bone behind her ears, trying to figure out how he did it. Maybe hoping that there’s more. She looks at the tips of her fingers, then back up to Richie, “but how?”

“Magic,” he says, wiggling his fingers in front of him.

Her head cocks to the side, the blonde of her eyebrows knitting together, “Mike says that magic isn’t real.” 

Somehow, that doesn’t surprise him all that much. “Can I tell you a secret?” When she nods, he leans a little closer, finger pressed across his lips, “Mike’s just boring.”

She giggles and he uses the opportunity to take a coin from behind her other ear, only a dime this time, but she squeals with delight. Plucks it from between his fingers. The lock on the front door goes at the same time, and his aunt walks into the house, a paper shopping bag tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Hiya Auntie.”

At the same time, Holly jumps off the sofa and shouts, “mom, Richie’s magic .”

Karen Wheeler pretends to look shocked - “wow, really? ” - but it doesn’t hide the smile on her face.

“Yeah, he can just make money appear .”

She laughs, muttering under her breath, “wish I could do that.”

Me too, Richie thinks. He helps his aunt unload the shopping, it’s the least he can do. The conversation begins with school at week and wanders over to the funeral the weekend after next. 

“I was wondering,” Richie starts, not all too optimistic, “you know how we’re going back to Derry on the Friday?” When she nods, he continues, “is there any chance I could get the bus to Portland myself a couple days before to see my friend Bev? It’s fine if not, don’t worry.”

Karen gives him a look that’s sort of curious and, for a second, Richie thinks she might leave it but she doesn’t, “is this um, a girlfriend?” She’s trying to look all casual, which Richie finds quite funny, because she suddenly busies herself with the dishes as she awaits an answer. She doesn’t realise quite how unlikely that is. Then again, most people don’t. That’s how he intends to keep it. 

“No, definitely not,” he chuckles with a shake of his head.

“Look,” she turns around to face him, throwing him one of those parental smiles, “you can still go if she is that’s fine, I just think I should know, that’s all.”

Richie’s not used to this. Having an adult who wants to know where he is, and not just to keep him in line, but because they actually care. It’s strange, and he doesn’t quite know how to navigate it, but it also feels kind of nice. 

“I promise, she really is just a friend, practically a sister,” he replies and she nods like she really does believe him. “Does that mean I can?” There’s a little hope in his voice now, maybe she will let him.

For a moment she looks thoughtful, then gives in, “yeah, yeah it’ll be good for you to see your friends.”

Chapter Text

cigarettes and cheap perfume

Hawkins is sort of growing on Richie, in its own weird way. It’s not all peaches and cream. His cousin’s still a dick, school is as boring as ever and there’s far too many damn cows. But it’s alright, he supposes, as far as little towns in the middle of nowhere go.

What really surprises him, he finds, is that he comes to like it more than Derry. Don’t get him wrong, that doesn’t mean he’d rather be here. Given half the chance, he’d be back to Derry in a heartbeat. He misses it all so damn much. But that little itch at the back of his mind - the one that keeps telling him some shapeshifting clown is going to leap out the cistern and bite his arm off every time he goes to the bathroom - has dulled over the past week and a half. Sometimes he even forgets for a while. He likes being away from his house too. While the Wheelers’ feels all a bit uncomfortably domestic, it’s also kind of nice. Foreign, but nice.

For the first time in years, things feel peaceful. It’s a welcomed change. If he could uproot all of his friends and move them to Indiana, Richie Tozier would be pretty content with life.

Richie finds himself, as he so often does, thinking about Eddie Kaspbrak. About the way his hair falls over his face, the way he can recite every damn medication under the sun and that little line he gets between his eyebrows when Richie says something stupid. God, he misses him. Really fucking misses him.

Maybe he should have told him quite how much he was going to miss him. Right before he left. Just tell him and run to Indiana, like the fucking coward he knows he is. At least then, if it all goes to shit, he never has to come back. Doesn’t have to face it all. Then Richie’s berating himself for even thinking it because it’s a godawful idea. It’s not fair to Eddie. And, selfishly, he can’t stand the thought of Eddie hating him. 

He’s only been at this stupid party for half an hour and he’s already looking for an escape. The music’s too loud, the floors are sticky and he’s sick of walking into couples with their tongues shoved down each other’s throats. 

Richie stumbles out into the garden. He’s not drunk - tipsy sure, but he has his wits about him - he’s just clumsy. He’s ready to leave, to walk home if he has to, but he sees someone else in the garden, leaning against the tree with their head tilted to the stars. They must be mad, it’s like two degrees and fucking freezing. But he recognises that bowl cut as soon as he’s within a few metres of them and just laughs.

“You look like you’re having as much fun as me.” 

Will turns his head to face him, smiles. “I’m having a great time,” he says, all sarcasm, “don’t know what you’re implying.”

Richie’s mood lifts quickly. 

“C’mon lets get out of here.”

It’s the first time they hang out for any other reason than sheer coincidence, it’s nice. They just wander until Will’s fingers are purple and Richie’s convinced he has frostbite. After a while, the pair find themselves in that greasy spoon off the corner of Maple eating grilled cheese and laughing about anything and everything. Richie thinks he might have found a friend in Will. It’s a comforting thought.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

It’s dark outside. 

Like pitch black, no street lamps for miles kind of dark and Steve’s starting to think that maybe this isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. He needs to do this though, for his own peace of mind more than anything. So that’s why he’s in the woods, maybe fifty yards from the so-called crash site, with a torch in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. 

Steve knows that the bat is probably overkill. Takes it anyway. Something about the woods creeps him out these days. He can’t quite put his finger on it. Might have something to do with the crazy monsters that nearly ate him alive a few years. Surely that’s enough to put anyone on edge. Then again, Dustin kept one as a pet - the idiot - and he seems pretty alright about it all? Maybe Steve's just a bit of a pussy. His dad is always telling him to man up. On the rare occasions that he's actually in Hawkins, that is.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for - anything really - it’s not like he expects to find some clown with his head bashed in and tire marks across his chest. He bloody hopes not anyway, then he’d be in for a really rough evening. He's pretty sure that Hoppers not on duty tonight too so he'd have to deal with the incompetent one or that old guy who seems to have some sort of vendetta against him after he caught Steve drinking a bottle of whiskey in a park when he was like sixteen. 

Anyway, that's why Steve's trailing around the woods at god knows what time of night with a baseball bat and a slightly nervous disposition. He just wants some sort of confirmation that he’s not going insane. Then again, if he isn’t going insane then he really did hit someone. He laughs bitterly, this is all such a mess.

There’s a crack in the distance. It’s probably just a deer or something but Steve’s bat is already up and ready to swing. The shadow that moves through the trees doesn’t look much like a deer though, it’s tall and slender and something blue catches in the beam of his torch. God, he really hopes that this isn’t some upside down shit.

Fuck . This is a bad idea. 

He’s turning on his heel, ready to run, when - “Harrington?”

What? Steve whips back around. “Hargrove? The fuck are you doing out here.”

“Could ask you the same thing?” His words come out slightly muffled around the cigarette clasped between his lips. He removes it, pinched between his thumb and forefinger before adding, “nice little DIY project you’ve got there.” He gestures towards the bat which was still hovering in mid-air, “you gonna sock me with it or d’ya fancy putting it down.”

Embarrassment flushes Steve’s face. He must’ve looked really tetchy. Then again, he did think he was about to be brutally murdered so it’s probably warranted. He doesn’t even care about his reputation all that much these days. King Steve died a long time ago and he’s okay with that.

“Is Billy Hargrove scared of a baseball bat?” He taunts but he knows his voice comes out hollow. His heart’s still hammering from the shock. 

Billy barks a laugh, shaking his head as he does. “No, but that ,” he points towards Steve, “that little bit of crazy in your eyes. That puts me on edge, Harrington. Makes me think that something got knocked loose up there.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say because, deep down, he thinks that he agrees. Maybe not even all that deep down. Maybe right at the surface. He’s prowling through the woods in the dead of night to find a clown that he thinks he ran over.

He’s about to reply with something witty - or attempt to at the very least - when something over Billy’s left shoulder catches his eyes. It floats lazily through the air, like it has nowhere important to be, glowing red in the torchlight. Billy goes to bat the thing away with his forearm and Steve almost tells him not to. Half-lunges forward to stop him. 

Now he’s looking at him like he really is insane. “It’s a balloon,” he deadpans, almost smiling, “were you one of those kids that used to hide under the tables at birthday parties with their hands over their ears?” 

He was actually, but he’s hardly going to admit to that. He’s too focused on the balloon anyway. Watching as it floats towards him, turning as it does, and drawn on the other side is a face, painted in the same way that the clown’s had been the other night. 

Something really fucking weird is going on.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

The weeks pass surprisingly quickly and, before long, his Aunt is shoving a packed lunch in his hand and telling him to be careful on his journey. 

“See ya Auntie,” he salutes her and hops onto the bus, grateful that he manages to grab a seat in the back corner. It’s a long journey to Portland and the bus is stuffy and smells faintly of vomit and tuna sandwiches. It’s not the most pleasant smell, but he’s certainly had worse. He’s trailed through the sewers of Derry, after all.

He spends most of his journey staring out the window. It’s mostly just fields and cows and shit but they pass through a city every now and then where some people leave and others board. 

It’s dark by the time Richie steps off the coach. His neck’s stiff and his left foot has been dead for at least half an hour. If Eddie was here, he’d probably spout some shit about insufficient blood flow and tell him that his leg’s going to fall off or something equally nihilistic. He doesn’t have much time to think about it because there’s a flash of red and a pair of arms that wrap tightly around his shoulders. She smells like cigarettes and that cheap perfume she buys and it’s so distinctly Bev . 

“If you want to break my ribs again, keep on going Bev.”

She pouts, clipping him over the side of the head, but slings an arm over his shoulders and guides him out of the bus station.

She shows him Portland. The old apartment block where her aunt lives, the boats at Casco bay and the grimy looking kebab shop that she claims sells the ‘best food in town’ but Richie thinks it would give him salmonella. God, he’s turning into Eddie. 

He likes Portland. A small part of him is envious. He’d rather live here than Hawkins, then he could go back to Derry on the weekends. Then again, life isn’t fair so he ends up living halfway across the damned country. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Considering it’s November, and Maine is always fucking cold, the rooftop of the office building a few blocks from her Aunt’s flat probably isn’t the best place to be right now. Bev loves it anyway. Just means they need a few blankets. 

There’s two large pizzas resting between them - pepperoni for Richie and chargrilled vegetable for Bev - from that little Italian takeaway she frequents. It’s mostly because the pizza’s good, like really good, but she can admit that she enjoys it when the owner’s son flirts with her.

“So,” Richie says through a mouthful of pizza, “how’s life without me?”

Bev laughs, because of course he says it in that mock-smug tone of voice. “Richie, I’ve been in Portland for the last three weeks, I wouldn’t have seen you anyway.”

“Technicalities,” he rolls his eyes before trying to look all sincere, “I’m really sorry, it must be hard.”

“Quite peaceful actually. And my cigarettes don’t go down half as fast these days.”

Richie would always pillage her cigarettes when they’d hang out together. Guess it serves her right for getting him into smoking. 

“I buy my own now.” He produces a battered box with the word Marlboro inked on the front, waving it in front of her face. Before he can react, she swipes the pack from his hand - earning an indignant hey - and takes one, placing it between her lips as she throws the rest back.

“Good,” she clicks her lighter, “because you owe me.”

Bev was hoping for some sort of easy way into the whole moving across the country situation. Actually, she was hoping he’d bring it up himself but it’s been about three hours so she might as well just go for it, “so how’s life in Indiana?”

His smile sort of drops; Bev feels guilty. She can tell he was just trying to forget it all for now. He sighs, putting down the half eaten slice of pizza, “it’s,” there’s a long pause, “nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, nice.”

She laughs, “no wonder you’re failing English. There’s a whole world of adjectives out there and you choose nice . Bill would be disappointed.”

Richie laughs but it soon fades into something 

Bev looks at him expectantly but she doesn’t say anything. She knows he’s going to keep speaking. Richie does this sometimes. Just stares off into the distance as he tries to put his thoughts together. He’s never been brilliant at expressing his feelings. 

“It’s just,” there’s a long pause and Bev thinks he knows what he’s going to say, “do you ever feel like, when you’re in Derry, there’s this, this feeling, like there’s something lurking at the back of your mind.”

“Like you never quite feel safe.”

“You get it,” he breathes. He almost looks relieved. Like he thought he was going mad. Bev knows how he feels. But it’s also a confirmation and she doesn’t like that. 

It’s not hard to guess his next question, “do you feel that way when you’re in Portland?” 

Bev doesn’t even need to answer. He just gives her this knowing look and offers her a dejected smile. “I don’t in Hawkins either, it’s nice.”

“Yeah,” she admits, “yeah it is.”

Chapter Text

the crossfire of resentment

It’s hot. Well, it’s hot for late November at least. Richie still needs a jumper but the coat he brought is now just excess baggage, lying beside him on the rocks. Bev’s two feet across, staring out across the quarry, deep in thought. She wasn’t meant to come back to Derry this weekend but - with the funeral and Richie’s birthday - she’d insisted on returning a week early. Given their conversation the other night, Richie kind of feels guilty about it. Though, once Bev gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her.

Footsteps sound in the distance and Bev dives behind the rock she’d been draped across. It’s the third time she’s done it in an hour, the last two were false alarms. Richie doesn’t know whether she plans to surprise or scare them but he’s sure it’ll be an interesting watch either way. 

Bill’s the first one to come into Richie’s line of sight but he isn’t the first person to notice him. There’s hardly a chance for him to say much more than a simple, “hi”, before a pair of strong arms wrap around him and his feet leave the ground. Ben’s nearly as tall as him now. He must’ve doubled in height over the last few years and, unlike Richie’s slender frame, he’s all muscle and broad shoulders. And Richie’s kind of jealous because half the time he struggles to open the damn jars of pasta sauce.

Then Stan’s offering a genuine smile, Mike’s clapping a hand to his shoulder and Bill’s pulling him into a hug, telling him that he’s grateful to see him. Richie doesn’t normally do the whole feelings and sentiments thing but the whole ordeal leaves a warmth in his stomach that makes him smile. But there’s a hollowness to it, because the face he involuntarily hunted for the moment he heard their approach, couldn’t be found. There’s no Eddie.

They all take a half step back and just stand there staring at each other like they don’t know what today. Stan offers a solemn half-smile, Bill’s got this weird look on his face and Ben looks like he’s about to cry. 

“Surprise.” Richie attempts to lighten the mood with those awkward jazz hands that used to make Eddie roll his eyes. This time it just makes Ben start crying. Richie really fucking hopes that he isn’t losing his touch. “God, I’ve only been gone three weeks and look at the state of you all.”

Richie wants to ask about Eddie, wants to know why he’s not here, but he stops himself. It’s rude to ask so soon when the others are here to see him too. He did catch them off guard after all - well, all but Bill that is, he already knew that Richie was coming.

“Sorry,” Ben smiles but his eyes are still red, he’s always been the soft one of the group, “we’ve just missed you.”

“Well,” Richie hops onto the rock over to his right, raising his arms like some cheap circus act, “I have another surprise for you all.”

Stan snorted, “last time you said that, you ended up streaking down Brailsford Road and nearly gave poor old Mrs Brown a heart attack.”

“Yeah well,” he gestures down towards his body, “all this is enough to make anyone’s heart race,” he winks, before adding, “ain’t that right Bev?”

Bev waits a few seconds before making her appearance known which gives Richie a brief moment to revel in the look of utter confusion - and slight hope - on the boys’ faces. When she emerges from behind the rock, Ben looks like he’s just been told that the limit on library book withdrawals has just been lifted. He’s positively joyous. If Richie didn’t know that the poor boy has been in love with her since the moment they met, he’d almost be offended that he didn’t get the same reception.

He watches as they all greet her as they had with him not two minutes before. They’re all smiling now - even Ben who is also still still crying - and things are close to feeling normal again. Close, but not quite there yet. Because there’s this huge gaping hole that should be filled with an endless stream of complaints and an account of every bacteria known to man. He’s felt it in Hawkins but he feels it so much more in Derry, with the others, because he should be here.

Richie manages to hold on for a couple of minutes before he finally asks, “is Eddie coming?” Bev shoots him a knowing look that’s almost a smirk. He doesn’t retaliate. The other’s are all looking at him. 

“Yeh-yeah,” Bill says as Mike nods, “he had to go and pi-pick up a prescription for his muh-mother.”

They all nod in agreement and Ben adds, “yeah he’ll be heading in from town.”

He wants to go and surprise him too - or scare him, he hasn’t decided yet - and Bev’s like a bloody mind reader because she says, in such a casual tone, “go, catch him off guard, it’ll be a laugh.”

The others voice their agreements and that’s how Richie ends up wandering down the lane that links the quarry to the east side of town, feeling utterly grateful for Beverly Marsh. She’s a god amongst men, truly. 

He’s content. The suns on his face, he’s back with his friends and he’s a few minutes away from seeing Eddie Kaspbrak. He feels like he’s been waiting for this day for a lifetime; in reality, it’s been three weeks. Going back to Hawkins after all of this is going to be even harder now. He can’t bring himself to care though. That’s a problem for a few days’ time.

There’s a sound. A whirring clatter of metal that’s getting louder as he stands in the lane. He can’t see him yet, there’s a blind summit just in front of him, so Richie dives behind the closest tree - which definitely doesn’t do much to hide him, but he goes unnoticed as the boy on the bike passes. He’s swerving all over the place, clearly worn out from his journey up the hill.

Richie freezes for a moment, just staring at him. Like he forgot that Eddie’s actually real. A real person who’s clearly shit at cycling uphill because he’s taking half the bloody road up. Richie just smiles, then moves out into the lane behind him, donning a new accent that he’s been working on, “Stop right there sir, I’m going to have to write you a ticket for dangerous use of a vehicle, you were all over the shop.”

Eddie jumps, turning his head to look at him. Unfortunately he decides to do that thing he’s never quite managed to drop since he was a kid: he turns his whole body instead of just his head. So his handlebars make a sharp left - there’s a scream in there somewhere - and the bike careens off the gravel, Eddie along with it. 

Shit.

 “RICHIE.” His tone is accusatory and the look on his face is pure shock - whether at his unannounced arrival or at the scare he’s just given him. “WHAT THE FUCK .” 

What the fuck indeed , Richie thinks. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best arrival. Instead, he says, “didn’t expect you to chuck yourself off your bike on my account Eds.” 

Richie’s preparing for the onslaught about tetanus and bacteria. It still comes, it’s inevitable really, but this time it’s a little late because, before Eddie even has the chance to process all the blood and gravel on his palms, he’s pulling himself off the ground to throw himself at Richie. 

Richie only just manages to catch him. They sort of stumble backwards, only just managing to retain their balance. A step or two further and they’d be lying in the ditch beside the road. They stay like that - Richie’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Eddie’s head on his shoulder - for a while. Longer than friends normally would but Richie’s feeling selfish so he clings on for as long as Eddie will let him. When they finally break apart he swears Eddie’s looking at him like he’s dreaming.

“You’re really here?” He says all serious and hopeful. It leaves Richie’s chest kind of warm. 

“Yeah Eds.” When Richie speaks, it’s with a hint of sincerity that’s not often found in his tone. A smile brushes across his face. “I’m really here.”

Without thinking about what he’s doing, Richie glances down towards the red-raw sheen of Eddie’s palms. They’re dotted with gravel like a peppered steak. The issue is, this makes Eddie look too and when he sees them it’s like that little part of his brain that’s usually always on red alert appears to realise that it has had a momentary lapse in concentration. It dials to eleven to compensate. 

“Oh shit, shit .” He can see the panic in Eddie’s eyes as his brain tries to process what’s happening. “I need to clean this, I could get tetanus or sepsis or, or -”

“- or a slight scrape and a bit of an itch for a week.” Richie falls into his well rehearsed routine of talking so much that Eddie’s brain doesn’t have the time to panic. He doesn’t know if Eddie’s ever caught onto what he’s doing but it tends to work. “Now Eduardo, I’m going to need your personal little pharmacy, pass me the fanny pack - and remember to breathe that would help too.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie reaches around to unclip it, handing it over to him.

“No way to talk to a doctor, where’s your bedside manners?” 

Richie notices the way Eddie’s focusing on his breathing. In and out. Deeper each time. He’s gotten better at it over the years and Richie’s gotten better at distracting him. Together, they work quite well.

“You are the reason I fell off my bike in the first place,” he says through a forced breath. He doesn’t sound angry about it though. Well, no more than his usual level of frustration anyway. That’s sort of a perpetual state for him. Eddie’s always complaining about something. Usually Richie.

“Yes well, that’s actually the second time I’ve caused that in the last three weeks,” he replies as he rummages through the little medicine bag, “probably shouldn’t make a habit of it, actually maybe I should, I’ll try Bowers next.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Richie feels triumphant.

He pulls out bandages, some weird creams and god knows how many packets of pills - what the fuck even is acetaminophen anyway? - before he finally finds some of those antiseptic wipes. “Jesus Eddie, there’s so much shit in here you could probably cure cancer if you tried.”

Eddie goes to say something but all that comes out is a sharp hiss from between his teeth. Richie’s applying the antiseptic. He has Eddie’s left hand grasped in his own, palm up as he dabs at the broken skin. There’s a crease between his brows and his bottom lip catches between his teeth as he tries to ignore the pain. 

“Why are you back?” Eddie asks. His voice is steadier now, breathing slowed. “Your birthday?”

He almost forgot about that if he’s entirely honest. “Funeral actually, going to be a bloody fun weekend.” Eddie winces. “But yeah, I’m glad it means I’m here for my birthday though. Haven’t had one without you idiots since I was a kid, can’t be changing that now.”

Eddie looks up at him and the few inches of height difference seem all the more obvious like that. He starts cautiously, “can we, we haven’t, we never spoke about your mother. We should talk.”

“Later,” he says, “ later .”

He just wants things to feel normal for a little while. Eddie doesn’t look convinced, but he relents.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

As it turns out, ‘later’ arrives sooner than he hoped.

They’re lounging on the floor of Bill’s living room, having headed in when the sun began to set over the quarry and goosebumps littered their skin. Stan’s doing a crossword puzzle, Ben and Bev are chatting softly by the fireplace, while Bill and Mike are engaged in a heated game of slapjack over on the other sofa. Richie had suggested Irish snap but - given that he had nearly broken a finger last time, Bill shot the idea down. Eddie’s the only one watching the film on the television; Richie’s too busy watching Eddie. 

Richie’s tired. The travelling and the lack of sleep is catching up with him. He’s curled up on the smaller sofa, eyes half-lidded, when Eddie makes the announcement that his feet have gone numb. He clambers up off of the floor, eyeing up the settee that Richie’s commandeered.

“Move over,” he says and Richie, who just loves playing devil’s advocate, refuses. When they were younger, this would have led to some form of argument or back-and-forth but they’ve grown as people since then so Eddie just sits himself down right on top of his legs. 

Richie releases a muffled groan but, really, he should have seen this coming. “Bloody hell what’s Mrs K been feeding you, you weigh a tonne.” His ankles are firmly pressed into the seat of the sofa and Eddie’s just staring at the tele, all smug looking as he pretends to ignore him. 

“Fine,” Richie says and pulls his feet from underneath him. Slamming them down on top of Eddie’s thighs, getting a little too close to his face in the process. 

Eddie lets out some strangled noise of disgust and leans back as far as the sofa will let him. “ Richie ,” he screeches, “get them away from my face.”  

So of course Richie sees that as an invitation rather than a threat, lifting both his feet until they’re eye-level. The rest of the group have diverted their attention towards the two boys. Even Bill and Mike have paused mid-game.

Eddie nearly goes cross-eyed trying to focus on them. He leans right back, trying to kick at them with his own feet. “Richie they stink ,” he groans, “you’ve probably got athletes’ foot or something. Do you even wash them?”

They just wash themselves in the shower, right? With all the soap suds and the water. He doesn’t get time to think about it because Eddie lets out a string of curses that would make his mother pale.

Richie forgets how much he enjoys winding Eddie up. He always has, ever since they were kids. And it’s so damn easy . None of the others ever give him that kind of reaction - just an eye roll or a shake of the head - but Eddie has so much fire. Anything Richie gives him, he gets twice that back. He’s the one only who ever rises to his taunts and has a tongue as sharp-witted as his own. Eddie Kaspbrak is this little ball of pent-up rage and it’s fucking adorable. 

Richie loves it. 

He loves h-

There’s another kick, one that’s dangerously close to knocking over Bill’s table lamp, and Richie finally relents. He puts his hands in the air, palms forward in surrender, and says, “fine, fine , okay, I’ll move my feet.” 

He swings them around, turning his entire body so that he faces the other direction and - without really thinking - lays his head down in Eddie’s lap instead. Richie freezes. Realises a second to late. To Eddie’s credit, if he’s weirded out by it, he doesn’t let it show. The others don’t seem to bat an eyelid too, like it’s something entirely normal, but Bev has a slight look in her eyes. She smiles at him.

“For fuck sake Richie,” Eddie’s gestures wildly at him, “there’s an entire fucking sofa and you’re taking up all of it.”

“Well, I can’t sleep sitting up and you’re in my way.”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“It’s seven o’three and I’m tired ,” he whines, looking up at Eddie, “I was on a bus for like three-hundred hours this morning.”

“Eight hours,” Bev interjects, “and you slept for at least six of those.”

“Okay then I’m emotionally exhausted, I have a funeral tomorrow.”

Most of them look a little uncomfortable. Eddie’s mouth snaps shut and Ben’s eyes shift to the glass in front of him. Bev just hands him one of those knowing smiles and Stan - the fucking legend - is the one that breaks the awkward tension. Richie’s grateful.

“How long are you going to milk that one for?” he quips with a look that says he doesn’t really mean it. Richie knows he doesn’t. Knows that none of them ever do. As much as they all insult each other. It’s just the way they work. Richie likes it that way. He hates it when people go all serious on him.

“I’m thinking at least six months,” he grins, “maybe even a year if I can push it that far. Does it mean you’ll go get me a McDonalds whenever I ask, because I’d kill for a big mac ri-”

“No,” they all say firmly at once. Except for Ben, who says something like, “if that’s what you want,” because he’s just that kind of guy. 

“Benny-boy, I always knew that you were my favourite for a good reason.”

Then Eddie starts whining again. “Why is your face so fucking bony? It’s digging into my leg.”

He grins up at him. “Because unlike you Eds, I’ve lost my baby face.” 

As if to prove his point, Richie pinches his left cheek and that seems to be what finally pushes Eddie over the edge because he gives him a firm shove that leaves him lying on the floor at Eddie’s feet. It makes his ribs hurt but he can tell by the way that it’s slipped Eddie’s mind. There’s a look of horror on Bill’s face as he realises but Richie just glares at him. The last thing he wants is for Eddie to feel guilty. It’s not that bad anyway. Eddie’s always been one to feel guilty about things to some crazy degree. Richie doesn’t want that.

Richie just tilts his head back and laughs. Because it is funny really, all of it. And he’s happy, he’s really fucking happy. Happy for the first time in what feels like months. He’s back with his friends and everything feels normal again. 

Except for…

It’s there, in the back of his mind. Now that he’s in Derry. Like a little itch that he can’t quite reach.

He pushes that thought away. Shakes his head. It was a long time ago.

“Well, if I wasn’t awake then, I certainly am now,” he finally says as he lifts himself off the carpet. He fumbles through his jacket pocket for that half finished pack of cigarettes he bought at the bus station in Indiana. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“You better not leave the ends in my mom’s flower pots again.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

It’s a nice day. Well, night. Evening. Whatever. 

The skies are clear and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. It’s that hazy sort of blue that reminds him of the summer evenings they used to spend by the quarry. He’s sitting on one of the plastic loungers on Bill’s patio, his second cigarette in hand, when he hears footsteps behind him. 

Eddie slides into the chair next to him. Richie expects him to say something, complain about earlier, but he stays quiet for a good while. Long enough for him to finish the cigarette. He puts it out in a nearby flower pot. He’ll move them later. 

“Richie, I,” when he finally speaks, he stumbles over his words, “I missed you-”

“Yeah me too.”

“No, no,” Eddie shakes his head. He doesn’t even turn to look at him. “I really fucking missed you-” 

Me too, Richie thinks firmly.

“-It’s fucking embarrassing. I was miserable. Like I wasn’t even myself. I screamed at the guys in the middle of the school café, slammed the table and everything. Skived off the rest of the day too. You’d have probably been proud actually.” Eddie laughs, it’s soft and gentle and undeniably sad. “Rich you’re my best friend, my best friend, I want you to stay.”

Richie doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. He ignores the way his heart tugs at the last part. Friend . 

As close as they are, they don’t really talk about all the feelings stuff often. They’ll laugh and joke and argue until the cows come home. But they always seem to avoid all that. Richie does at least. Eddie’s tried a few times.

He wishes he could tell him that it’ll all be okay. That he’ll stay forever if Eddie needs him to. But he can’t. And Eddie can’t come with him.

“I want to stay too,” he breathes, so quiet that he’d be surprised if Eddie even heard him. “I’m so fucking sick of all of this.”

And then he starts fucking crying. He’s furious at himself. Ever since that night, he’s held it together so damn well. He went to Hawkins with his head held high. He’s made friends - or rather, a friend. He’s tried to fit in at the Wheelers - though annoying Mike was too good to resist. He’s taken it all in his stride.

But now, he takes one look at Eddie Kaspbrak under the moonlight and he falls to pieces. He shatters.

The tears are silent at first, leaving cold trails down his cheeks where they catch the night air. Then he chokes back a sob and there’s no playing it down. Richie stops trying to fight it after that, he lets himself cry. There’s a shuffling to his and a weight settles on the chain beside him. Eddie’s tentative at first, Richie can tell that he doesn’t quite know what to do. Eventually, an arm slides around him, pulling Richie into him. It’s a slow calculated movement, like he’s terrified that Richie will throw him off at any moment. He doesn’t. He wouldn't. He sinks into the embrace 

Eddie lies back, bringing Richie down with him so that his head rests on his chest. He lets himself cry. “Shhh,” he says softly, running his fingers through Richie’s hair, “it’s going to be okay.”

Richie laughs. It’s small and bitter.

“None of it’s okay Eds, none of it’s fucking okay. My mom’s dead, my dad’s in fucking prison, I’ve got three broken ribs-” Eddie’s grip loosens slightly as he says that. “-I’ve had to move halfway across the damn country without you all to a place where I know nobody, not a single damn soul, and,” his voice breaks ever so slightly, “do you know what the worst part is?”

There’s a pause. Richie can’t see his face but he feels when Eddie shakes his head. “No,” he speaks gently.

“I kind of like it there.” It’s whispered like a confession. “I actually kind of like it there. There’s no bad memories. The people aren’t half bad. My aunt’s nice - lovely actually - and she’s not an alcoholic. And sure, my uncle sleeps all fucking day while my aunt does most of the work, but he loves her y’know, loves all of them, he’s a good man. Holly and Nancy are already starting to feel a little like sisters and I’ve always hated being an only child. It’s nice there.” He laughs again. Less bitter but still sad. “Holly even likes the voices.”

“Hey,” he says, brushing a piece of hair from his forehead, “and why’s that a bad thing, that’s good.”

Richie supposes it is, in a way. He’s gotten everything he wanted. A family that’s kind to him, maybe even cares about him. A town that doesn’t haunt him and a chance to start anew. So why did he have to sacrifice the most important thing in his life for that? The losers. Eddie. It’s not fair. It never is.

“It would be easier if I hated it,” Richie finally replies. “Then I wouldn’t have all this, this guilt , because I’ve abandoned everyone, I’ve abandoned you , and yet I still kind of like it there.”

Richie sits up suddenly, turning so that he can look Eddie dead in the eye. “Eds, you have to believe me, if I had the choice I’d stay, I promise that I’d stay. That’s why I never,” he pauses, breaking eye contact to look at the floor, “that’s why I never told anybody, because I knew they’d send me away.”

“This is all my fault,” Eddie says and there are tears on his cheeks, “I’m so so sorry.” But Richie doesn’t understand, because what on earth could Eddie have ever done wrong? He’s one of those people, Richie thinks, that couldn’t harm a soul even if he tried. It’s not in his nature. He tries to tell him that.

“Eddie, you’ve done nothing wro-”

“- I should have noticed Richie, I should have fucking noticed, you’re my best friend, how the hell did I not notice -”

“- Eds, it’s not yo -”

“- but it is .” Eddie’s response cuts him off before he’s even finished talking. “Don’t you see, it is. I could have done something Richie, we all could have, if we’d just noticed. You could have stayed at our houses. Hell, Bev’s lived on her own since her dad ran off and social services have never found out, you could have lived with her, I should have noticed, fuck .” 

Now it’s Richie’s turn to wrap his arms around Eddie. Maybe Richie should have said something. Maybe he should have told them. He thought he was doing the right thing at the time. Now, he doesn’t know. He feels like he doesn’t know anything. 

They stay like that for a while. Both clinging on to each other. Both crying. 

It’s cathartic in its own weird way.

Chapter Text

sinking your sorrows.

“You were a pretty shit mother.”

Richie’s never told her that before. He supposes it’s better late than never. Not that she can hear him now, though the old priest did say something about loved ones always being around after they’ve gone. Richie kind of hopes that’s not true - he hardly wants his mum to see what he does most evenings before bed. Or sometimes in the mornings, or the shower, or even just in the middle of the day if he’s particularly bored.

“You were a pretty shit mother and yet I still loved you. That’s fucked up.”

Funerals, Richie decides, are strange. They’re peculiar in the way that school parents evenings are or those awkward gatherings that families more functional than his have  - like nobody actually wants to be there but they won't dare say it. It’s a small affair. Not many people turn up and the ones that do are there more out of obligation than any real desire to pay their respects. Richie doesn’t really know where he stands; he doesn't have any respect to pay but he supposes that she was his mother. And that’s how he ends up here, pouring his heart out to a glorified wooden box on what otherwise could have been a wonderful afternoon.

“I’m not going to miss you and I’m not sorry about that.”

The sun’s warm on his face but Richie still feels cold. He doesn’t know whose gravestone he’s leaning against, he mumbled some half-apology when he sat down but it’s not like they’re around to care. Richie stares down into the hole beside him. 

There’s a thin layer of dirt on the coffin from the committal but he can still see the words ‘Maggie Beecham’ engraved on the silver nameplate on the front. He’d asked the funeral directors to use her maiden name; she didn’t need to carry that man with her to her grave.

“I used to hate you, you know, when I was younger. I resented you so damn much it made my head hurt. I don’t think I do anymore, maybe I haven’t for a while, not by the end. I think I just felt sorry for you - and yeah, maybe I did still resent you a bit, but I stopped hating you a while back.” 

“Dad fucked your life up too didn’t he? It wasn’t just me. I wasn’t the only victim in that house.” Richie doesn’t really know what he’s saying, nor why he’s saying it, but it’s almost therapeutic so he keeps going. “Your sister’s nice by the way. It’s a shame you didn’t get on. She makes fucking good pancakes too. You missed out.”

A hand comes to settle on his right shoulder. Richie doesn’t need to turn around to know who it belongs to. He can smell her perfume, it’s sweet like peony but with something warmer underneath it. It’s a scent that makes him feel safe.

“Hiya Auntie,” he says in a tone that’s somehow both solemn and cheery. He pats the grass next to him and, after a few moments deliberation, she decides to sit down. They sit in silence for a long while, the kind that’s comforting, secure.

“It’s weird you know.” It’s Richie who decides to break the silence. “Mourning someone you cared about but you didn’t really like.” 

The black fabric of her dress splays out across the grass, dark against the bright blonde strands of hair that she’s pulled into a loose chignon at the base of her neck. She just smiles at first. The kind that tells Richie that she knows how he feels but she wishes that she didn’t. “We were inseparable as kids, you know.” His aunt turns to look at him. Must notice the shock on his face because she says, “yeah, I know, but we were. She was always my little sister, still is I suppose.”

Richie doesn’t really know if it’s his place to ask but he decides to anyway. If she doesn’t want to answer, there’s no need for her to. “What happened?”

“Life, I suppose. That’s what it always is right?” She laughs. It’s quiet and soft and more sadness than humour. Karen brushes a strand of hair from her face. “When she met him , I knew he was no good. So I told her, I thought I was being a good sister or something, and when she refused to listen to me, I refused to let it go.” 

It’s the first time that Richie realises that he isn’t the only person who lost someone that day. His aunt did too, regardless of how close they were. “Eventually, it pushed her away,” she continues, “she picked him over me - or that’s how it felt at least - and that hurt, that hurt a lot. So I sort of gave up on her after that, I didn’t like the person she was when she was with him and then she moved off to Maine and I stayed in Indiana and that was that really.”

“Do you ever regret it?,” he asks, curious to hear what she has to say, “giving up.”

“Every damn day.” A few moments pass before she adds, “especially after you came into my life, I didn’t even know she’d had a son. I didn’t know I was an aunt. This last month has changed everything.”

In a matter of weeks, Richie’s entire world had flipped on its axis. And it’s good and it’s bad and it’s wonderful and scary all at once. He hates it and he loves it. He loves it and he hates it. But, above all else, he now feels safe and that means something to him when he hasn’t had that before.

He’s about to say something - about his new life or his old one, he hasn’t decided yet - but his aunt starts talking again before he gets the chance. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting this on you. God, I’m supposed to be the adult here.”

A tear slips between her lashes, rolling gently down her face before she wipes at it frantically like she’s annoyed at herself for crying. Richie fumbles around in his left jacket pocket - cringes when his hand touches some old gum - and eventually pulls out a crumpled tissue. It’s clean - or at least he's ninety percent sure that it is - but she still looks at it cautiously before she takes it from him. 

“We’re family, right? That means we’re there for each other.” He states it like a fact because, to him, it is. Or he thinks it should be, he’s never exactly done the whole nuclear family thing before. 

“I can’t talk about stuff like this with Mike.”

Richie’s not really surprised at that. “We may be the same age, but I’m not a kid anymore, Mike still is. And that’s a good thing, it means you were a good mother and you raised him right because you should still be a kid at sixteen, you know. I just had to grow up sooner than most people.”

She smiles and, this time, there isn’t any sadness behind it. Pity perhaps, but no sadness. “You’ve got a good group of friends here,” she says, nodding over to the group of teenagers standing at the far end of the graveyard under an old willow tree. Bill and Bev are play-fighting over god knows what, laughing along as they do so. Eddie’s the only one who isn’t watching them. Instead , his focus is turned to Richie and his aunt - though he looks away quickly when the pair of them return his gaze.

“Yeah, a lot of us have pretty shit parents to be honest, and we’ve been through some shit together, that kind of thing brings people together I guess. Those losers are more like family to me than my parents ever will be.”

“I’m glad you have them.”

“Me too.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

The first signs of winter descend on Hawkins with a notable ferocity on one Sunday morning in early December. It’s the same Sunday that Will Byers finds himself walking into town to meet a friend from his art class at that little coffee shop on the corner of Holborn Avenue. It’s that kind of bitter chill that makes his face tingle and his breath turn to smoke. Well, steam if he’s being accurate but there’s something less poetic about it. 

With Richie back in Maine for his mother’s funeral, Will has found himself alone for the better half of a week. Jonathan’s been really busy at work - apparently the opening of the new mall out west of Hawkins requires a new article every day. The last few days have made him realise how close he’s gotten with Richie since his arrival - and also quite how evident the rift is becoming between the party. Dustin’s off to watch a college game with his football friends, Lucas is at his weekend poetry class and Mike is god knows where. 

That’s why he rang Audra this morning. They work well together in art class, and often sit together during their free periods, but they don’t hang out all that much outside of school. He feels he should change that. She has a way of dealing with Richie’s energy too. The three make an unlikely, yet synchronous, trio. Will likes it.

When she bustles through the door to the coffee shop not half an hour later, hands bundled into pockets and a thick knit scarf covering half her face, she looks shaken. Will pushes a cup of tea towards her as she sits down - that one she always drinks that smells of bergamot and mint. Audra takes a large sip - how she manages to do so without wincing, Will doesn’t know. It’s only just been poured.

“Are you alright?” he says cautiously, eyeing the sketchbook she places on the table between them. She never goes anywhere without it, it’s always permanently glued to her side. If drawing is Will’s great métier in life, then watercolour is Audra’s. People will spend hundreds on her paintings one day, he’s certain of it. 

“Yeah, I just,” she pauses. Shakes her head. “I must be going mad. I swear I just saw a clown, standing in that little alleyway behind Melvard’s - bloody creepy looking one too. I looked away for a second, I mean literally a second. Gone.”  She dips below the table, reaching down to grab something from her bag, but it doesn’t stop her from talking. “Maybe you were right when you said I should stop going to bed at two in the morning.”

Audra goes off on a tangent after that. Something about the latest episode of Cagney and Lacey - this procedural cop show that she’s been obsessing over lately. Will’s not listening though; he’s too caught up on what she said before. A clown. It reminds him of his dream. That night in the woods. He never saw it, but the laughter, the smell of popcorn. It fits. 

“Will, Will , are you even listening?” He isn’t, but he doesn’t tell her that. 

He just comes out with a blunt question that probably makes him seem a little unhinged. “What did it smell like?” 

“My dad’s parking ticket?” She says, clearly all confused.

“No, the clown.”

“Wait what?” Now she looks at him like he’s the mad one which, truthfully, he often wonders if he is. The last five years of his life feel like a fever dream; the kind you wake up from and ask yourself, did that really happen?. “Why would you want to know what he smells like, and anyway, I don’t have a clue I was quite a dista - oh.” Audra stops in the middle of a word and Will knows what she’s going to say, “actually, well it did smell kind of weird around but that won’t have been him.”

“Did it smell like popcorn? All buttery and sweet?”

If Audra doesn’t attempt to get him sectioned after this conversation it will be a modern miracle. Will didn’t think it possible, but she looks even more confused than before.

“Yes actually,” she says. Will watches as the little crease between her brows deepens. “But there was something else there too, like,” Audra struggles to find the words, “like…”

“Like death.”

Her head snaps back to him, eyes meeting. She nods slowly. “Yes, it made my skin crawl.”

Audra goes to say something else but he doesn't care - he barely even hears - because he’s running out of the café, leaving an almost-full mug of hot chocolate and a rather confused looking Audra in his wake. There’s a harsh beep and that screech of rubber on tarmac as he crosses the road; it’s a reminder that he probably should have looked first. A man hangs from his car window - a perfectly kept BMW which Will feels says a lot about him - and shouts something largely unpleasant. If it were anyone else, Will would most likely apologise but he doesn’t seem particularly nice so he just ignores him. 

Shadows crawl over the alley in a way that the main road never sees. They hide under the bins, curl around the piles of litter on the pavement and climb the red-brick walls until they tower high above Will. Stale pizza and old cooking oil linger in the air but there's no popcorn, no candy floss, and no death as far as he can tell - though the smell of rotting vegetables out back of the taco shop isn’t too far off the latter. 

He stalks down the backstreet regardless, jumping over old bin bags and cardboard boxes, though he did nearly end up putting a piece of glass through his shoe since people apparently seem to think that the pavement is a suitable means of disposal for used beer bottles.

“Will, what are you doing, seriously are you okay?” Her voice comes with an air of exasperation but the concern in her tone seems even more apparent. He turns to face Audra - feeling somewhat guilty for worrying her - but he’s more interested by what he sees over her shoulder. It seems innocuous really, to anyone else at least, a single red balloon floating down the street. But to Will it means something quite different. Perhaps to Audra too if the frown that forms on her face is anything to go by. 

It stands out against the wall like red wine on a cream carpet, harsh and misplaced. She reaches out a hand, fingers brushing gently against the ribbon. Will goes to pull her hand away - has a bad feeling about the whole thing - but, before he gets the chance, the balloon bursts, sending a shockwave through Audra’s whole body.

Then the laughter starts, a taunting gleeful sound that cuts through the air like glass. It doesn’t last long, a few seconds at most, but it’s enough to send a chill right down to his bones. 

“Will,” Audra says, shaken but determined. “What the hell is going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

He wishes he was lying.

Chapter Text

raising your joys.

Richie turns seventeen and the six people he cares about most in the world are there to see it. There’s even a cake. Like a full on ‘happy birthday Trashmouth’ cake with chocolate ganache, vanilla buttercream and the works. Ben’s an angel really. And a damn good baker. He needs to capitalise on this skill.

“I fuh-fucking love you guys,” Bill yells, in a tone that’s almost melodic, from his spot on Bev’s living room floor. He thrusts the bottle of Captain Morgan in the air, giving little mind to the liquid that sloshes over the edges. It soaks into his shirt. Plasters the end of his hair to his neck. He just laughs. 

“Jesus Bill, how much have you had?” Bev giggles, she’s half lying on the sofa, half lying on Ben’s lap, who looks quite tense about the whole thing. The poor kid’s been in love with her for as long as Richie’s known him so he’s hardly surprised. 

“Clearly less than you ,” Richie cuts in.

Bill’s at that all too familiar stage of drinking where he has to decide if he wants to stay companionably drunk or down the can of Stella that Mike’s just handed him and end the night with his head down the toilet, or the sink, or even the kitchen bin. Anything’s better than the cream carpet he chose last time. Armed with half a litre of vinegar and orange-scented dish soap, Bev did manage to get the stain out after some hard graft. Well, most of it at least - there’s still a slightly orange tinge when it catches the midday sun.

Ignoring the morning’s promise of an ungodly hangover, he appears to opt for the latter. Richie’s almost disappointed that he won’t be here come sunrise to talk as loudly as possible and open every pair of curtains in the flat. Bill should count his blessings. Ben makes some vague insinuation that rum and beer are a bad mix but, while the rest of the group voice their agreements, Bill acts like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Stan gives him a look that’s caught halfway between reproach and respect and then earns himself the support of everyone in the room when he then turns to Mike and says, “you’re looking after him later when he’s throwing his guts up.”

“I don’t need luh-looking after.” Bill scowls through the bottom of the glass as he takes another mouthful of lager. His features are warped, eyes like saucers.

No one believes him, they all know how this ends. To Bill’s disapproval, Richie voices that fact. “Give it half an hour and you’ll be crying on Stan the Man’s shoulder, an hour and you’ll be staring at the bottom of the toilet bowl.”

“I’m n-no-not a lightweight.”

“Nobody said you were Bill,” Ben’s hand claps him on the left shoulder, nearly jolting the beer from his glass. Will Bill’s busy trying to steady the liquid in his cup, all eyes turn to Ben because, while they might have not said it, every single one of them was implying it. 

“Can’t beat me,” Eddie says, eyes glazed slightly even though he’s only had a couple of weak vodka-cokes. Least he’s self aware.

Richie soundlessly taps a finger against the side of his glass. It’s filled with lemonade - the proper stuff, not that weird clear shit that’s all chemicals and no flavour. He’s the only one not drinking. He never does. After years of holding back his mother’s hair, dragging her up to bed when she could barely stand and walking to school in snow storms because she was over the limit, alcohol has never held the usual appeal for him.

“You know what, Billiam is right,” Richie says, a little too late for the flow of the conversation.

He grins, all his words stumbling into each other. “Se-see, told y’guys m’not ’uh lightweight.”

“No, you are the biggest lightweight I know.” Then he remembers about the boy sitting next to him, prodding his fanny pack cautiously like it’s about to spring to life and bite him. “Okay make that second biggest, Eds wins that one.”

“WHOOO.” There’s a cheer from beside him. A hand thrusts into the air, grasping a vodka bottle that he should certainly not be trusted with given his track record with alcohol. “What do I win?”

“Let me see.” Richie feels around in the rucksack he brought with him, cringing when his fingers brush the crumbs at the bottom. “A half empty bottle of hand sanitiser, aaand,” he draws the word out as he attempts to find something else. He pulls out a leaflet. Flips it over to find it’s that quick guide to first aid that he always keeps around because it makes Eddie happy. He hands it over. “Some new wanking material.”

For that, he receives a sharp shove to the side. Enough so that his balance fails him but Stan - more to save his own drink than his friend - grabs him by shoulder before the pair can collide. 

“Does that not do it for you Ed's? Could give you a copy of mine and your ma’s sex tape instead. Trust me, it’s a good one.”

“Beep beep,” someone says. Probably Bev.

At the same time, Eddie replies in that weirdly calm tone he always adopts when he’s drunk, “get fucked Richie.”

“How did you know the title? We only made it this morning”

“Beep beep Richie.” This time, they all join in. Except for Bill, who’s trying to balance his glass on top of his knee with dubious success. 

“What was he right about then?”

“You guys,” Richie replies like it’s the most obvious answer in the world because it is, how could it not be. “I fucking love you all too.” And he doesn’t intend to carry on from there but then Beverly calls for a speech and so he continues on to say, “fuck my dad, fuck my mom, fuck social services and fuck this stupid fucking town. You guys are all I need. You’re my family.”

Bev cheers, like he’s just made some Nobel-prize worthy speech on peace in our time, and pulls herself off the floor - but also Ben’s lap - to sling an arm around Richie’s shoulder. Lips brush pale skin as she presses a kiss to his cheek. Richie’s left hand comes to rest over his heart and the other on his forehead as he feigns a grand swoon. 

“Miss Marsh, I thought our love would never be recognised.” Surprisingly the accent he dons this time - the one he picked up from some Pygmalion adaptation they were forced to watch in English - isn’t half bad. That is, if ‘ not half bad ’ could be used in lieu of ‘just about intelligible.’

“Love as great as ours must be made known.” Bev’s attempt at received pronunciation is markedly better. 

There’s a round of cheers and applause, stopping only when Ben raises a glass into the middle of the circle. “Family,” is all he says, all he needs to say, and the group each bring their own glass to meet his with a gentle clink. 

There’s a moment - brief but tangible - when Richie thinks he can just spend the rest of his life pretending that all this depressing shit with his parents never actually happened. The stupid thing is, he doesn’t even mind talking about it in Hawkins. It’s kind of his thing. Well, it is the reason he’s there after all. But here, in Derry - with six other losers and an unhealthy supply of alcohol - it’s the last thing he wants to have a conversation about. Richie just wants to cling onto every last thread of normality he has left. But that moment, as brief as it is, makes him think and unfortunately he ends up at the conclusion that this method of coping probably isn’t that fair on all of his friends. 

There’s a sigh, a gentle defeated sound as he resigns himself to the conversation he’s about to start. He doesn’t particularly want to but he feels he owes them that much. They’ve waited patiently, not pushed or prodded, not demanded answers from him. Except for Eddie that is, but he’s Eddie. Richie wouldn’t expect anything else from him.

“Hey guys?” It’s spoken like a question, even though it’s not intended to be one. Stan’s the only one who hears. Unsurprising, since it’s barely above a whisper. Stan’s head tilts to the side gently, a stray curl brushing his forehead, as Richie’s see’s the exact moment he releases the tone is about to take a sombre turn.

Teeth press into the tip of Stan’s tongue in a low whistle, enough to silence the rest of the room. “Richie has something to say,” he explains, then turns to him as if to say the floor is yours. 

“Ah shit, right, look,” he sits himself back up, legs crossed beneath him. Smiles fall from the faces of everyone around him and their postures straighten; it’s as if he’s just held up a sign saying ‘warning: serious conversation incoming.’ Richie thinks that he could have done with the warning too, he managed to spring it on himself. Bill starts blinking forcefully - like his facial muscles are caught in some strange spasm - as if it will successfully remedy the quarter bottle of rum he’s consumed and shift his vision back into focus. Richie respects the optimism but he’s pretty sure that it’s unfounded.

He sets his drink down on the floor, taking one final sip and savouring the way it makes his throat tingle before he does. That’s the thing about regret, it always arrives too late. Eternally dilatory. If this feeling had arrived at a time that Richie could call useful, he wouldn’t have even started this conversation in the first place. But it has, so he has to push through. 

“Look, I know I haven’t spoken much about what happened, it’s just, it’s I, ugh .” 

Fuck . He’s never been good at explaining himself. In this world, Richie has found that people are either good with numbers or good with words and, sometimes, you stumble across a bastard like Ben Hanscom who’s good at both. Richie? Yeah, he’s good at neither. If Stan’s god really is up there, Richie has some stern words for him.

“It’s just the pity right? I can’t stand it. I know it’s shit, I know it shouldn’t have happened, but it did so there, but everyone keeps looking so damn sorry for me.” He pauses, realising he’s heading on some form of a tangent, and circles back to his original point. “See, what’s worse than that is the guilt - not me, you guys - you should’ve seen your faces when I woke up in that hospital bed. Don’t you think I know that you are blaming yourselves.” Most of their eyes drop to the floor. “Don’t,” he makes sure it’s firm, “I didn’t want you to know, that’s why you didn’t know - not because you missed something or you’re a bad friend or whatever other bullshit you’ve been telling yourselves -  so this isn’t your fault.”

Ben, who has the enviable talent of knowing exactly what to say at any given moment, is the only one who doesn’t look at a complete loss of words. Eddie, with whom he’d half stumbled into this conversation yesterday, isn’t so much as looking at him. Richie presumes it’s because he has strong opinions on the matter and doesn’t want to start another argument. 

“I know, we know , it’s just, we wanted to help.” There’s hums, nods, and voiced agreements. “You’re our friend Rich, you’re one of us and we all have each other’s backs?” Ben’s hand unfurls gently. The scar looks bigger when it catches the light, a thread of silver that curls from the base of his index finger right down to the heel of his palm. “Always.” 

“ Always ,” Richie whispers, ever so quietly, in concurrence. 

“Then, and you don’t have to answer this if you don’t feel comfortable,” Ben continues, voice soft in a way that reminds him of his kindergarten teacher. The nice one with pink flowers in her hair, not the one who smelled of stale smoke and shouted at him for licking the glue stick that one time. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you let us help?”

Although the topic of conversation is a more serious one, he can’t stop himself from responding with something a little more light-hearted. It’s still true though; there’s honesty in his answer. “Well, in case a few of you haven’t noticed, I’ll take on the responsibility of breaking the bad news to you. Every single one of you here has a raging saviour complex, like you all think you’re Jesus reincarnate or something.” Richie twirls a finger in Bill’s general direction. “Especially you Big Bill.”

There’s laughter. Or something not far from it at least. It calms him.

“See,” he drops the humour from his tone, “if anyone found out, I’d have been thrown into the system faster than you can say CPS and all this,” he twists his hand in a circular motion, “would have happened a whole lot sooner. And God knows when I would have gotten to see you all again. I wasn’t going to let him take you all away from me. Bit late for that now though.” Then he gives one of those little shrugs and adds, “at least it turns out I have an aunt though. Pretty cool one too, you guys would like her.”

He doesn’t even realise what’s happening at first, there’s a gentle pressure on his hip and the smell of Bev’s perfume in the air, and she’s hugging him, arms around his waist, curls brushing his cheek. Then Eddie’s arms are around his shoulders, breath warm on his neck - Richie shudders - Stan leans against his back, Bill sort of hugs his outstretched leg - probably testament to the rum - while both Mike and Ben encircle the entire group.

And this, this , is home.

Not Derry. Not Hawkins. Not that stupid house with the stupid lawn that his father mowed every weekend. Not even Bev’s couch or Bill’s front room. Not anywhere, but everywhere . Home is wherever the losers find themselves. As long as he’s with them, he’s home. 

Everything becomes easier after that conversation. It’s a weight off his chest. Richie knows they have more questions - about his mother, his father, his little stint in hospital, his new family, everything - but none of them decide it’s worth pressing the matter, he’s grateful. 

There’s drinks and laughter and cheap jokes and insults that allow him to pretend for a while. Pretend that nothing’s changed. Suddenly, he’s fifteen again, feeling like these years of his life are infinite. That the rest of his life will be spent wading through the Kenduskeag - with Eddie complaining about bacteria and raw sewerage - and tanning, or burning in his case, on the rocks at the top of the quarry and nothing would ever change. 

Two years later, on his seventeenth birthday, he’s starting to face the reality of life. The inevitability. They’re not going to stay together as they live out the rest of their lives. They’ll move away - every single one of them is desperate to leave this damn place - they’ll grow up, fall in love, go to university, get married, get a job, maybe fall out of love, have kids, marry again, and do all the stupid mundane shit that comes hand in hand with adulthood. This stage of their lives is fleeting, ephemeral, and that’s terrifying . Like gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, make your heart race kind of scary.

In his so-far rather brief existence, Richie Tozier has faced enough terrors to last a lifetime - maybe two - but the idea that his friends will move on and forget about him proves to be the worst fear of all.

Then the group decide to throw that idea to the dogs because Mike says something about a gift and Bev gets all excited, tapping Ben on the shoulder until he produces a small square shaped present - the size of a ring box - tied with blue ribbon.

“Oh my god,” Richie splays his fingers out across his own chest, “Benjamin, are you proposing to me?”

He grins, “Bill’s been working on his best man speech all week so you better say yes.”

“Sorry Bev,” he turns to her with the most serious expression he can manage, “our affair is over, I’ve been waiting for Ben to confess his true feelings this entire time.”

When he opens the box, he’s almost surprised because there is actually a ring, nestled between the black velveteen fabric of its holding. The ring itself is neither chunky nor overstated. It’s a thin silver band that catches the dim light of the halogen lamp next to him, casting lines onto the wall behind him. One side has been hammered flat - like a disk - and on it, carved deep into the surface of the metal, is the letter L. He pulls it from the box gently, smooths it between his thumb and forefinger until he notices another engraving on the inside surface, beep beep.  

Stan is the first one to break the silence, “so you know that you’re always a loser, wherever you are.”

“Can’t get rid of us that easily,” Ben adds. 

If these bastards are trying to make him cry, they’re doing a damn good job of it. He’s not far off that point. “I, I, thank you. Fuck . Guys this is all thoughtful and shit, it’s, I love it.” Richie doesn’t think he can find words for the feeling in his chest even if he tries. It’s warm and safe and makes him want to cry in a way that isn’t at all sad.  

“Trashmouth, speechless? that’s new,” Mike grins.

“It was Bev’s idea,” Eddie says, pointing over to the other sofa against which she’s leaning, wearing that signature Beverly Marsh smile. For neither the first time, nor the last, he thinks about how bright the girl shines. She’s like the sun.

“Yeah,” she admits, almost bashful, “but Eddie made it.”

Richie’s head snaps to his left at a speed that’s not far from giving him whiplash. “You made this.” Even though he’s drunk - which usually bestows upon him this uncharacteristic halcyon attitude - Eddie’s nose still scrunches in the way that Richie loves. They way that tells him he’s embarrassed about being offered a compliment. 

Eddie shrugs likes it’s absolutely nothing - like he hasn’t just made Richie something by hand - and stares at a point on the carpet to say, “well you know my dad used to make shit when I was younger, he taught me some stuff, and Mr Matthews let me use the metalwork classroom, he used to be good friends with my dad before he left us.”

Richie doesn’t understand how he can be so modest about it all. If Richie had made something half as good as this he’d be shouting it from the rooftops, bold and brash and horrendously self-satisfying. He decides to wear it on his middle finger - “so it’ll look pretty when I swear at people” - and proceeds to show it off to the group in such fashion.

“Eddie, it’s incredible.”

The smile Eddie gives him is his real gift.

Things calm down after that. Most of the group are on their last drinks with Bill appearing to be the only one with the actual intention of getting drunk. He succeeds and, when he does, Mike is tasked with providing moral support as he sits with his head hanging over the toilet seat. Ben’s asleep on the floor, head resting in Bev’s lap as she carts a hand through his hair, using the other to play a card game with Stan.

 It’s Eddie who catches his attention - though it’s hardly a surprise, Richie thinks that a small corner of his brain is dedicated to categorising each and every thing the boy does - as he gets up from the couch, bottle in hand, and heading out towards the door that leads to the fire escape. 

Thirty seconds pass - he intends for it to be a minute but his patience has always worn thin - and Richie says, “better go and make sure Eduardo doesn’t accidentally throw himself off the fire escape, he’s got a nearly-full bottle of vodka with him and it’ll be a tragedy if we lose that.”

So he trails down the hallway, through the red painted door with the slightly cracked window, and out onto the fire escape. He starts to make his way up to the roof, he’s certain that’s where Eddie will have gone, telling himself that his excuse was truthful.

It wasn’t.

In all honesty, Richie just wants to be near him. He wants to be caught up in the scent of anti-bac, freshly laundered clothes and that green-apple Dettol that he sprays on just about everything. He wants to laze around for hours with him, winding him up until that indelible Kaspbrak fire comes out. He wants it to burn him. He wants to pinch his cheeks and call him cute - ‘cute, cute, cute Eds’ - because he is. He wants, he wants - fuck .

That’s the problem, he wants.  

He wants more than he’s allowed.

Eddie Kaspbrak is funny when he’s drunk. Not because he cracks cheap jokes or stoops to Richie’s level of humour - though Richie would have you know that he’s bloody hilarious thank you very much - but because he’s so decidedly un-Eddie. Two shots of piss-poor cornershop vodka and his acute hypochondria takes a sabbatical. Let it be known, Eddie Kaspbrak is a lightweight. 

It placates him too. Draws out this affable, devil-may-care attitude that’s as foreign on him as it is rare. His speech slows to something more normal, his eyes are in a constant half-lidded state. Cider makes him sleepy, tequila makes him sick but vodka, vodka makes him brooding. And all of them make him harder to annoy, but Richie loves a challenge.

That’s how Richie knows he’s drunk, because he’s leaning on the grimy railings atop Bev’s flat block without having mentioned the word tetanus once. It’s a cold night - no, its fucking freezing actually - but Eddie’s not even wearing a coat.

“You’ll catch your death out here sir.” Richie puts on one of his English accents, or maybe even two at once. It’s cockney at first, and barely intelligible, but ends up sounding like something straight out of one of those old period dramas his mother used to watch. 

Eddie just shrugs, shoulders hunching to his jaw, “m’drunk.”

“Lightweight.”

“Fuck-off.”

Eddie giggles. It’s a beautiful sound.

He moves to lean on the railings next to him. While Eddie leans over the palisade, head down as he watches the river below, Richie presses his back against the metal bar, head tilted to the stars. It’s a clear night.

“I’m sorry,” Richie concedes. He’s not entirely sure why he says it; he didn’t even know that he was going to until the words were already falling from his mouth. He means it. Though for what, he can’t be certain.. 

Eddie tilts his head up so that he’s looking directly at him. With the way they’re standing, he barely has to move. “What for?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers start tapping on the rail for want of something to do, it’s involuntary at this point. Serves Richie right for leaving his half-crushed box of Marlboro on the kitchen countertop. “For everything, for nothing,” he laughs, “I’m just sorry.”

“Then I’m sorry too.” Eddie’s words aren’t quite slurred but they’re not far from it. Like they’re blurred at the edges. Whole and complete but a little hazy. When Richie asks why, he just turns it back on him. “Dunno, everything, nothing.”

“Touché, mon amour.”

“ Ami , mon ami is my friend,” he says it like Richie’s stupid but he finds that he doesn’t mind. There’s no malice in it. “Mon amour is my love.”

Richie knows that.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Maybe I need to pay more attention in French.”

Turns out it wasn’t vodka he took with him, though it’s still vodka-based. Eddie’s right hand, clasping a half empty bottle of something sweet and alcoholic, rises slowly until the rim of the glass makes contact with his lips. Head tilted backwards, he allows a mouthful of the bright-blue liquid to slide down his throat. Eddie’s never liked what Mike calls the proper alcohol - beer, wine, rum and whatever else he decides on the day - he likes the sickly sweet stuff that’s marketed towards getting teenagers into drinking. The stuff that just tastes like any other soft drink. 

“You should probably stop with the drink,” Richie hums, a smile dancing across his lips. 

“Why?” He asks, still staring out across the churning depths of the Kenduskeag. 

“Because I’ll be the one tomorrow who has to convince you that you’ve not given yourself liver damage from one night of drinking.”

“No you won’t.”

Richie laughs, “are you a changed man Eddie?”

“No,” he shrugs, like it’s all blatantly obvious, “s’just you won’t be here.”

That knocks the laughter right out of him because no, he won’t be here. By the time Eddie drags himself out of the depths of his hangover for long enough to hold a conversation, Richie will probably be crossing the border between New York and Pennsylvania. He knows there’s no animosity behind Eddie’s words - he just says things as they are after a drink - but that doesn’t stop the hollow-guilt from clawing at his chest.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, head now facing the ground, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“Not your fault.” That’s when Eddie finally turns to look at him. Like dead-in-the-eye stares . Richie could paint his eyes from memory but that still doesn’t stop him from looking. Eddie always just calls them brown but they’re so much more than that. Yes, they’re brown - that rich almost reddish hue that reminds him of autumn leaves and powdered cocoa - but there’s streaks of green, little dark flecks - eye freckles, if you will - and a ring of gold that encircles each pupil. 

Eddie stares at him and, in the shadows of the November twilight, Richie stares right back. He watches the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, which moves in pace with his own. He watches the way the moonlight lifts that summer’s tan from his skin, so that it’s almost as pale as his own. 

It’s then - under the star-strewn sky of Maine, on the roof of a grimy apartment block that feels more like home than his own house - that Richie is hit with a blinding, painful realisation. A realisation that, if he imparts any amount of honesty on the situation, didn’t really arrive in this moment, but came about four years earlier on a Sunday afternoon down by the barrens. But it’s this moment that he realises that he can no longer deny it. 

He’s hopelessly in love with Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Then of course Eddie has to make Richie’s entire predicament worse by turning to him with something like grief behind his eyes and saying, “I was scared you were going to forget me.”

And, if he didn’t feel like crying, perhaps he would have laughed because how could he? The thought is nothing but sheer lunacy. So he does something that he knows he shouldn’t do. That he wouldn’t do if Eddie wasn’t drunk enough to forget it.

He takes his head between both hands, using his thumb to wipe away a rogue tear, and whispers like a confession, “Eddie Kaspbrak, I could never forget you.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Richie has an idea. 

It’s not a good idea. In fact, it’s really quite a ridiculous one. That’s precisely why he loves it so much. It’s the kind of idea that if Stan was here, he’d tell him he’s an idiot, but if Bev was here, she’d still tell him he was an idiot but then she’d join right in and help him.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” his aunt’s saying a few hours after he returned from Bev’s and, honestly, he can’t believe that she did either. They’re sitting in the front of her Ford sedan, his feet on the dash as he stares at the front door of his old house, dwarfed in the distance. “No, no , we can’t. I’m supposed to be the responsible adult here.”

“You said you’ve broken the law before,” Richie reasons, like that’ll push her inclinations towards trying it again. 

“I parked on double yellow lines once, not this .”

The car’s parked at the far end of the street, in the space underneath the lime tree that’s always empty because anyone naïve enough to park there will end up with a car covered in sticky sap and the bloody awful job of cleaning it. That was Richie’s idea, something about it looking less conspicuous. He was hoping it would ease his aunt’s anxiety but the sneaking around only seemed to worsen it. Maybe this really isn’t such a good idea after all. 

“It’s illegal Richard, we can’t”.

Red-lacquered fingernails tap on the steering wheel at a pace that’s not cadenced enough to be rhythmic. It’s enough to tell him that his aunt is anxious but the little spark of something behind her eyes suggests there’s at least a little excitement too.

He decides to encourage her with entirely flawed reasoning. “Maybe I’m planning on descending into a life of crime and debauchery when I'm older, so this,” he gestures in the general direction of the house, “this is work experience, see you’re helping your nephew on his career path.”

Despite herself, she can’t seem to hold back a bark of laughter, a sudden sound that catches in her throat as if she was attempting to stop it escaping altogether. It’s that ‘ what the fuck is happening ’ kind of laughter, a laugh of disbelief, of borderline incredulity. A laugh that, having the friends he does in the town he lives, is all too familiar to him.

“We can’t, this is mad.” She’s still laughing, fingers pressing into the mouth as if to try and stop it. She’s not wrong but, given everything he’s been through, Richie feels like he’s owed what he’s about to take.

“Okay, okay, I can do it alone.” It is probably for the best anyway. He only needed a lift here. God, Richie thinks, he’ll make a bloody embarrassment of a career criminal if he needs his aunt to drive him to jobs. “Could you just not tell anyone - perverting the course of justice in this instance is probably more agreeable than grand theft auto.”

Well, neither are ideal. 

In some vain hope that she’ll agree to sitting it out, he launches himself out of the car onto the tarmac. He walks down the pavement half-crouched, looking like some parodical stereotype of a burglar but thinking he’s James Bond. Roger Moore wouldn’t need to give up the role quite yet.

“Hey Richard, Richie, wait .” She’s hurrying down the path after him, in that way that all mothers seem to run, arms crossed over her chest and shoulders hunched in the cold. “I’m not letting you do it alone .”

“You said you didn’t want to and it’s illegal?”

“I don’t and it is, but if you’re going to do it - which I don’t think you should - then I’m doing it with you.”

“You don’t have -”

She cuts him off before he has the chance to finish, “don’t make me change my mind because if I do, I’ll be dragging you back to Indiana by the scruff of your neck.” He laughs, miming his silence by pulling an imaginary zip across his mouth. “And if we get arrested you are grounded, like grounded .”

“I mean,” he shrugs, wondering if it’s worth pointing out, “grounding probably won’t matter that much in prison.”

“Oh God.”

The gate that separates the back-garden from the front lawn that Wentworth Tozier always keeps perfectly manicured is a little taller than Richie remembers it being. Though that could just be because he’s never had the need to scale it up until this point in his life. He manages to make it over with only a few splinters to show for it.

Getting from the decking to the back porch roof proves to be the harder job and he even offers a little thanks to whichever gods are up there when he finds out that the lock on the guest bedroom window still hasn’t been fixed.

When he makes it downstairs to unlock the side door, his aunt is waiting outside, looking around like an entire SWAT team helmed by the Derry chief of police is about to jump out of the hydrangeas. It’s enough to make Richie laugh and, even though Karen glares at him, he can tell that she’s trying to suppress a smile too.

“Here, take this.” Richie hands her a large boxy flashlight that’s got enough dust on top of it to make him surprised that it actually works. “We can’t turn the main lights on, it’ll look suspicious.”

What surprises Richie most about returning to his house is that it doesn’t feel like his house. It’s foreign land. The breakfast bar where he ate a bowl of Frosties every morning without fail, that weird abstract painting his mother hung to cover the drawing he did on the wall when he was five, the wallpaper, the photos, everything . It feels like a show home. 

The small bloodstain on the eburnean carpet lining the downstairs hallway perhaps less so but - given it was only a broken nose and not murder in the first degree - its not much bigger than an Eisenhower dollar. With the half-pained way his aunt’s staring at it, it isn’t hard to tell that she's figured out how it got there. 

“Come on,” he says softly, “let's not forget why we’re here.”

It’s crowded in the garage, despite the enormity of it. The piled up boxes of children's books, toys and VHS cassettes containing most of Richie’s childhood, the better part of it at least, account for a large amount of the used space. Everything is as foreign as it is familiar. Things he hasn’t seen in years, that he forgets they even owned.  The once-white now flavescent scooter he crashed outside Stan’s front porch when he was attempting to show that he could ride it backwards down the hill - unsurprisingly for someone with his level of coordination, he couldn’t - leans against the far wall, proudly displaying its multiple dents and chipped paintwork. Next to it stands the awful lamp his mother used to keep by her reading chair in the corner of the living room. She had bought it from an old antique shop in the town across where ‘antique’ translates to cheap, broken or hideous - or an unfortunate combination of all three. 

“Right,” Karen Wheeler says, hands on hips and a flicker of determination somewhere in her eyes, like she’s resigned herself to her fate, “go get some boxes.”

“We didn’t come here for all this shit.” 

“If you’re going to make me break the law, we might as well make it worthwhile.”

Richie grins. “On it.”

Most of what’s stored in the garage isn’t stuff he particularly wants to keep - hence it being housed there in the first place - so he just points out a couple of things that he wants to take for sentiment's sake. There’s an old stuffed rabbit toy from when he was only a few months old, a pile of his favourite X-Men comics, an old hoodie of Eddie’s that he has no intention of giving back, every birthday card the losers have gotten him since he was thirteen, and his tenth grade English textbook which he and Eddie used to write conversations in when Mrs Drew wasn’t paying attention. There’s his bike too, the blue one with the black handlebars that’s fast when it gets going but not as fast as Silver. Or at least that’s the excuse Richie uses every time Bill beats him down to the Barrens.

“Ooh, is that a SodaStream?” She sounds excited. Too excited for a machine that just adds some bubbles into things. Richie doesn’t like the thing but he supposes he’s biased, he’s never been able to look at it the same after that time he and Bill decided to carbonate milk. 

“Have it.

“What?”

“Have it,” he shrugs.

“I can’t.” 

Richie puts on some pantomime-like show, exaggerating looking around the garage to make sure no one is there. Then, facing the opposite direction, he knocks the SodaStream clean off the table and into the box below. “Wow, did you see that Auntie?” He says in feigned shock. “It just fell in there, what a shame.”

His aunt doesn’t have much success in hiding her smile. She thanks him softly. He likes making people happy, it makes him feel like he’s worth something.

“Hey, I’m just going to grab some stuff from upstairs.”

Five weeks earlier, when Richie was angry at the world and even angrier at his parents, he decided that he didn’t need to take anything other than his most treasured items - his photobook, camera, the hoodie of Eddie’s that he doesn’t know he has - and a couple of pairs of clothes with him to Indiana. But now that he's there and his evenings are spent staring at those depressing ashen-blue walls that make the whole place feel cold, he wishes he brought more things with him. To make it feel like he belongs. So he grabs posters, clothes, a random bar of chocolate he finds under the dresser and the lighter Bev gave him for his fifteenth whose loss he’d been mourning for his entire time in Hawkins.

When he makes it back downstairs, hugging two boxes stacked on top of each other, his aunt is standing by the breakfast bar in the kitchen. There’s that familiar rhythmic tapping of manicured nails on granite as she tries to settle her nerves. He leads them back into the garage, past his dad’s BMW, and over to the reason he wanted to come back to the house in the first place, his mom’s old Mercedes. Leaving the boxes on the floor, Richie fumbles around on the side-bench until he eventually finds the spare set of keys in a drawer labelled ‘Vice Grip Pliers ’ which contains nothing of the sort. 

The poorly-oiled mechanism of the garage door system puts up more of a protest at its unexpected opening than Richie had hoped it would. It’s a harsh screech, metal-on-metal, as it cries out for WD40 or something of the like. He curses, his aunt says something more colourful, and they just stare at each other for a moment, frozen in place, clutching the corrugated metal. They’re caught between a rock and a hard place. If they open it further, it’ll surely continue its screeching. Though, if they close it again it will make that same strident sound and they’ll be back where they started.

“Like a bandaid?” Richie suggests. “One, two, three .”

He’s not sure quite how bad he expected it to be but, what he does know, is that whatever it could have been, the reality is worse. The noise is loud enough to make his ears hurt and, if that doesn’t wake up the neighbours, either they’re all deaf or they could sleep through a fucking hurricane. Now keenly aware that time is of the essence, he jumps into the car - boxes now loaded onto the backseat - and shoves the keys into the dash.

By some small miracle, the Merc’s battery isn’t flat. It takes a couple twists of the keys to start it and it doesn't so much as roar into life as it splutters. Regardless, that’s a win, he’ll take it. He dips the clutch and lets the car roll out of the garage onto the drive, his aunt acting like some sort of traffic warden to make sure he doesn’t hit any of the contents of the room.

He’s sitting in the car, headlights off, watching in the rear-view mirror as she attempts to close the garage door. It makes the same deafening wail that somehow feels louder outside, in the silence of the night, when he can see how close the houses are. Then it stops suddenly, sooner than it should have. “ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath. It’s stuck. This is not ideal.

Before he can even been to navigate that predicament, another problem throws itself into existence with blinding clarity. The next door-neighbours dog. Barking. Incessantly . Richie hurls himself out of the car with enough force to nearly send him head over heels, only just managing to cling onto his balance by placing a palm flat to the concrete. Then he’s running over to the fence down the side of the house that separates their side alley from his, staring at the goddamn embodiment of ‘small dog syndrome.’ A fucking  chihuahua  that thinks it’s some kind of menacing guard dog. 

“Here, here, shhhh, good dog, come on,” Richie whispers harshly with a large degree of desperation. If Allan , next-door’s crackhead dog gets them arrested for grand larceny at two in the fucking morning on his birthday - well the day after his birthday but he still hasn’t slept yet so, as far as he’s concerned, it still is the same day - he’ll be furious. Could it even be classed as robbery if you’re stealing from your own house? Half of the items are his and his dad is hardly going to miss the car given his current state of affairs. His mom certainly doesn’t need it either. He reaches a hand out to stroke the animal; he snaps at him, “ouch you little fucker,” he says, pre-emptively since he manages to whip his hand away in time.

“Shhh, shush , quiet, okay what’s this, look here.” The stick he pulls out from under the fence is probably a touch big for the dog in front of him but he hardly cares, throwing it into the neighbours garden with a hushed call of, “go on fetch, go get it, fetch, fetch, chase, retrieve, go.”

The thing quiets for a moment - thank fuck - its big bulging eyes staring at him like he’s stupid. Allan turns to look in the direction of the stick, then back to Richie, and decides to return to the incessant barking. 

“Oh fuck off, I used to feed you sausages, you traitor .”

He’s about to start lecturing the dog on the importance of proper manners, when the back porch light of the house next door floods the alley with light and there’s a call of, “ OI , who’s out there?”

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

He leaves the hellhound to wreak havoc in peace, practically tripping over his own feet in a hurry to get back to the garage. His aunt’s looking even more panicked than before, trying frantically to shove the garage door back into place. It’s further than it had been, now only open about half a metre, but he probably shouldn’t have stressed her out further by saying, “the mental next door neighbour and her demon dog are up.”

With eyes as wide as saucers, jaw dropping in a way that’s almost comical, she exclaims, “Oh God.” Her head’s shaking side-to-side, roller-formed curls bouncing with it. “We’re going to prison. What about my kids? And Ted? And what will all the other mom’s at my yoga class say? Gosh, I’ll be the talk of the town.” 

“Least it’ll be for a cool reason, imagine that, ‘did you hear Karen Wheeler, arrested for grand larceny’ , doesn’t that sound way more impressive than ‘have you heard, Brenda told Linda who heard from Peggy that Sheila - from the PTA, not from Zumba - was found in bed with the local postman,’ or something like that,” Richie reasons, “and don’t try and tell me that isn’t the kind of rumours that spread around a town like this because I used to work at the café next to the hair salon and, let me tell you, the old ladies loved me, they gave me all the gossip.”

“Yes, but-”

Richie cuts her off before she has a chance to lodge a protest. “Plus, Doris over there,” he waves his hand in the general direction of the other house, “is like eighty, probably deaf or at least blind as a bat. Maybe even both if we’re lucky. Who knows. The world is cruel.”

Karen is about to say something else - most likely to point out his incredibly flawed reasoning - when there’s a sharp metallic click that sounds uncomfortably like the cock of a shotgun. It’s a reminder that the present probably isn’t the ideal time for a debate on the social etiquette of a town like Hawkins.

“Richard, please tell me she hasn’t got a gun?” She practically hisses.

“She hasn’t got a gun?” Richie shrugs. It sounds like a question. “I don’t know, I did say she’s fucking mental.”

“ Language .” She doesn’t let the parent in her slide, even when they’re ten minutes and a rabid dog attack from being arrested for grand theft auto. “Also there’s mental and then there’s murderous . Difference, big difference.”

There’s another call from the opposite side of the fence - this time, Karen hears, her eyes widening comically - and Richie herds her out of the way of the garage door as he prepares himself for a run up. He hurtles towards it at full force, wishing he had muscles like Mike’s or Ben’s as he slammed his foot down on the bottom of the door. There’s an almighty crash, and the definite sound of some part of the mechanism breaking, but it works. It closes. 

Richie hums a small prayer to whichever deity was looking down on him in that moment, - promising that if he ever decides to divert from his so-far secular life of atheism, he shall pledge his undying allegiance - and grabs his aunt’s hand, dragging her towards the car. He dives into the driver’s seat, her into the passenger’s, and slams his foot down on the clutch, pushing the gear stick into first. It’s a miracle he doesn't stall the damn thing as he swerves out of the drive at a speed that’s far too fast for the near ninety-degree corner. 

The full force of the turn sends them sliding in their seats. Karen’s got one hand on the dash, the other on the car roof while Richie’s just clinging onto the steering wheel for dear life. When they park up - near the end of the street next to his aunt’s sedan - there’s a moment of pure tense silence, the pair of them staring out of the front window. Then Richie turns to face her and she does the same and, before they even realise it’s happening, they are both laughing so hard that their stomach’s ache and there’s tears in their eyes. 

“That was, that was…”

“Exhilarating?” He finishes for her.

“Yeah,” she breathes between laughter, “something like that.”

Chapter Text

the news is blue.

“I think I might be dead .”

Eddie announces his half-drawn conclusion to whomever is in his company this Sunday afternoon. It could be everyone. It could be no one. Though, given the mounting pressure beneath his temples - particularly that small spot near the corner of his left eye - he’s not planning to open his eyes and find out. Scrunched eyelids are the only shield between his alcohol-rankled retinas and the shards of midday sun that cut through the air like amberglass. He knows this because all he can see is a sheet of hazy vermillion in place of the usual achromic nigrine that lulled him to sleep at four in the morning.

For once, Eddie isn’t actually sure whether he’s exaggerating or not. He feels like hell .

“Not dead,” Stan deadpans, voice awash with sleep, “unless I am too, and if I have to spend the rest of eternity listening to you lot, I’d rather be sent to hell.”

“Jerk.”

“ Bitch .”

“What if this is hell,” Eddie reasons.

“Feels like it.”

“Thank God .” This time it isn’t Stan; that voice is unmistakably Bev . And it’s far too loud for the full-scale orchestra that’s clattering around in his head. “One of you lazy bastards is finally up, it’s three in the afternoon.”

Eddie lifts a hand, shiftless and uncoordinated, to prod at his own face. He does so once, just below the freckled on his left cheek. Feels pretty solid. Does it again. Then again. Thrice more until he’s satisfied. Maybe he’s not ready to meet Stan’s god quite yet. That’s a relief. “I’m alive,” he proclaims, half-hearted.

“Cuh-coh-congratulations.”

From somewhere in the room, too close for his liking, there’s a slow, rhythmic clapping.  It makes his head hurt. Stan’s too, by the sounds of things, because he’s quick to mumble a garbled, “shut up.”  

Mercifully, it ceases.

A finger digs into the soft part of his cheek where the baby-fat that Richie always pinches has yet to melt away. “That’s wuh-weird,” Bill giggles. Prods him again. “Because you look puh-pretty dead.”

Eddie bats at his hand. Misses the first time. Manages the second. Bill’s definitely still drunk. If the hangover that Eddie’s woken up to is bad, the headache Bill’s going to have once he’s sobered up will hit him like a fucking freight train. A real smack across the face. There’s a small comfort in knowing he isn’t the worst. Aspirin would be better though.

With some shred of misplaced optimism, he attempts to open his left eye a fraction. Mistake. He squeezes it tightly shut again, convinced he’s burnt a hole in the back of his retinas. He groans accordingly and says, “you could have just stopped at pretty.”

“That’s Richie’s luh-line.”

Eddie frowns. Or he attempts to at least because his eyes are still tightly shut and any movement is too much effort. He doesn’t quite understand what Bill means by that. There’s the sound of fabric cutting through air, an audible ‘ouch’ and a few harsh mutterings that he can’t quite make out. They sound like Bev. He thinks.

When someone next speaks, it’s definitely Bev. Considering the amount she drank last night, she sounds surprisingly alive. Or maybe it isn’t all that much of a surprise because she could drink them all under the table if the situation called. “Don’t worry,” she says, “you’re not dead, but all of you will be if you don’t have this place spotless in the next few hours. Ben’s the only one helping me.”

“Aye, aye captain.” It sounds like Mike. 

“Might have liver damage though,” Stan mumbles and there’s a chorus of groans. Not that there’s much point in their complaints, the conversation’s an inevitability, regardless of who brings it up. If it wasn’t one of the others, it would end up being Eddie. His hypochondria’s already gearing up to convince him that he’s two steps away from the brink of death.

“Eddie, you’ve not got liver damage,” Ben reasons. Sounds significantly less hungover than them. Save for Bev at least. 

Eddie debates asking. The little voice in the back of his head wins. “Are you sure I don’t look jaundiced?”

His stomach makes a less than desirable noise, like the low rumble Mike’s old truck used to make when it was a few rough miles away from breaking down. There’s a few mumbled disagreements, though he knows for certain that none of them even bother to look, and Bill just asks, “wuh-whats that?”

“He’s asking if he looks yellow.”

“Like Homer Simpson?” 

“Nah more like that Martin kid,” Bev adds.

Eddie lifts his head up. Regrets it immediately. “I do not look like him.”

“Or Ned Flanders’ son.”

Eddie pouts. It’s like having five Richies in the room there with him. In reality, he doesn’t even have one. “This is a serious matter, I could be dying.” He could also be exaggerating. 

Someone hums in agreement. “Like that time you thought you had bowel cancer but you just drank too much of that bright red cherryade.” 

“Piss off,” he groans; there’s laughter. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒

With that familiar mechanical purr that reminds Richie of grocery store trips and the sound of glass bottles clinking together on the back seat, the Mercedes pulls up on the grassy stretch out front of the Byers’ house. Will’s older brother leans against the bonnet of a beat-up Ford LTD, chatting with his cousin Nancy. Richie’s cousin, he wants to stress, not Jonathan’s. Because, given the placing of her hand on the inside of his left thigh, that would be seven levels of illegal. And just wrong .

“Y’alright big Byers,” he smiles as he clambers out of the car, nearly hitting his head on the blue-glossed steel of the door frame. Richie doesn’t know which wise-guy decided to make these cars so damn low to the ground but, at six foot and seventeen years, he has some choice words for them. “Is Will about?”

“That’s a fancy looking car,” Jonathan says and Richie just offers him a shrug. He’s aware of that, but it’s not for any knowledge of cars - he’s clueless at best - rather, his parents wouldn’t be seen dead in anything other than the best they can afford. He gets the impression that Jonathan doesn’t know all that much either. “Where did you get it?”

That makes Nancy laugh. Head tilted back, curls brushing her shoulders. “Now that’s a story,” she reflects, fingers curling into the crook of his arm as she drags him back towards his own car, “one I’ll tell you on the way to work because,” she taps her leather-strapped watch, “we’re going to be late.”

Jonathan smiles, that sickening fond look in his eyes, and lets himself be pulled towards the Ford as he answers Richie’s initial question. “Yeah, Will’s here, he’s just getting some of his art stuff together.” He ducks down into the driver’s seat of the car, stopping just before the door closes. Leans out, looking at Richie, “he said that you’re into photography, you should show me your work sometime.”

“Yeah,” he replies, genuinely grateful, “yeah, that would be really cool actually.”

In lieu of a goodbye, Jonathan waves at him while Nancy shows a middle finger - which he gladly returns. Richie can’t really remember when they started that. Must’ve been around the time he’d questioned why her ‘supposedly dead but very much alive’ Steve was climbing through her bedroom window a few weeks back. He could’ve sworn Jonathan was already there too.

Will comes bustling out of the front door - sketchbook under one arm, school bag under the other - a few minutes later, giving Chewie a pat goodbye. Makes it a whole half-way to the bike that's leaning against the front porch before he even realises that he’s not alone.

“Richie?”

“Your highness.” He bows dramatically, “your ride awaits.”

Will’s expression is caught somewhere between shock and confusion. It’s warranted of course, but Richie doesn’t offer any explanations. Waits for him to ask. When he just stands there, mouth slightly agape, Richie pulls open the passenger-side door, gesturing for him to take a seat. Will obliges though, clicking his seatbelt into place as Richie puts the car into first, pulling out of the drive. 

They make it all the way to the main road before Will gathers his thoughts enough to say anything, “you bought a car?”

“Well,” he concedes, head tilted to the side, “stole a car actually.”

“What?”

Richie snorts, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, impatient as he waits for a gap in the traffic. It’s one of those overcast Indiana days that paint the town in shades of grey, a life-sized charcoal drawing. Make everything seem lifeless and cold, like a sun-bleached photograph.

“Funny,” he turns to Will, “that’s exactly how Aunt Karen sounded when I first proposed it.”

Will laughs in that short-breathed kind of way that tells Richie that he barely believes what he’s hearing. “Wait, so let me get this straight,” he says, words drawn out like he’s still trying to piece things together, “you stole a car, an expensive car, and Mrs Wheeler just, what? Let you?”

“ Helped me actually, if we care about the specifics.” He’s always relished in bringing that look to a person’s face - four-sixths shock and a third wonder - and this time’s no different. Though maybe there’s a touch of worry in there too. After all, Richie has just implied grand theft auto and taken away any claim of plausible deniability. He should probably reassure him a little, “and is it really theft if you sort of already own it?”

“ Yes ,” Will deadpans, “because I know for a fact that it isn’t in your name.”

“Meh, technicalities Wilbur.”

Will’s eyes roll. Richie laughs. He’s not all that disapproving, can see it in the way he’s trying to hold back a smile. Well, failing.

“It’s my mom’s, well, was anyway.” Given that Will didn’t reply, Richie thinks that he deserved some reassurance that he’s not hitching a lift in a car that’s on the state police watchlist of stolen vehicles. “And it’s not like she can drive it under six feet of solid ground, or report it stolen for that matter. She’s kicked the bucket, dad’s in prison awaiting trial. Far as I’m concerned, that makes it mine.”

Will must be able to find some merit in his reasoning as he just offers up a nod of acceptance and says, “you better tell me the whole story when we get a chance.”

“Oh I've got the voices ready and everything.”

When they pull up outside Audra’s house, it’s with a similar lack of warning. She’s already walking down her front drive, one hand clutching her art folder, the other’s attaching a Walkman to the waistband of her jeans. Nearly walks straight past them. Only reason she doesn’t is because Richie slams his hand down on the car horn, giving her a damn near heart attack.

She’s only just short of jumping out of her skin. Turns sharply on her heel, clearly preparing to give them a piece of her mind. Richie sees the exact moment she clocks that it’s them, expressing turning from ‘fuck off’ to ‘fuck you’ with a touch more humour.

“Tozier’s Taxis, give us ya cash, we’ll try not to crash.” 

He rolls the window down as he’s saying it - power assisted, not one of those hand cranks - and Audra crouches to eye-level fingers curling over the gap where the glass slipped between steel and plastic.

“Oh God,” she groans, walnut eyes flitting between the two boys, “who the hell let him behind the wheel.” His attention then fixes on Will,  “and why did you agree to get in a car with him? You suicidal? Sure we could find you a good therapist if you need it.”

“Believe me, I’m starting to regret it now.”

“ Rude , both of you.”

Will laughs. Audra just grins. Sticks her tongue childishly. Eyes rolling, Richie gestures towards the back seat. There’s the remnants of a McDonalds back there: two quarter pounder wrappers, a grease-stained fries carton and a half-finished vanilla milkshake.  Probably should have cleaned it before they left.

“School’s like a three minute walk from my house.”

She’s right of course, but when is she not? Logistically, there’s no real point to picking her up. Even had to go right past the school just to get here. Not that he cares, that’s what friends do. He doesn’t bother saying any of that though, just offers up some flawed reasoning. “Yes, and it’s only a one minute drive, time efficiency Phillips, plus it’s better than turning up soaked.”

She looks up towards the sky, a griseous sheet blankets the mid-morning horizon. The kind that promises humidity and sunless skies, far from the charcoal smear of rain clouds. “Um, it’s not raining?”

“Weather report says a hundred percent chance of torrential rain in the next three minutes.”

An eyebrow raises, “did you make that up?”

“Absolutely, now get in.”

As soon as the car door shuts behind her, followed by the gentle click of the seat belt latch, Richie wastes no time in launching into a dramatic retelling of the weekend’s events.

Richie wastes no time in jumping into the dramatic retelling that Will requested, though he would have given it to them without any prompting. He brings in the voices - his aunt Karen isn’t great, but the crazy woman next door is not far off - alongside grand hand gestures and definite exaggerations - “yeah the old bat nearly shot us.” Will and Audra laugh at all the right points, look suitably impressed when it’s called for and send him just enough disapproving glances to ease their conscience. Though, Audra certainly seems to be a little more impressed by his brief stint as a low-life criminal than Will had initially been.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Nancy’s getting a headache. The kind that slowly edges over her, a rhythmic pounding behind her eyes that dulls her concentration and slows her thoughts. She’s been staring at the same fourteen words for the last half-hour. Can’t conjure another five hundred more to finish the article. It doesn’t help that her mind’s elsewhere.

The thing about Nancy Wheeler - that’s both her greatest asset and most distinguished flaw - is that once an idea begins to circle in her mind, there’s no escaping it. She can’t let it go. It makes a home for itself, ensnaring every thought and feeling that brushes the corners of her mind.

This idea is no different. 

When the first child goes missing - down by the park on Haversham Street where the swings always creak and the teenagers drink cheap lager - it’s a tragedy.

When the second child goes missing - Donna Brandon with the hair like fire and the eyes like ice - it’s a coincidence. 

When the third child goes missing - in the nice part of town, where the doctors and lawyers own houses that they barely stay in - it’s a pattern.

It’s that morning that she finds out about the third, when her eyelids are threatening to close and she’s one minor inconvenience away from tearing the stupid sewer-related article into a thousand tiny pieces. Or burning it. There’s no smoke detector in her basement office at The Hawkins’ Post so it could be a viable option. Nancy makes a mental note.

Footsteps break her from her thoughts. Jonathan appears round the corner - americano in one hand, latte in the other - and drags a spare chair across the room with his foot. He sets the black coffee down in front of her. She takes a sip, the bitterness braces her. 

It doesn’t take her long to realise something’s wrong. A few seconds at most. Nancy doesn’t even have to ask before he says, voice low, “have you heard what they’re saying upstairs, there’s been another.”

Her stomach drops, head bowing. She knew this would happen but the confirmation is still a blow. Nancy starts gathering her things together before Jonathan can even finish explaining what he overheard when he was standing by the coffee machine that always jams when the paper cups have been refilled. It wasn’t much, just piecemeal bits of information that floats under the gap beneath the conference room door.

She drags him up the stairs, past the open door of the chief editors office. Shouts something to Holloway about interviewing people for the sewer blockage article she’s been made to write, and doesn’t even wait around for an answer.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

“I don’t know, the woman’s mad,” officer Callahan’s saying, powdered sugar falling from his moustache, “going on about some clown following her around Hawkins.”

There’s a chorus of deep-bellied laughter. Hopper’s deputy clearly agrees because he adds, “yeah, remember the time she was convinced a bunch of aliens had landed in one of Eugene’s fields.”

Nancy only hears the tail end of their conversation but it’s enough to piss her off. They should be paying more mind to the missing persons cases, not joking about phoney police reports and shoving powdered doughnuts down their throats.

“Oi, you two shitheads,” Hopper’s voice is enough to silence the general humdrum of office life, “we’ve got three missing kids and you’re sat here laughing about what? Some fucking clown? Get your shit together.” He heads back down the hallway towards his own office without noticing their presence.

Both officers mumble a number of unintelligible apologies, at least having the decency to look guilty about it, and pick up the pens and paperwork that lay abandoned across the desk. Officer Powell looks up, clocking both Nancy and Jonathan standing there staring.

“No,” he starts, authority seeping into his voice, “no, I don’t care what your excuse is, what lies you’ve prepared, we’re not talking to the press, not happening, this is an open investiga-”

“Look,” Nancy cuts him off mid-sentence, “we’re not here as press, we need to speak to Hopper.”

“He’s busy,” the monotone voice of the police station secretary comes from over her left shoulder, abrupt enough to make Jonathan jump. 

“He can make time.”

“ No , he can’t,” Powell exclaims.

“Look,” Jonathan attempts, too kindly for these people to give him any mind, “we really need to speak to Hopper.”

“And I said no . You can speak to us.”

“Oi,” the chief's voice comes again. This time it’s not just his head that pokes around the corner, but his whole body. “What did I tell you two about not working? If you can’t recite those eye witness accounts by heart come sunset then you’ve not read them enough times.” He then turns to Nancy and Jonathan, “you two, with me.”

The Hawkins Police station heralds from the days where the architects of the world seemed to have a collective stroke. It’s coming up on thirty and the once-white fibreglass ceiling tiles are now a dreary yellow, soaking up the nicotine of a force of chain-smoking police officers. They’re still newer than the rest of the building though. Not by choice, the old secretary was diagnosed with mesothelioma and sued them for asbestos exposure. 

The chief’s office is certainly one of the building’s nicer rooms. The cheap linoleum lining the corridor melts into a dark blue carpet. Not the nice kind you’d have in your living room at home, those carpet tiles that grace the floors of school classrooms all across the country. There’s a number of suspect coffee stains, largely to the right of the desk, under the spot where a mug sits steaming on the corner. 

“Right,” Hopper says, falling back down into the age-worn leather chair, spinning slowly until he’s facing them. Both hands are placed on the table as he serves them a look that reminds Nancy of her tenth-grade English teacher. “I know what you’re going to ask me about, and no I can’t tell you anything.”

Nancy expected this. But she also knows that, under all the hard stares and unresolved trauma, he’s a good guy. A really good guy. And he needs help. On the off chance that it might work, she tries that wide-eyed puppy-dog look that’s usually pretty successful with her dad. Hopper just laughs. It was worth a try. 

“Three, Hopper, three , that’s a pattern.”

His shoulders come level with his ears as his head falls forwards into his palms. A few seconds later, he brings it back up slowly. Fingers drag across his skin, under-eyes falling, until his chin comes to rest in his hands. There’s a sigh loud enough to move the papers on his desk, followed by the words, “tell me about it.”

He looks tired. Like hasn’t slept in a week kind of tired. His under-eyes are streaked with purple, complexion notably ashen and, if the mountain of take-away coffee cups in his office bin is anything to go by, there’s enough Starbucks running through his veins to send him to an early grave.

“Look,” she says, tone hushed, regardless of the fact they’re the only ones in the room, “what if it’s like-”

“ No ,” he cuts her off, “we dealt with that, twice .”

Nancy looks at Jonathan; Jonathan looks at Nancy. She pleads with her eyes, wanting back up, but he just shrugs helplessly. Clearly doesn’t have a clue what to say either. 

She tries again, “okay, and who’s to say that there won’t be a third, and a fourth, maybe even a fifth?”

Holding her gaze, Hopper takes a sip of his coffee. She considers telling him that it’s a good idea to slow down with the caffeine, but  doubts it’ll help her case. Least he’s saving himself some money by moving on from the takeaway stuff to Florence’s filter coffee. She makes it as dark as ink though. Nearly killed Nancy when she’d been offered it once. She poured into into parlour palm on the reception desk and couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t look too happy when she visited a few weeks later.

“Look kid,” he sighs again, even louder than the last, “there’s nothing to suggest there’s any weird upside-down shit going on.”

“And there’s nothing to suggest that there isn’t,” she pushes.

Jonathan finally decides to back her up. “There’s nothing though, no trace, not even a fingerprint. Doesn’t that suggest something isn’t right?”

“Look,” Nancy tries to reason, “we’re not here as reporters or journalists, we’re here as a couple of teenagers who know what can happen in a town like this. So how about you work a case like it’s any old disappearance, and you let us have a look over the files and see if we can see anything at all out of place?”

Hopper looks across to Jonathan, clearly seeking his opinion on the matter. “She has a point, you can’t work this as the chief of police and look into the upside down. Chances are, it’s nothing. But are Will and El and the rest of the kids in this town worth taking that chance for?”

“Just humour us,” she pleads.

“Dammit kid.”

She smiles, triumphant. Nancy was ready to pick the file room locks if the situation had called for it. Jonathan wasn’t at all sold on the idea but obliged her regardless. Richie had taught her how to do it, no questions asked. Nancy didn’t ask where he’d learnt it; doesn’t want to know.

Hopper makes some vague insinuation about the keys to the file room, how civilians aren’t allowed in and - since he’s off to speak to the mother of the last kid - he’s ‘trusting’ them to lock his office up right away with ‘no funny business’. Nancy thanks him and he just makes some comment about not knowing what she’s grateful for.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

It takes Eddie a whole half hour to muster the willpower just to sit up. Then, with the warning roll of his stomach, he only has about fifteen seconds to get from the living room floor to the little green-tiled bathroom at the end of the hall. He makes it. Just .

Falls to his knees on the ceramic, bile rising up his throat. Gags. Gags again. Intermittent, the retching lasts the better part of five minutes; clears out the contents of his stomach, leaving him pale and clammy and gasping for breath. His forehead presses into the porcelain, cold against his skin.

He needs an aspirin. Two. Or a paracetamol, ibuprofen, codeine, anything . There’s a one man band putting on a stellar performance just beneath his temples and they haven’t even reached the encore. God, this might just be the worst hangover he’s had. Doesn’t know why he drank so much. Well, he does. He regrets it though.

Any memory he had of that evening was lost under the veil of sleep. A few things come to mind: laughter, a ring, the bitter burn of vodka. That’s it. Though he remembers being cold too. The kind of cold that couldn’t be remedied with an extra layer or a few notches on the thermostat. November-night cold. Heart racing. Richie. He can’t remember what they were talking about but, if he had to take a stab in the dark, probably some lewd jokes at his mom’s expense. 

Eddie retches once more. Stomach twisting like he’s on the damn waltzer. He tries not to think about how many bacteria live on the toilet rim. Probably a lot. Definitely a lot. Millions. Billions. Ugh . A strand of bile-tinged saliva hangs from his bottom lip, clinging on for dear life.

To add to the nausea, the retching and absolute pounding that his head’s taking, there’s a whole load of guilt rolling around in there too. Eddie’s made himself a whole cocktail of tribulations and there’s no good mixer to dilute it all down. He feels guilty because he spent half the damn weekend wishing that Richie wasn’t here (and every second of his absence wishing that he was). 

He hates it. He hates this, this half there, half not. Losing his best friend to fucking Indiana of all places was the worst day of Eddie’s life, above the killer clown and the broken arm and everything. It’s melodramatic, yeah, but he doesn’t give a fuck. It’s true. 

But then Richie has to turn up again - right when Eddie’s just starting to entertain the idea of coming to terms with things - and remind him how much he fucking misses him. Throws him right back to square one. Maybe even minus five because this time he returns with stories of his cool aunt, his new friends and a town that is only nearly as shit as Derry. Where Eddie’s stuck, feeling more alone than he ever has before. And so he drank. Which was stupid because now he still feels lonely but he’s got the hangover of a century to go alongside it.

“Eddie?” Cautiously, softly, Ben walks into the room, one hand clutching a cold glass of water, the other pushing open the bathroom door. He kneels down beside him, offering up the drink and a packet of painkillers he pulls from his back pocket. Ben Hanscom is a god among men.

He smiles weakly, “thanks, Ben.”

“No problem.” Nothing ever is for him. Ben helps peel him off the bathroom floor, holds him steady as he guides Eddie over to the stool to the side of the vanity cabinet. Sits him down. He takes a sip of water. The cold braces him, soothes him. It largely rids his mouth of the acidic taste of stomach bile and day old carbonara which is also a bonus. Eddie’s definitely still going to have to hunt down some mouthwash though.

“What happened last night?” He asks, tries to keep it casual, as Ben sets to work cleaning vomit off the rim of the toilet seat. Eddie tells him that he doesn’t have to; Ben isn’t hearing any of it.

“We drank a lot, you especially, and we gave Richie his ring, he was speechless, Trashmouth speechless, never seen anything like it,” Ben smiles, shaking his head to get the hair out of his eyes. “And then you went up onto the roof and Richie went to check on you, you were gone for a while but I ended up looking after Bill so I don’t know after that.”

Eddie hums softly, “I'm glad he liked the ring.”

“He nearly teared up, especially when he found out you made it.”

Eddie can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face, or the way it tugs at his chest. This time, in a way that feels good. He can’t recall what happened on the roof though, just the biting cold that didn’t seem all that bad when he was drunk. It’s like he can only remember feelings - loneliness, anticipation, nerves and something else he can’t quite place his finger on - but any memory of spoken words or actions are gone for good. Eddie reaches a hand to touch the side of his face; doesn’t know why.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Jonathan’s expecting stacks of files, papers, photographs, overstuffed filing cabinets that Florence would be giving Hopper an earful over, folders and interview transcripts. The reality is quite different. There’s three folders in the top drawer - Brandon, Donna; McCauly, David; and Lister, Bryan - and all of them combined probably have a lower word count than one of Jonathan’s old physics essays.

When Nancy had said there was no evidence he didn’t think she meant it quite so literally. There’s nothing . No fingerprints, no witness accounts, no CCTV, nothing . Not even a sign of a struggle. It’s like someone had just wiped all three children off the face of the earth. 

“Jesus,” Nancy whispers, closing the McCauly file with one hand. “This is worse than I thought, they don’t have a single lead. They’re flying blind.” She sighs, nodding over to the file in Jonathan’s hands, “anything in that one?”

He shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. He’s been staring at the same photo for the last ten minutes, that old splintered bench in the park near Hudson’s garage where Bryan Lister was last seen. Nothing looks particularly off about it. The red balloon tied to the nearby rubbish bin is a little out of place but it’s nothing incriminating.

He releases a long exhausted breath, “no, nothing.”

They end up making a few, several , photocopies. Only stop when the images start coming out streaky and the ink warning light comes on. It’s a good sign to retreat. If Florence catches them reading through confidential case files, she’ll have some stern words for them; if she finds out they’ve used the last of the photocopier ink, there’ll be two more missing persons cases in Hawkins.

“Come one, let's go,” he murmurs. Nancy looks reluctant at first but eventually concedes. Shoves the folders back in the metal drawers with more consideration for the filing system than Hopper clearly gives. Nancy makes a point of giving officer Callahan a sugar-sweet smile when she leaves. She’s not surprised that he makes no real effort to return it.

Nancy sinks into the tattered beige seats of the Ford, crushing her curls against the nylon covering of the passenger headrest. It creaks a little, tiling back a couple of degrees farther than it should, but she’s used to that now. If she wasn’t saving up for a flat with Jonathan, she’d be able to afford her own car. Might have to regardless because the old LTD is getting more temperamental by the day.

Now she’s got to go meet some self-important city council members and interview them about the recent sewer blockages. Fantastic .

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Will has a decision to make.

It’s the kind of decision that, to anyone without a nervous disposition and a tendency to lean towards chronic overthinking, is likely one of  the most mundane decisions they could have to make. But to Will, who has both of those things in abundance, it feels like a matter of life and death.

The issue is, it’s a Wednesday. Which really doesn’t sound all that bad in the grand scheme of things. But it is, to Will at least. Wednesdays are the one day each week that Ms MacKintosh has a midday meeting so the art room isn’t open for lunch - his, Audra and now Richie’s usual haunt.  It’s also the one day a week when the party makes a point of eating together at lunch. When Dustin’s not at football practice or physics club, when Lucas isn’t with his creative writing group, when El and Max aren’t having some kind of girl’s lunch or Mike and El aren’t off doing god knows what. Which is all well and great except, for perhaps the first time, Will doesn’t want to spend his free time with them. Pretending like everything’s the same as it was.

He grabs his lunch bag out the locker - tuna mayo, half a kit-kat and an out of date packet of funyuns - and heads towards the cafeteria with a knot in his stomach. It’s as busy as usual when he gets there - another reason in favour of the art room - and he can see the party sitting at a table over by the vending machines. There’s a spare seat waiting for him, between Mike and Max, but he swallows down his anxiety and sails right past it. He’s heading for the seat a few tables down, where Richie’s trying, failing , to catch Reese's pieces in his mouth and Audra’s laughing at him as opposed to with him. 

Will has to force himself not to hesitate when he reaches their table. Just drops his lunch down and takes a seat with his back to the party. Richie and Audra stop mid-conversation, confused.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d much rather not have to put up with him alone,” she jerks a finger in Richie’s direction, “but it’s a Wednesday, aren’t you supposed to be hanging around with the bitch brigade over there.”

Will gives her his finest ‘don’t call them that’ look. It doesn’t seem to help all that much. Never does if he’s honest.

“Yeah,” Richie says slowly, looking over Will’s left shoulder, “my cousin’s looking at me like he wants me dead.”

“Doesn’t he always?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “but this time he looks like he wants to kill me himself.” Richie does this little wave, complete with a smile, that’s equal parts condescension and sarcasm. His back’s still turned to Mike - an intentional decision - but even he knows that certainly won’t have helped the situation. Even Richie winces.

Worse that he thought. Brilliant . He’s going to regret this later.

“How are the photos coming along?” He asks, wanting to take his mind away from the situation at hand. He’d spent the morning in the dark room. Took Will and Audra ages to find him which was probably their fault really, it should have been one of the first places they checked.

“Good actually,” Richie replies through a mouthful of chips, “but I really need to get back before MacKintosh does, they should be dry now and only like a quarter of them are for my actual art project.”

“Did you not listen to her ‘no art supplies for person use’ lecture,” Audra laughs, waggling a finger accusingly. 

“Wasn’t there for it, doesn’t apply to me.”

“Don’t think it works like that,” Will rolls his eyes fondly, taking a bite of his sandwich. The bread’s a bit stale - more so than yesterday but less so than the previous Wednesday so that’s a small win

“Come on,” Audra says, wrapping the remains of her lunch back into the foil, “let’s take our food down to the dark room, we’ll help you.”

Will’s nose wrinkles slightly as Richie closes the dark room door behind them. It’s a metallic smell, like old pennies and the underside of the Ford’s bonnet when Jonathan drives it any further than three miles. It’s also a familiar smell, his brother comes home with the acidic scent of developing chemicals clinging to his clothes more often than not.

Photographs hang around every inch of the room. A museum exhibit detailing the life and times of Richard Tozier. It’s fascinating really, because Will’s only ever had one life - the one he’s living right now - but Richie’s had this whole other life before Hawkins. Will stares at the images; a number of strangers return his gaze from the silken surface of the baryta paper. 

“You’d like them,” Richie says, pulling his attention away from one of the images, “both of you would, they’re great.”

With a careful hand, Richie pulls one of the photographs from its temporary home - dangling from the wires like washing on a summer’s day - as it sways gently in the lilting breeze that crawls through the gap beneath the door. Captured in ink, a girl smiles - hair as bright as Max’s - with an arm slung around a boy with muscles the size of Billy Hargrove’s.

Richie’s finger lands on the girl's face, high on her right cheek. “That’s Bev,” he says, pride in his voice, “she’s a fucking force, twice as bold and thrice as brave as any of us boys, she could take on the world, would too.” His finger then slides over to the boy beside her, “and that’s Benny boy, heart of gold, looks like he could kill you, probably couldn’t even tell you to fuck off.”

“They make a cute couple,” Audra says, smiling softly. Will nods.

Richie makes a sound of disagreement, “ nope ,” he pops the ‘p’ , “they will be though, soon, eventually, who knows, I’ve been saying that for years.” He laughs, “cost me a whole ten dollars actually, I said they’d have figured things out by this summer just gone. Apparently not. Lost Bill twenty though.”

“Who are the others?” Will points to a photograph dangling near Audra’s right ear that catches his eye. The group look happy, joyous, with great beaming smiles and laughter in their eyes. Richie sits in the middle guarding a cake crowned with two candles, both a one and a seven, that drip wax onto the chocolate icing below. That must’ve been taken the weekend just gone

“Wilbur, Audra, meet the Loser’s Club,” he announces, holding the photo up to them with pride. 

“Catchy name,” Will says.

“Fitting,” adds Audra. It earns her both a grin and the middle finger.

“So,” he slides into one of his least questionable, though hardly laudable accents, “this handsome fella ‘ere is called Richard, lovely lad.” He drops the accent as quick as he had brought it into play, “you know Bev and Ben, this is Mike, the friend you can always depend on, you know, and that’s Big Bill, guess he’s sort of like our leader, we’d be lost without him.” Richie’s finger skims the surface of the paper, landing on a boy with curly hair and a scar that traces the length of his face, “Stan the man, he’s like really smart and shit, I’ve known him since, well, forever.”

Audra peers a little closer, trying to focus in the red glow of the darkroom light, “what happened to his face?”

“Unfortunately, some people aren’t born with my natural go-” He gets batted over the head before he can even finish that one. Audra looks pleased with herself. “ Ouch , okay, okay,” he whines and Will has the naivety to think he’s actually about to give an honest answer, but he just says, “he became puppy chow for an evil shape shifting clown that was disguised as this weird ass portrait that Stan’s dad keeps in the synagogue.”

Will snorts at the hilarity of it all; Richie just grins like he’s proud of himself. He doesn’t understand how his mind conjures all these wild stories. He’d make a good D&D campaign, if he even knows what that is.

“You should be a writer,” Audra says, clearly thinking something along the same lines as him. Though, he doesn’t know if anyone would read a book about a flesh-eating killer clown.

It’s Richie that snorts this time, “me? A writer? No, I don’t lick Dostoevsky’s arsehole like you do.”

“I don’t,” she says indignantly.

“Okay, maybe Daphne Du Maurier.”.

She won’t look him in the eye after that. He looks victorious. “And anyway,” she starts, “I didn’t mean you should write some depressing shit that english teachers love, I meant you could write something funny like Douglas Adams.”

“You sound like Big Bill,” he remarks, “you’d get on, he never shuts up about books and poetry and shit.”

“Sounds like he has taste.”

“Or neither of you do.”

Will finds their bickering amusing but he still decides to put an end to it, “who’s that?” His finger extends in the direction of the last boy in the photo, then over to a second image that hangs a few feet away. There’s a boy in the front of the frame with chestnut hair and a salmon pink polo. Richie has an arm hooked around the front of his neck, his other hand scrubbing at the top of his head, hair mussed in every angle. He’s trying to escape Richie’s grasp, palm pushing into the side of his jaw and a scowl on his face.

There’s a smile on Richie’s face, soft and nostalgic. “That’s Eddie,” there’s a pause, “he’s just Eddie . There’s no other way to describe him. He’s my best friend.”

“Is he as mental as you?”

“Yeah probably, and twice as neurotic.”

With only twenty minutes left of lunch, they help him collect together the photos, sliding them into the crinkled poly pocket that Richie pulls from the depths of his backpack. There’s a lot of them, enough to have sent MacKintosh on one of her school property lectures had she seen him. Still might if she checks how much acetic acid is left in the supply cupboard. It’s certainly a damn sight less than it was.

Audra perches on the now-dry sidebench, leaving Will and Richie to take a seat on the floor as the three of them finish their lunch. Audra turns to him, swallowing a mouthful of cookie, “did you get that landscape finished?”

“Yeah,” Will answers, “it’s not great though.”

“ Bullshit .”

At the same time, Audra says, “ liar .”

Will tries to explain that landscapes really aren’t his forte, trees and grass and leaves and shit are just boring. He likes portraiture, people. He likes the way his pen traces sharp contours, soft curves, the mechanistic twist of muscle and sinew. The irregularity of it all. Landscapes are all soft blended tones and limited colour palettes. He hates it.

Richie takes the sketchbook from his hands with a call of, “here let me see,” and Will lets it slide from his grasp with little protest. He watches slender fingers scurry between inked pages, mutters compliments with each drawing he passes. Eventually, he reaches a page near the back - which are usually just filled with Will’s mindless scribbles - but whatever this is, it clearly catches his attention.

It’s not in the way he expects though. His eyes widen ever-so-slightly, lips parting as his bottom lip falls, jaw drops. It’s shock. No, fear . Maybe both. Richie looks like the wind’s been knocked from his lungs. He can’t even remember what's on the back pages but it’s certainly nothing to warrant this sort of reaction. 

“Hey what’s wro-” Audra reaches for the sketchbook, brow furrowed. The pages meet with a rush of air as he snaps the book shut. She doesn’t get to it in time. Richie stumbles back a few paces, mouth moving like he’s trying to find the words. Will’s never seen him speechless, never thought he would.  

He must finally pull himself together because he manages to say, “I, uh, I’ll see you guys later.” Then, without any real warning, he flees from the room, taking Will’s sketchbook along for the ride.

What the hell just happened.

Chapter Text

 good old fashioned landslide.

Richie thinks that the whole ‘no running in the corridor’ rule is bullshit. 

Gym class always ends up with the stupid gym teaching attempting to make him run entirely against his own will; now that he actually is running, albeit down the English corridor at quite a pace, that old bat from classroom E3 is shouting at him like he’s just bloody murdered someone. Which is ironic, really, since that’s exactly what he’s trying to stop from happening.

He bursts through the library doors with enough force to send the steel handles crashing into the already dented mark on the plasterboard wall. He’s not surprised that it earns him a glare from the librarian who’s only a few rows across, shelving some battered editions of Shakespeare in the classical literature section.

This time he decides to forgo the running, instead speed walking over to the reception desk which is thankfully now empty. He leans over the counter, picking up a receiver in one hand and punching in a phone number that he’d come to memorise over years of calling in sick when he couldn’t be bothered to go into school on any given day. 

There’s a few seconds, a couple of shrill rings then, eventually, a familiar click and a voice that goes, “Derry Public High School, Maria speaking, how can I help?”

Richie, whose mediocre accents sound a little better through the crackle of a telephone line, drops his voice a half-octave and answers, “hello, could I be put through to the school library please? I have a question regarding some of my son’s textbooks.”

The receptionist obliges without so much as a question and the phone rings for a second time. Now it’s his old school librarian who answers, a surprisingly nice old woman who lives a few houses down from Bill’s, asking how she can be of assistance.

He crosses all the fingers on his left hand, praying for a small miracle. “Is there any chance that Ben Hanscom is in the library right now?”

“Ah yes, I believe he is,” there’s a crackle on the line, “we got last month’s issue of Architectural Digest in this morning, so he’s been here all lunch. Would you like me to put him on the line?”

“Yes, that would be great.”

Richie whispers a little thank you to whichever gods are listening for Ben’s nerdy little obsession with architecture. 

“Hello.”

“Ben?”

“Richie?”

“Yep, it's me.”

“Wha-”

“Sorry, no time to explain.” Richie’s quick to cut him off, acutely aware that the librarian’s cart is nearly empty and she’ll be making her way back to the desk at any moment. “What’s the number for the fax machine in the library?”

“ This library?”

“ No , the New York Public Library,” he deadpans.

“Hey, you could have meant Derry’s main library,” he laughs, but Richie can hear the slight hint of worry that now laces his tone. There’s a few seconds of incomprehensible mumbling - he must be asking the librarian - then his voice returns to reel off a long string of numbers which Richie scribbles down on the back of his free hand with a stolen marker. Has a whole fight with the receiver trying to get it to balance between his right shoulder and his jaw.

“What’s going on Richie?” Ben’s voice sounds cautious and Richie hates how all of the losers - including himself - instantly assume the worst in any given situation. They’re meant to be teenagers goddamnit. They’re meant to be worrying about parties and sex and finals. Not killer clowns. 

“It’s probably nothing okay, but I’m going to fax you something in a second,” he pauses, hearing the familiar click of heels on linoleum. “Shit, I’ve got to go but promise you won’t tell the others okay? I’ll ring you and explain when I’m home tonight.”

He doesn’t give Ben any time to answer before slamming the phone back down on the base and diving behind the nearest bookshelf, only just managing to go unseen. The student fax machine in Hawkins High is housed in a small office-like room just off the side of the school library, somewhere near the geography section. 

When Richie opens the sketchbook again, he half-hopes that he’ll be greeted with some delicate watercolour landscape or one of Will’s expressive charcoal portraits. But no, all that stares back at him are the yellow inked eyes of a clown that looks all too familiar for Richie’s liking. He shivers, turning the sketchbook over as he grabs a post-it note from a tray of miscellaneous stationary - that someone’s left haphazardly balanced on top of a pile of old European History textbooks - and scrawls down the words: ‘what does this look like to you?’

He places it over the jawline, where red pencil melds into white, and presses it firmly into the photocopier, jabbing his finger into the fax button. He makes a copy for himself too - rips the sticker off for that - and then makes his way to the Maths classrooms, trying to conjure some sort of explanation for his weird behaviour that would satisfy both Will and Audra.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

By the time six o’clock rolls around, the weather’s taken a turn for the worse. Will hasn’t seen it this bad in a long time, it’s been drier this year. The driest on record, his mother was saying the other day.

“Hey, Will,” a voice calls from behind him as he rounds the corner on Cornwallis and Kerley, pulling the blue PUL of his kagool tighter round his chest. It’s a voice he recognises but he doesn’t particularly want to hear right now. Naively, Will hopes that if he ignores him - plays it off on having his hood up in the rain - he’ll relent and leave him be. “Will, wait up, hey .”

He’s spent the last two hours sitting for Audra’s painting again, and now he’s beginning to wish he’d stayed at least another fifteen. Will stops, sighs because he feels it’s warranted, and turns around to face him. Mike looks back at him through waterlogged lashes, damp hair plastered to his face.

“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” Will says the first thing that comes to his mind which, given the way his brow creases and the few seconds it takes him to reply, isn’t the response Mike was expecting.

He regains his composure with relative speed, “uh, Lucas said he just saw you walking past his house, and I wanted to talk to you, so I ran to catch up.”

Will doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he doesn’t bother saying much. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. It feels wrong, and he knows it’s making things harder for Mike, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s so used to trying to protect everyone else’s feelings at the expense of his own, that Will often forgets that he matters too. With Richie and Audra, he’s reminded of that.

A few seconds slip by - or blunder by he should say, there’s nothing smooth about it - before Mike realises that he isn’t about to be graced with a response of any kind. So he starts talking again and, honestly, Will finds himself wishing that he wouldn’t. “What happened at lunch today?” Mike asks. He’s trying to look casual about it; Will can tell that from the way his hand reaches to scratch at the back of his head. He’s doing a pretty bad job though because nothing about Mike is casual . “It’s Wednesday, we all eat together on Wednesdays.”

Will shrugs. Well aware that he’s being rude. “Didn’t feel like it.”

He wants to be home. Free from the rain, and the cold, and Mike Wheeler’s demanding stare. Plus, it’s six in the evening, it’s dark, and if he’s not back in the next half hour then his mom will likely mount a full-scale police search in his name. 

“You didn’t feel like it?” Mike’s voice lowers then, annoyance seeping into his tone. “And, you just felt like hanging out with my cousin instead? We’re supposed to be friends, Will.”

“Yep,” he pops the ‘p’ for effect.

Mike forces out a bitter laugh, head shaking softly, and Will knows he’s hit a nerve. Part of him is pleased about it. He’s sick of being the one forgotten about; it’s someone else’s turn. “Is this just to spite me?” His voice is raised slightly. Though perhaps it already was. Needed to be really if it wanted to cut through the sound of rain on tarmac. “You know that I don’t get on with him. He’s a dick.”

Will scoffs. He finds himself angry. “ God , your ego is actually impressive. Not everything is about you Mike.”

“Will, I’m just worried abo-”

“Oh, you’re worried .” His eyes roll skyward. Three years ago, he couldn’t have imagined being this annoyed at Mike; he couldn’t have imagined being at all annoyed at Mike. Will has often heard it said that growing apart is synonymous with growing up - not always but often - but he had never for a second believed it. He thought it would be the four of them forever, held together by some metaphorical, inescapable glue that would keep them on the same lifelong trajectory. His own naivety shows. “Mike Wheeler’s worried, alert the press.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“With me ?”

“Yeah,” Mike’s shouting now, loud enough that the bullmastiff behind the back gate of number forty-three starts barking with a certain ferocity, “yeah you , you’re not yourself. You’re never like this.”

“Like what? Sticking up for myself?”

“ No , I didn’t mean that I-”

Will cuts him off again. Almost enjoys it. “I didn’t sit with you at lunch, that’s it. That’s all. Why are you acting like the world’s ended?”

Mike’s angry. He can see it in the subtle way his fists clench and his head tilts ever-so-slightly downwards, so his eyes are only half visible through his lashes. And Will can feel the guilt begin to simmer, a gentle pressure on his chest. Not because he’s angered his friend; because it feels good. Seeing the frustration, the indignation, there’s a satisfaction in it. Knowing that after all the times Mike had brushed him aside, made him feel like there’s no value in their friendship, upset him, he’s feeling a bit of that himself right now. Getting his just desserts or whatever.

So, yeah , the satisfaction is tinged with a bit of guilt because Will’s the kind of boy who cares too much about other people’s feelings, even when he probably shouldn’t. But he’s sick of feeling like an afterthought, he’s starting to realise that maybe he’s worth a little more than that.

“Yeah, but you just walked straight past us, and went and sat with my cousin ,” Mike replies, voice laden with something heavier than frustration, but lighter than resentment. “So what, are you guys like going to start hanging out, become friends or something?”

“No,” Will says firmly, not in the mood to placate him, “we already do hang out, and we already are friends. You might have noticed if you took any interest in my life every once in a while.” 

Mike’s mouth opens briefly before closing. Does it once more before his face morphs into something like a scowl. “Look, I’m just trying to look out for you. Richie’s a dick. He’s like arrogant and self-centred and always saying inappropriate shit, and I’m like 90% sure he does drugs, either that or he’s just insane. I don’t know what’s worse.”

Will actually has to bite back a laugh; Richie will find that funny, he’ll have to tell him later. “I can pick my own friends thanks,” his retort comes a few moments later, when he’s still smiling because, really, this is fucking hilarious. And it kind of feels good. “And you’ve got Richie all wrong. Then again, you’ve always had issues looking past your own blind prejudice. I’ll see you around Mike.”

He doesn't wait for a response. Not even a look, an expression. He’s already turning before the words have finished falling from his mouth. There’s a power in it, defending himself after all this time. Not letting people walk all over him.

“Will, Will wait.”

Over the sound of rain dancing on the concrete, it’s nothing more than a whisper. He carries on walking.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

The dial tone rings once, twice , then click . Someone answers.

“Richie, what the hell is this?” Ben’s voice comes thick and fast through the receiver. Well, he definitely got the fax then. That’s something at least. “Is this one of your jokes? Because, I love you man, but this isn’t fair.”

Richie lets out a laugh, soft enough that it’ll sound like nothing more than heavy breath over the phone line. “I wish I was,” he says, and then again a second time. Quieter, more to himself. “What does it look like to you?”

“You know wh-”

“Just say it.”

“IT, it looks like IT .”

“Pennywise.”

There’s a few quiet seconds then, “yeah.”

Fuck. Fuck .

He tries to lie down on his bed, feet up against the headboard, but he quickly realises that won’t work - the handset won’t reach - so he has to resort to the bedroom floor. 

“Where did you…” Ben trails off into silence but the question is obvious enough; it doesn’t need much more of an explanation.

“Found it in one of the back pages of my friend’s sketchbook.” Something heavy stirs in the pit of his stomach. In defence, he turns to humour. “I mean, maybe he just has some freaky clown fetish or something, not my place to judge, but like all his other sketches are pretty portraits and this looks too similar to be a coincidence, right?”

“Right.” Ben sounds like his mind has wandered elsewhere. “Why didn’t you want me to tell the others?”

“Because it could still be nothing, I don’t want to worry everyone, not yet.” 

“Stan and Eddie would worry too much; and Bev, Bill and Mike’s stupid hero complexes would come out in full force. You’re the most level-headed one here Benny Boy.” Richie practically sings his name, voice too upbeat for the conversation they’re having. “Plus, you’re like always in the library at lunch you little nerd, so I knew I'd be able to get hold of you right away.”

Richie hears a gentle crackle on the line. A laugh. “Yeah, yeah, that all sounds about right. Shit Richie, what if it really, what if…”

Ben doesn’t want to finish his sentence. Not that he needs to, Richie knows exactly what he’s trying to ask. “It’s probably nothing, we killed it, but I just wanted to know if I should, like, keep an eye out or something. Trashmouth Tozier, joker by day, evil demonic monster clown thing hunter by night.”

“You might want to work on the title,” Ben laughs. It’s a half laugh, the kind you force out when a strangers bothering you with their life story at the train station. His mind is elsewhere. Richie knows he’s worried him, but he needed to talk to someone.

“Bit of a mouthful.”

“Just a little.”

The conversation doesn’t stretch on for all that much longer. There’s nothing left to be said regarding the whole pennywise thing, and the idea of having a normal conversation after that seems too forced for Richie’s liking. Ben must be thinking along the same lines because he doesn’t bother to bring up much else either. It comes to an end around three minutes later when his aunt shouts up the stairs about dinner and Ben tells him he’s meeting Bill and Eddie outside the Aladdin in half an hour. Richie bites back a surge of jealousy. Instead, it settles for a gentle simmer in the pit of his stomach. 

Just as he’s about to hang up the phone, handset hovering above the base, he hears a muffled voice, too far away to make out any intelligible words. He puts the  receiver back to his ear. 

“Richie? You still there?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Richie almost wonders if the line’s cut.”

“Just, just be careful, okay?”

“Always am.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

When he makes it to the dining room, swinging around the doorway with little regard for whether the frame can actually hold his weight, he’s the only one of them there. Well, aside from Holly that is. 

“Ted,” his aunt says, placing a dish piled with buttered carrots in the centre of the table, “do you have any idea where our children are?” She looks over to Richie then too, who just shrugs accordingly. 

Ted’s newspaper lowers a few inches, eyes peering over the top of the pages. The headline ‘Starcourt Opening December First’ emboldened on the front page, resting above a picture that would be all neon if it weren’t for the black and white printing of a local paper. 

His uncle gives this ‘don’t ask me’ kind of look before adding, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “it’s one of the great mysteries of the modern age.”

Karen just rolls her eyes in a way that, while largely exasperated, is still fond. It’s still foreign to him, this kind of family life. The home-cooked meals, the asking how his day was, the actual concern. Sometimes it’s a little too much for him. It feels like he’s the protagonist in his own scripted reality show, because this isn’t how family is meant to be. That’s not what Richie knows it to be. It’s the people you’re stuck with through law or blood or whatever bullshit claims that people make. It’s the people that care about you because they have to, not because they want to. Because no family actually gets on, the world doesn’t work like that, it’s just one big game of playing the part, playing happy families.

But then Richie sees the way that his aunt looks at his cousins, the way Ted - despite his no nonsense attitude - always seeks her out the moment he steps into a room; he sees the way Mike and Nancy have each other’s backs when it comes down to - even though they’re always getting on each other’s nerves. He sees all of it and thinks, maybe he’s wrong. Maybe people do care. And maybe, just maybe , he could actually be a part of that.

But then his cousin storms through the front door and kicks that idea to the curb. 

The door slams with enough force to shake the picture frames lined up along the dining room walls, one of Holly and Nancy tilting particularly precariously. “ Michael ,” Karen shouts, not even looking round the corner to see who’s entered. She’s right, of course, he appears not two seconds later, drenched to the bone, hair streaking down his forehead like rat's tails. 

“You know,” Ted begins slowly, voice raised so that it carries through to the hallway, “there’s this invention called a coat, it’s been around a while but it is very effective, I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

Either he doesn’t hear or, more likely, he doesn’t care. Regardless of which, Mike doesn’t even spare them a look, just marches towards the stairs, face like thunder. A frustrated screech falls from his throat like waves against seawall, harsh and dissonant, when the sole of his rain-sodden shoe makes contact with the third step, clearly remembering that his room is no longer upstairs. Mike turns on his heel, makes an awkward second of eye contact with Richie that looks even more disagreeable than usual, and charges into the basement, door slamming behind him. 

Silence falls about the room, each of them staring in confusion. Even Holly, who’s dragged her chair as close to Richie’s as the space would allow, is frowning at the door down towards her brother’s room

His uncle is the first one to break the atmosphere, “Next time we bump into Darren, remind me to thank him for fitting that door.” He folds his paper up neatly, reaching for the serving spoon nestled in a nearby bowl of peas. “He did a good job. It’s a miracle the hinges have lasted this long.”

Richie half-manages to bite back a laugh, it comes out more like a snort. He thinks he manages to hide it successfully with a few well-timed coughs but, given the disapproving look that his aunt sends him - the very same one his uncle receives - tells him otherwise. “I’ll give him some time to calm down, then I’ll see if he’ll talk to me.”

She releases a sigh, taking her seat at the table so that she can reach across to spoon some vegetables on Holly’s plate since, so far, she’s only loaded it with chicken and roast potatoes. She’s not best pleased about it, pouting in a way that makes her look like her brother, but she soon relents once she finds out that peach cobbler is off the table if she doesn’t eat at least three pieces of broccoli and five spoonful's of petit pois. 

So Richie, taking his role as the fun cousin very seriously, takes every opportunity to pinch the carrots off of Holly’s plate while his aunt isn’t looking. Of course, this ends up with him eventually getting caught since she laughs so hard each time he does it. The blame likely lies in the stupid faces Richie pulls each time he does it, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Chapter Text

light in dark undone.

Will doesn’t know how long the lock on their front door has intermittently jammed for but it’s certainly long-overdue a visit from the local locksmith. It’s a case of finding the right angle when it decides to play up, which usually he’s pretty good at, but it’s being more stubborn than normal today. After a minute, that sees him growing increasingly frustrated, the lock clicks violently, spinning his keys arounded without any input from him. 

When the door swings inwards, his mom’s smiling back at him. Hair ruffled, eyes half-lidded. “Sorry sweetie,” she says, “I was taking a nap.” If the smears of purple under her eyes and the slight slur to her words are anything to go by, it hadn’t been a particularly restful one. “Donald’s had me on earlies all week.”

Before he even has the chance to reply to that, he’s being hurried into the house, safe from the bite of November rain. His mom, as she always does, fusses over him the second he crosses the threshold. She picks at his damp hair, practically pulls the kagool from his shoulders, and starts harping on about pneumonia and the seasonal flu.

“God, you must be freezing.” He is, to be honest, but the last thing he needs is to worry his mother some more. She’s good enough at doing that all on her own. He’s pretty polite in the way he shrugs her off. Smiles as she ruffles his hair, slips out of the sodden coat and excuses himself to the bathroom to warm up. 

Will stands there, goosebumps littering his arms, as he waits for the water to warm. Well, warm is perhaps a little too weak of a word; he has the shower cranked to scalding. He never used to when he was younger - partly a result of his mom’s complaints about the gas bills - but now he isn’t satisfied unless he steps out of the shower red-raw and slightly lightheaded from all the steam. 

He steps in eventually, marvelling at the way the water claws at the cold of his skin. Stinging slightly, but not unpleasantly. His head tilts backwards, eyes fluttering closed, tension seeping from his shoulders. 

Will felt good at first. Standing his ground, telling Mike how he felt. Now, after half an hour’s slipped by, the fight has left him and he feels a little hollow. Like the inevitable crash after a caffeine buzz. He’s mourning a time that’s already passed. A friendship that’s fallen through the cracks. And sure, he feels good about defending himself, but he didn’t want to have to in the first place. He wants everything to be how it was when they were kids. Easy. Natural.

A warm golden light from the antique store lamp, sitting haphazardly in its usual spot on the side table, floods the walls of Mike’s basement. The body of it is tacked together poorly, cracks lined with araldite, from the time one of Mike’s campaigns had gotten particularly heated. 

Will reaches a hand to scratch at the base of his neck. His mom had cut the label from the back of the replica flight suits they’d all used to make their ghostbusters uniform, but it’s still irritating his skin. Doesn’t help that something always feels like it’s crawling down his spine these days. His heart’s no longer hammering in his chest, it’s certainly making more of a fuss than usual but at least he can now think straight. 

Mike’s presence calms him, it always has. Makes him feel safe in a way that not many people can. When Will woke up - curled up behind someone’s garden wall, his arsenal of sweets laid to waste around him - he was there, crouched down beside him and he knew then that he would be okay. 

He looks at the array of chocolate bars on the table before him - they’re Mike’s, his own are scattered across the back lawns of Maple Street - and debates whether to take one. The anxiety’s curbed any desire for chocolate or sugar, but he’s hungry and that’s all there seems to be. Mike seems to notice this because he grabs a bag of Reese’s from the pile and places it on Will’s lap. He chews on one slowly as his mind wanders to earlier. 

He feels like he’s going mad. Like clinically, certifiably insane. Because going missing in another dimension and everyone holding a damn funeral for you is rough, he knows that from experience, but now he’s hallucinating. That’s almost worse. He can hardly tell fiction from reality anymore. He whips his head around to talk to Mike. “Please don't tell the others, okay? They won't understand.” He doesn’t need more people worrying about him. 

Mike looks thoughtful for a moment, almost sad. “Eleven would.”

“She would?”

“Yeah. She always did.” His words trail off into silence but Will feels like he still has more to say. And he does. Several seconds later he speaks up. “Sometimes I feel like I still see her. Like she's still around, but she never is. I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy.”

For once, he feels understood. Seen. “Me too,” he whispers like a confession.

Tears threaten to spill over his waterline. He wills them back, which works for a moment at least, until Mike turns to look at him. Eyes big and round and full of emotion. “Hey, well, if we're both going crazy, then we'll go crazy together, right?”

Yeah.” Will replies softly, smile more genuine than it had been in a long time. “Crazy together.”

Will snaps out of his reverie with an almost disorientating force, pushing the memory to the back of his mind as he reluctantly twists the shower handle back to its original position. The water stops falling and the pipes protest, and Will kind of agrees with them because he’s starting to get cold without the comforting blanket of warm water. 

For that reason, he dries and dresses quickly, shrugging on one of Jonathan’s old jumpers that he’s long since grown out of. It’s frayed around the hem - his brother’s doing, not his - and has a coffee stain on one sleeve but it’s still one of his favourites. That being said, it only ever gets worn around the house. 

He manages to get a good half an hour of sketching in before the doorbell rings, working mostly on the left eye of the self portrait he’d been assigned earlier in the week. Will ignores it at first, Jonathan will get it. Sure enough, he does but a few moments later there is a cry of, “Will, it’s for you.”

Brow furrowing, he tries to figure out who could have come to see him. He draws a blank, accepting that he’ll have to just go and see. For a brief but awful moment, he thinks it might be Mike, coming to carry on their conversation from earlier. Though the thought is only fleeting because he’s quick to remember just how stubborn Mike can be. 

He trudges down the hallway, bare feet pressing into the low-pile carpet, but he’s not in any sort of hurry. Jonathan’s face is the first to come into view. He looks confused, questioning, which hardly answers Will’s question. The boy stood to his right, leaning lazily against the kitchen counter, is soaked through to the bone. Drops of icy water falling from his curls. 

“Heya Wilbur,” there’s a grin and an instantly recognisable voice. 

Will frowns, but he’s somehow still smiling. “You’re a bit early,” he says, grabbing a towel off the clothes horse in the kitchen, throwing it over to him, “school doesn't start for like ten hours.”

Richie only half-catches the towel, the other end whips him in the face. Not that he even needs it, he just shakes his hair like a dog. Jonathan has to shuffle a few paces to the side to avoid getting splashed. Chewie doesn’t seem to care all that much though, he bounds straight over to Richie, barking in excitement. It’s loud enough to bring his mom out of her room, wandering down the hallway to see what the commotion is all about.

At first she just looks confused, blinking a few times like she isn’t quite sure what she’s seeing. “Hey, it’s erm,” she clicks her finger as she points at him, like she’s trying to remember something, “Bruce from Louisiana.”

Richie grins, this look on his face like he’s a part of some elaborate inside joke that Will clearly is not privy to. Neither’s Jonathan by the looks of things. Richie just laughs, donning a southern accent that’s only marginally better than his midwestern and says, “not today ma’am.”

She smiles, that knowing motherly look, and says, “well, who am I talking to now?”

“Richie from Maine.”

Will looks over to his brother who just shrugs in response, just as clueless at the whole interaction as he is. Until now, he wasn’t even aware that his mom had ever met Richie. Or the reverse for that matter. 

Richie turns to address Will, “you never told me that your mom is the best customer assistant in the whole of Hawkins.”

“Oh stop trying to butter me up,” Joyce says but she’s laughing. She reaches for the old whistling kettle on the side, filling it to the brim with water. “Now that I know you’re Karen’s nephew, you won’t be getting any tips on buying cigarettes again. She won’t be happy about that.”

“She won’t know about that.”

Will doesn’t bother pointing out that Richie always seems to have a slight smell of tobacco about him. There’s no way she doesn’t know. Maybe not about his mom’s involvement, but about the smoking at least. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒

There are many things in this world - from binomial fractions to the architectural achievements of the ancient Romans - that Ben Hanscom has a firm grasp of, but one thing that constantly evades his understanding is the existence of salted popcorn. Why, when you could otherwise relish in the buttery goodness of sweet popcorn, with those little crunchy bits at the bottom that have clung onto thrice their weight in sugar, would anyone even contemplate buying salted?

In fact, he’s asked Eddie that on a number of occasions and has never once received an argument that he could consider to be anything even close to convincing. He’s beginning to think that Richie was right that time he claimed Eddie was an ‘exception to the natural order of the universe.’

Not that it matters all that much, because the majority of Eddie’s popcorn is now wedged between the worn red seats of the second to back row of screen four. Ben doesn’t know quite how that happened, it was hardly even a jumpscare. The film doesn’t manage to capture all of Ben’s attention; it did the first time, probably the second too, but now he’s on his third time round, his concentration is waning. The other two have yet to see it and - given that Bill has only read about a third of the book and Eddie never got past the third paragraph - they both look utterly lost. Dune isn’t the most straight-forward of stories, there’s no avoiding that fact.

That’s not the only reason for his failing concentration. His earlier conversation with Richie is swirling around his head like a damn washing machine, throwing up an endless reel of worries and what ifs . It’s probably nothing, it has to be. They killed it. He watched Bev, both hands wrapped around a wrought iron rod, launch it down its throat with every ounce of strength she had. Watched its skin crack like aged porcelain. Watched it fall.

“Hey,” Bill nudges him gently, jerking him from his thoughts, “yuh-you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah fine,” he plays it off like it’s nothing. He’s never been the best actor, but it seems to be good enough because Bill just smiles at him and turns back to the film. He should tell the others about the phone call, he knows he should but Richie made him promise that he wouldn’t. He’s right too, if it’s all just nothing that why should he worry them. Because they will worry.

He sighs, reaching over to grab a handful of Bill’s popcorn and tries to focus on the film, pushing all thoughts of clowns and Richie and Indiana to the back of his mind. He isn’t particularly successful.

⭒ ✯ ⭒

Will looks like he’s in a job interview, sitting rod straight on the bed as Richie wanders around the room, prodding at the random trinkets that are placed sporadically across the shelves and desks. Richie’s never been in Will’s bedroom before. On the handful of occasions he’s visited the Byers’ house, they’ve stayed in the living room. Lounging on the camelback sofas, watching films and eating stale popcorn. 

The look on Will’s face, the uncomfortable posture and nervous twitching of his fingers are all things Richie’s seen before. He’s seen it in Eddie. Not for a long time, but when he first got to know him. There’s a battered shed at the end of Eddie’s garden - small enough to feel cosy, big enough to be an escape - with an old sofa that Mike, Ben and Bev carried nearly half a mile from the scrapyard to the back of Mike’s truck. It was a whole ordeal trying to get it through the shed door but, after half an hour of shoving and a few choice words, they finally succeeded. Just in the nick of time as, not five minutes later, Mrs K had pulled up on the driveway with a number of prescription bags in hand and they had to escape under the garden fence. It was a good job that Mike had the sense to park a few houses down the street.

The shed had always been Eddie’s safe space, even back when they very first met next to the sandpit in kindergarten on a Tuesday afternoon. Years passed before Richie ever got to see the place - not that he was even aware of the shed’s existence - as Eddie’s mom had always adamantly refused to allow anyone into their home. Aside from their local doctor that is, who appeared to visit more times than even Richie had. 

It was a Saturday in late October when he first saw the insides of Eddie’s house. It was entirely as he’d expected it to be: salmon pink carpets and garish quatrefoil wallpaper. Worse was the unpleasant mix of tuna casserole and analgesics that hung about each and every room. It took another few months before he ever laid eyes on the shed. Several actually. It was sometime in the summer, when they lived off caramel chocolate ice-cream and the sun had brushed Eddie’s face with freckles. 

“Cute, cute, cute Eds,” Richie grins, pinching at the apple of his right cheek. A hand makes contact with his arm, pushing it away sharply with a harsh clap of skin on skin contact. He frowns, rubbing at the reddening skin on his bicep.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says. It’s almost a reflex at this point: the fuck you’s, the go fuck yourself’s. He doubts Eddie even has to think about saying it, it just tumbles out of his mouth like a knee-jerk tradition. In the same way that wanker and dickhead had become the pair’s greetings of choice.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Eds?” He replies, leaning back against the grass of Eddie’s garden, using an old edition of one his daredevil comics to shield the sun from his eyes. Richie swears his glasses focus the sunlight like a damn solar oven; he can already feel his eyeballs heating up and they’ve only been outside for twenty minutes.

“Nope,” Eddie replies lazily, “your mom however, different story.” 

Richie snorts. He loves this. The bickering, the back and forth. It’s the reason he’s found himself growing closer to Eddie over the last few years than he has with Stan or Bill. When Richie had first met him - nine years earlier in their first year of kindergarten - Eddie was that timorous boy who barely spoke in more than a one word answer and clung onto his blue hand-stitched fanny pack. Now, the idea of him giving anything other than a constant reeling account of his internal monologue, peppered with enough swear words to make even a sailor cringe, seems absolutely unfathomable. 

And that’s what he likes so much about Eddie. He always bites back. Bill would give him an eyeroll. Stan might offer the odd deadpan comment if he’s feeling particularly generous that day. But all 5’6 of Eddie Kaspbrak is fight and fire and your mom jokes. He takes the bait every damn time and Richie will never tire of offering it up to him. 

“You’ve only made it to first base with her?” Richie pretends to look surprised but it isn’t all that effective given the beaming grin on his face. “God, you should see the things me and your mom get up to. She even showed me her porn stash last week. I mean it was just a bunch Pfizer pamphlets and and a handful of leaflets she’d picked up from the pharmacy but if that what makes her -”

“You remember last week’s threat?”

“About getting me sectioned?”

“Yep,” Eddie doesn’t even look up, just flicks lazily through his comic, “still stands.”

Richie can’t conjure up enough wit and cheap humour fast enough to give a worthy response so instead, he turns to the one thing that always does in these situations. Daredevil laying discarded on the grass, he surges forward quickly, licking one long stripe across Eddie’s face. The smaller boy screeches, launching his own comic straight at him, but Richie just leans back to admire his handiwork: the shiny streak of saliva that joins the point just under Eddie’s left ear with his right eyebrow. 

“WHAT THE FUCK RICHIE,” he yells, jumping to his feet. “You fucking dick, you, ugh, you’ve probably given me mono, or mouth herpes,” Eddie’s eyes widen as soon as the words leave his mouth. He turns to stare Richie dead in the eyes. “Oh my God Richie, you better not have mouth herpes. Do you have mouth herpes?” His words come out like a whirlwind; brisk and sprightly and all melted into one.

“No, no. Of course not.” Honestly, he doesn’t have a fucking clue what Eddie’s going on about but it seems like the right thing to say. It must be because he appears to calm ever-so-slightly at that. Though he’s still jittering around like one of those wind-up kids’ toys.

“Do you know how many bacteria are in the human mouth? Ugh.” At first, he looks as if he’s going to say something else - another complaint, another statistic, another what if - but instead he just snaps his mouth shut and sits down on the blanket, back turned to Richie.

“Come on Eds, speak to me.”

There’s nothing but the sparrow’s birdsong and the gentle rustle of the breeze among the birch tree at the end of the garden.

“Eddie Spaghetti.”

Nothing.

Instead of calling his name once more, Richie walks around him until he’s directly situated in Eddie’s line of sight. The younger boy just holds his comic even higher so his view is entirely blocked but Richie doesn’t let that deter him in any way. He falls to his knees, hands on his chest, and starts wailing, “Eddie, oh my Eddie, whatever must I do to earn your forgiveness? I shall run to the ends of the earth, I shall climb the highest mountain.”

Eddie snorts, “you got a stitch running a hundred yards in track last week, and you still have a bruise on your forehead,” he prods on the yellow green mark with his finger, “from when you fell ten feet trying to scale Mrs DeLuca’s wall the week before.”

“Exactly, it shows how much I value your forgiveness.” 

Eddie sends his eyes skyward. There’s a smirk but no real response. Richie sighs, leaning forwards onto the grass with his head in his hands while the other boy continues to largely ignore him. Or pretend to at least. 

His eyes find a butterfly resting on a nearby flower - fuck knows what kind, he doesn’t pay attention in biology - and when it swoops into the air, tissue paper wings fluttering, he lets his gaze follow it between the trees and the bushes and the flowers. It swoops under the magnolia at the bottom of the garden, weaving between the bees that dangle from the off-white flowers. 

That’s where he loses it, his eyes instead focusing on the terracotta-painted shed that stands proudly in the place the butterfly had last evaded his gaze. While it would seem entirely at home if it were in any other garden, in the Kaspbrak’s garden the great wooden structure looks anything but. Both Eddie and his mother are hardly the kind, given their shared fear of bacteria, soil and any kind of creepy crawlies, to partake in some leisurely afternoon gardening.

“What do you use the shed for?” He asks and Eddie peers over the top of his comic, eyes flicking between Richie and the woodshed. 

“Just storage,” he shrugs, not meeting his eyes. Richie’s shocked. Not at the idea of a storage shed, but because Eddie’s bottom lip catches between his teeth, eyes falling to the floor, and Richie knows better than anyone that it’s a telltale sign that he’s lying. Why the fuck would he be lying? It’s a damn shed.

He tries for humour. “Is it where you hide the bodies?” He asks first then, without so much as a breath, suggests, “or does your mom run a black market pharmaceutical business out of there? She’s at the chemist enough for it.”

“I told you, it’s storage.” Eddie huffs in a way that’s more dismissive than playful. He looks annoyed. It serves only to fuel Richie’s curiosity.

He leaps up from his spot on the ground, dusting off his knees with hands that are equally as dirty, and starts in the direction of the shed. It’s then that Eddie appears to notice what he’s doing and scrambles up to follow him. “Hey Richie, where are you going? Richie, hey wait. I told you it’s just storage. For fuck’s sake.”

Richie turns around with a grin, now walking backwards, “yeah but ya didn’t tell me what Eds.”

Eddie’s reached up with him now, tugging on his arm. “It’s just storage,” he says again, “there’s so much shit in there it’ll collapse if you open the door.”

The warning comes a little late - his right hand is already on the handle, tugging - not that it would have mattered had it come any earlier. Richie still would have ignored it. It gives him time to brace himself though, against the imminent avalanche of whatever the fuck the Kaspbrak’s see fit to shove in their garden shed. 

It takes him a few seconds to realise that he’s not being accosted by lawn chairs and rogue gardening equipment so he slowly opens one eye, followed by the second, and relaxes the muscles in his face. The sight he sees is not that sight that Eddie has been painting for him. Mainly, because there’s fuck all there. 

“Er, Eddie,” he starts, turning to look at the boy next to him, “hate to break it to you, but I think you might have been robbed.”

The thing is, Eddie doesn’t look all that amused. He doesn’t even look that usual kind of wound up that Richie’s used to. He looks angry, hurt even, and that’s when he realises he’s pushed it a little too far. Eddie storms past him into the shed, slamming the door with a surprising amount of force for a scrawny thirteen year old. 

Richie’s fucked up. He knows it. Can feel it in the pit of his stomach. He remains quiet at first but only for a few seconds before he knocks gently on the wooden door. There’s no response. He knocks again. “Eddie? Eds?”

Still nothing. 

“Hey,” he says in a voice that’s uncharacteristically soft, “Eds, if you don’t tell me to fuck off in the next three seconds, I’m coming in, okay?” Richie thinks he hears a somewhat disgruntled noise but there’s no profanities thrown at him so he takes that as a good sign. Slowly enough that he can retreat if Eddie changes his mind, he pushes the door open.

It’s cool inside, a welcomed break from the harsh heat of the August sun. Thirty three degrees and climbing. Richie’s complexion isn’t designed for this, the skin across his nose is already reddening. The shed itself is neither small nor large and, in contrary to Eddie’s initial insistence, is not used for storage. There’s a mattress pushed up to one corner, sitting under a pile of blankets, cushions and one Eddie Kaspbrak. There are stacks of comics to his left - mostly X-men, certainly well loved - and surrounding them are a number of chocolate bar wrappers and the odd rogue uneaten M&M.

He moves to Eddie. Takes a seat next to him on the mattress, springs clicking beneath his weight. They stay like that for a while, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Richie’s hoping that he won't need to prompt the conversation. That Eddie will start talking all on his own. His hopes are futile though because the shorter boy continues to stare blankly at the small perspex window in front of them. 

Just as he goes to break the silence, Eddie finally decides it’s time to speak up. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, face now tilted to the ground. Richie just frowns because what the hell is he even sorry about; Richie’s the one who fucked up. He thinks. Doesn’t quite know how though.

So he just comes straight out and asks it how it is. “What you apologising for?” He says it in that tone that’s half serious, half joking because he’s never seen Eddie all upset like this and he doesn’t really know how to handle it. Richie’s more of a laugh away his problems kind of guy but that doesn’t mean everyone else shares the same questionable coping mechanisms.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, eyes fixed on his hands now, “for snapping at you.” And, without even truly realising, Richie’s features melt into something softer, something kinder.

“Eds, you had every right to snap at me,” he sighs, “you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want me to come in here and my nosey ass ignored all of it.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything - which Richie takes as an agreement - but a ghost of a smile slips across his features for a fraction of a second. That settles Richie’s nerves ever-so-slightly. Eddie’s still sitting there like he’s being held at gunpoint, like he wants to be anywhere else but here. Or with anyone else. Richie really hopes it’s the former. 

“What’s up?” He intends to say it casually but his voice is - not laced, rather sprinkled - with something like concern. 

Eddie must’ve noticed because he just shrugs. “Nothing,” he says.

“Eddie,” Richie tries again, but this time he lets his voice fall into a tone that couldn’t be construed as anything but concern. It’s soft and gentle and so un-Richie. There’s no humour in there. Because Richie Tozier, barely thirteen and at war with himself, is starting to realise things about the world. Things that no teenager should really have to know. Things that should be shrouded in ignorance because that’s supposed to be bliss, or so they say. Things like life is inherently unfair and sometimes the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones you need to be protected from. 

Because all the ear clips and the slaps and the harsh words that he’s earned over the years, the ones that he thought were a standard part of growing up, aren’t quite as common or accepted as he previously thought. Some social worker woman had come into school a month or so earlier, delivered an assembly on neglect and some other equally depressing shit. That’s how he found out that what his dad calls ‘tough love’, CPS calls child abuse. It was an enlightening assembly to say the least. 

Really, it was aimed at spotting the signs in other people. Richie doesn’t think he was meant to notice them in himself. He thought about saying something at first - they gave out numbers and addresses and shit - but then she started talking about social services and foster care and Richie trampled that idea in a heartbeat. He took one of the leaflets they handed out, memorised it cover to cover then shoved it to the bottom of his sock drawer. He’ll be damned if he lets someone throw him into the system. 

He can’t say it was an easy realisation to come to, it hit him like a fucking freight train. Changed his view on everything, his whole world shifting on its axis but never quite settling back into place. Eternally off balance. But now his heart is in his damn mouth because what if Eddie - who’s sitting there looking shaken in a way he’s never seen him, in some shed that looks half like a hideaway - is going through the same shit he is? The thought makes his blood boil. Because Eddie’s sweet and shy and kind in a way that most people aren’t, he’s nothing like Richie, no loud mouth or inappropriate comments. He doesn’t deserve that.

It’s as Richie’s mind begins to spiral that Eddie finally decides to offer up some form of an explanation. “Do you, do you ever feel like you need to get away from it all, from life, from everything, I don’t even know.” He talks slowly, and it feels so distinctly unlike Eddie who’s usually talking a million miles an hour, talking so fast that his jaw barely has time to keep up with his brain. “I just feel like I need a moment to breathe sometimes. And in that house, it’s so hard. Feels like I’m suffocating. And this is my place, you know? MY place. Where I can just forget about everything.”

And that’s when Richie begins to understand. To understand why he’s acting in such a way, to understand why he was so uncomfortable when Richie barged through the shed doors. This is Eddie’s safe space and Richie, with his mindless ignorance, has bounded straight on into it. 

“I understand,” Richie says, his tone lilting. “This is a safe place for you, somewhere just for you.”

Eddie turns to face him, confusion knitting his brow. “Do you have a safe place?”

Yeah, he thinks, you. Instead, he says, “nah not really.”

He doesn’t even know why he thinks it. But Eddie’s his best friend and he’s always sought solace in friendship. Richie knows they don’t see it like this, but to him, they’re family. So he adds, “just like having my friends around me.” Then he remembers the look on Eddie’s face when he walked through the shed doors - a look which is still there, albeit softer than it was - and adds, “I can go if you want? I know this is your space.”

He’s already getting up from the mattress when Eddie decides to offer up a gentle shake of his head. “Stay,” he turns to look up at him, “please.”

He doesn’t hesitate. The springs creak once more as Richie leans his weight back onto the mattress once more. He looks at Eddie expectantly, hoping that he will continue to talk. Mercifully, he does, “I want you here. It’s just weird, I’m not used to it.”

“Always here if you want me to be Eds. And even when you don’t. You can’t get rid of me. I’m like chlamydia.”

With the odds stacked against him, Richie still manages to get a smile for that. “Chlamydia isn’t that hard to get rid of, you’re more like herpes. Impossible.”

Richie’s not quite sure whether it’s meant as a compliment or not but he decides to take it as one regardless. It means he’s loyal, right? Yeah. Sure. Herpes is loyal. “You seem to know an awful lot about herpes Eds, sure this hasn’t got anything to do with the time you kissed Brenda Davis behind the gym?”

“I did not,” he exclaims, indignant. Which is true, he did nothing of the sort, but it succeeded in his goal to diffuse at least a little of the residing tension. 

The joke may have lightened the mood but it does little to settle Richie’s anxiety. So he pushes. He pushes knowing that it’ll make Eddie retreat again but he needs to know. “You know,” god, how does he even word this, “you know when you said it all gets too much for you in that house?” Eddie nods, cautious. “What did you mean by that? Your mom, she, she doesn’t,” he trails off for a few moments, “she doesn’t hurt you, does she?”

Eddie whips his head around to look at him with enough force that he’ll probably be complaining of whiplash later. Even if he hadn’t, he would just find some other ailment to complain about. “No, no.” The first came laden with a certain degree of the shock while the second held more conviction. While the response was almost too quick, Richie believes him. Can tell from the tone of his voice and the little flicker of shock behind the browns of his eyes. Relief washes across his skin, his mind. “No, it’s, it’s almost the opposite actually, which sounds ridiculous but like, it’s too much. Richie it’s too much. Like she smothers me, and all the pills she gives me are -”

“Gazebos?”

“Fuck off,” there’s no malice, not aimed at Richie anyway, “they’re, they’re bullshit. I didn’t even need them. Just another way for her to control me. And she says it’s because she loves me but then she tells me I’m the reason Dad left and it’s all my fault and, maybe it is but -”

“No,” Richie says firmly, words laden with more conviction than he deemed himself capable of. “That’s not your fault Eddie, you were a kid. A damn child, like three years old. He didn’t leave because of you, he left because of your mom. She just can’t accept that.”

Eddie’s smiling up at him. It’s a weak smile - all tears and gentle sniffles - but it’s a smile. Right now that’s a real win as far as Richie’s concerned. Without really thinking, Richie reaches an arm out towards him, far enough that he can curl it around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling the boy’s head to his chest. He’s pliant, letting Richie reel him in until the tips of Eddie’s head brush against his chin. 

“Eds, we’re your family you know. The losers. All of us.”

Eddie turns his head to look up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Will - still sitting on the end of his bed, fingers twirling in his lap - is wearing the exact same expression now. Not the I’ve got a control freak for a mother with borderline Munchausen's syndrome look, but the this is my space and it feels weird having someone else here kind of thing. And so Richie offers to leave - the room, the house, whatever Will wants - but he just smiles, shakes his head and tells him to stay. So he does. 

Richie’s never been all that good at sitting still. Even when he’s forced to, his legs still bump up and down and his fingers tap rhythmically on the table. It used to annoy the hell out of Stan but after god knows how many years of friendship, he eventually learned to tune it out. So while Will’s lying on the middle of his bed, flicking through some comic book that he doesn’t recognise, Richie proceeds to do a whole inspection of his room. He picks things up, puts them back down - supposedly in the same place, definitely off the mark - prods at whatever he can find and even sniffs a few pens. He likes the smell of the pink paint marker.

He spends most of his time looking at the drawings though. They’re everywhere, all four walls and even some of the ceiling. He can see more paint and graphite than he can wallpaper. They’re good, like really damn good. Impressive. Richie didn’t need to see them to know this; after all, they sit together in art class. There’s something different about these ones though. They’re not the technical charcoal sketches or expressive oil paintings he’s usually seen working on at school, these are purely for the love of drawing. They’re awash with bright colours - pencil, paint and even some older crayon numbers - and wild fantastical scenes, dragons and mages and three-headed serpents. It takes him a few moments of brushing his fingers across the paper and squinting through his glasses to realise that almost every drawing up there is some fantasy-twisted version of his friends. There’s knights and warriors, mages and clerics, and Richie’s pretty sure that the one dressed in star-strewn purple robes is meant to be Will.

They’re cool. They’re really fucking cool. He tells Will as much.

The compliment is enough to pull a small smile from him, prodding at the half-there look that’s been in his eyes since Richie arrived. The latter releases a gentle sigh, moving to sit on the bed next to Will. “You and Mike had a fight.” He means to pose it more as a question, but it leaves his mouth as a statement. 

Will looks at him with equal parts dejection and confusion. “How do you know?” he asks, turning to look up at him.

“My incredible psychic powers,” he grins, attempting to make him feel more at ease. “Was planning on showcasing my talents actually, joining the circus after I’ve graduated. The psychic wonder-boy.”

“Ahh, so you’re going to lie to impressionable people and con them out of their money?” 

“Exactly.” 

Richie’s smiling but he sees Will’s comment for what it is. A distraction. An attempt to pull him away from his intended line of questioning. On another day, Richie might’ve let him get away with it. Might’ve allowed the conversation to wander elsewhere. Not today though, he’d wandered twenty minutes in the rain for answers, and he intends to get them. 

He takes most of the humour from his voice, settling into something a little more serious - and yet still gentle. “So, why don’t you tell me what happened with Mike.”

And so he does. Cautiously at first, like he feels guilty for talking ill of him, but then the dam breaks - shatters really - and years of resentment, pain and insecurity come pouring out of him like a tidal wave. By the end of his speech, there are tears in his eyes. But there’s also acceptance, relief, and Richie hopes to god that Mike doesn’t so much as look in his direction when he gets back because Richie’s furious and he’s hardly known for his self control. He somehow doubts that cracking his cousin in the nose will help him keep his spot in his aunt's good books. 

Will wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm, letting out a shaky sigh that Richie hopes is as cathartic as it looks. At some point over the last ten minutes, Richie’s hand had made it across to Will’s, resting gently on top, fingers squeezing at his wrist. It’s subconscious. An act of comfort that has always helped Eddie through his panic attacks. He no longer realises he’s doing it. 

When he looks back up to meet his friend’s eyes, there’s something in there that Richie can’t quite place. And, without any warning other than the rush of movement next to him, Will’s mouth is on his. It’s as cold as it is warm, as tentative as it is firm. Richie doesn’t know what to do, the surprise short circuiting his brain. After a split second that feels more like a lifetime, Will pulls back, eyes wide in shock. 

He leaps off the bed like he’s been electrocuted and Richie wants to reach out to him, tell him that it’s okay. “Shit, shit, Richie I- I,” his breath picks up with every spoken word, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I.”

“Will, it’s fine,” he tries to calm him, to tug at the look of sheer panic in his eyes which is quite the task considering he’s still trying to process everything himself. 

The poor kid looks terrified, like Richie’s going to scream at him - or worse, tell the whole town - and he’s having a hard time trying to convey to him that neither of those things are going to happen. He’s not angry, just confused. But every word of comfort he offers falls short so, in a moment of desperation, he decides to show him something. 

“Here, look.” He reaches for the wallet in his right jacket pocket, slipping his fingers between the leather to take out the Polaroid he’s kept in there for two years. He hands it to Will who takes it from him gently, hands shaking.

Richie’s heart pounds like he’s running a marathon, like he’s only half a mile from the finish line and is running on pure adrenaline, it pounds with such force that he can hear it in his ears. A constant rhythmic thumping.

He’s never surrendered this information willingly before. Bev’s the only person who knows about this side of his life and that’s only because he slipped up. Though, really, he feels that she figured it out a long time before that afternoon behind the Aladdin. But, as scared as he is in this moment, he knows that Will needs the reassurance. Needs to know that he’ll be okay. 

The Polaroid was taken on Eddie’s fifteenth birthday. It’s not a particularly damning photograph, it could easily be passed off as two friends - which it is, Richie’s traitorous brain reminds him - save for the fact that he carries it around in his wallet like it’s the most valuable possession he owns. 

He watches Will’s eyes wander across it, watches the flicker of realisation behind them. A fifteen year-old Richie has one arm slung lazily around Eddie’s neck, the other reaching to grasp his face as he plants a kiss against the skin of his cheek. He’s pushing Richie away, trying to scramble out of his grasp, but he’s still smiling.

His eyes widen. “Oh, oh ,” and Richie swears he sees something close to relief in there, “you two are.. you’re?”

“No,” he shakes his head gently, curls brushing against the sides of his cheeks. Richie’s smile falls into something more solemn. “We’re just friends, but,” and this is where he starts to struggle, “I, I.” He wishes he could just say it, he wants to. 

“I, I think I love him.” The last few words are nothing more than a whisper. A confession. One he’s held close to his heart for so long that it almost feels foreign on his own lips. What he thought would be a punch to the gut is more of a relief. Telling someone feels… nice . Yeah, nice. 

Will seems to consider this information for a long time - or maybe it’s only a few passing moments, Richie doesn’t trust his head right now - and then he smiles. It’s caught somewhere between sympathy and understanding. There’s something else there too, under all that - the same relief that coats his own features - and that’s when he decides that Will Byers has truly earned a place in his heart. Richie Tozier would run to the ends of the earth for his friends and that now includes the boy in front of him. 

“Have you told him?” He settles on eventually. 

Richie shakes his head once more, hating the way his voice breaks as the words fall from his mouth. “I can’t lose him. I just, I can’t.” 

Will nods gently. “I think that maybe, I don’t know, I just,” he stammers through his words but Richie just waits patiently, eyes fixed on a point across his shoulder to take some of the pressure away. His mouth opens, ready to tell him that there’s no need to explain himself, when Will says, in a voice so soft it’s hardly a whisper, “I might be gay.”

Richie rests a hand on top of his, pressing circles with his thumb in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “It’s okay not to know, took me a while to come to terms with that, but once I realised that not knowing was okay too, everything got a bit easier.” 

Will nods, breaks out into a smile. “Yeah,” he says softly, “yeah, okay.” He looks back up at him, brows pinched, “do you know now?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes, echoing Will’s words as his eyes shift to the crack between his curtains, mind swirling with thoughts of Eddie. “Look, I’m not good at all this emotional shit, right? But if you need to talk about it all, you can talk to me, and if I can’t muster a single piece of serious advice, I’ll at least listen.” 

Will’s arms are around him before he can even finish, forehead resting on his right shoulder. They stay like that for a while - relieved, scared, tired - having found comfort in each other’s honesty. 

“I’m sorry,” Will eventually says, letting his arms drop from Richie’s shoulders as his words trail to nothing. “For the, um, y’know…” 

Richie grins. “The kiss? Might have not been the best I’ve had, but it doesn’t warrant an apology.” He leans back, shifting his weight onto his arms and smirks when he sees the questioning look on Will’s face. “Brenda Darwin kissed me at the fifth grade school disco after throwing up like half a pound of gummy worms.”

His nose wrinkles in disgust; Richie’s sure his own face mirrors that. 

“Yeah, but like I shouldn’t have.” Will’s looking at his fingers, the way they dance around one another, the way they interlock and break apart every five seconds. “I just wanted to know, if that makes sense? Like I thought if I kissed someone, some guy, I’d just know? And that’s not fair on you. Plus it kinda felt like kissing -”

“- a brother?” Richie suggests and Will just laughs, head nodding in agreement. There’s a sheepish look on his face but he’s smiling through it. The two stare at each other for a moment before bursting into another round of laughter at the whole strange situation. 

“Okay, I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

Both of them remain where they are - Richie lying back against the mattress, Will with his head resting against the wall - in a silence that’s neither foreboding nor awkward. It’s comfortable. Richie’s staring out the bedroom window, watching the clouds roll across the evening sky, thinking about the weight that lifted when he told Will about Eddie. A weight he didn’t even know he’d been carrying. 

Then, out of the silence, Will makes his overthinking known to the room, “we’re still friends,  right?”

Richie twists onto his stomach so that he can offer the boy a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “Yeah Will,” he says, tone deadpan, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Chapter Text

beyond the shadows.

When he was younger, Steve was never afraid of the dark. He was afraid of a lot of things - spiders, small spaces, being alone, though with parents like his, he had gotten quite used to that by the age of thirteen - but never the dark.

That changed with age, as most things do, because Steve Harrington had come to learn what was really lurking out there in the shadows.

That’s why he’s trudging through the woods out back of old Mr Buckon’s fields, not too far from the Lost River that skirts round the south edge of the town, at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning even though that kind-of defeats the point of him being there. If there really is some upside-down shit going on and he’s not just delusional - truthfully, Steve doesn’t know which is the more preferable option - then it’s probably going to happen under the blanket of darkness. Not while the fine residents of Hawkins are likely still prodding at their morning cornflakes. 

Steve’s been trailing around for the past three hours to no avail and his attention span has long since breached its limits. No creepy clowns or demodogs in sight. The most interesting thing he found was a dead rabbit. Well, he thought it was dead until he prodded with the end of his bat and it scarpered off between the trees at a frightening pace. Although he was bored without the company, Steve ego was grateful for the solitude as he nearly jumped out of his skin at the time. 

The soft burble of the river hums not too far from where he’s standing. Steve decides that it’s a good time to call it a day, he can grab some shitty rental from the video store on the way home and order a takeaway pizza that’s more cheese than pizza. Given that he’s been wandering in hapless circles for the better part of that morning and, not exactly being one to think all that far ahead, he can’t remember the exact way back to the car. 

Which is fine, it doesn’t worry him, he’ll just have to find the river and follow it downstream to the old road bridge he and Tommy used to throw rocks from as a kid. Following the sound of running water, he only has to walk a couple hundred yards until the trees begin to open out into a wide stretch of shallow water, bouncing across a rock-strewn riverbed. 

Steve knows exactly where he is. It’s a popular part of the river, mostly with the stupid town kids who build dams across the water and dare each other to see how far they can walk up the old sewer drainage tunnel without chickening out. Predictably, Steve was one of those children. 

Nostalgia brushes at the back of his mind, turning the corner of his mouth up into a smile. Life was easier back then, back when he was ten years old and his biggest concern was asking Heather Holloway to his first dance. A lot has happened since then. He fell in love, didn’t quite fall out of it, the monsters under his bed turned out to be real and Tommy and Carol turned out to be real assholes. 

Now his only friends are a bunch of sixteen year olds - or sixteen and three quarters in Dustin’s case, as he’s constantly reminded - and Steve’s pretty sure that they just keep him around for the free lifts. Maybe the arcade money too. As it turns out, friendship really can be bought. At least it’s cheap. 

To his right, there’s a sharp clatter - rock against rock - loud enough to cut across the noise of the river. Steve’s fingers tighten around the bat, all thoughts of his childhood falling to the wayside. It sounds again, this time followed by a rhythmic splashing like someone, something , walking through shallow water.

It comes from the old concrete emissary tunnel. Even though he was out here looking for answers, Steve’s beginning to really regret his little weekend excursion. He wraps a second hand around the bat, edging towards the tunnel at a slight side angle, as he raises it behind him in an offensive stance. 

The sounds get louder as he approaches. Please , Steve prays, just let it be a rat or bird or some simple shit like that. Even though he knows it’s implausible, it doesn’t stop him from hoping. With a final deep breath, he leaps out into the opening of the sewer tunnel, yelling like he’s in some fucking medieval battle re-enactment though in place of a sword, he’s brandishing a splintered baseball bat with a shit tonne of rusty nails hammered into it. If nothing else, he could give the thing a nasty bout of tetanus. 

It’s a damn good thing he’s got the bat though because, paired with a loud enough scream to leave his ears ringing for a week, a pretty sizable rock comes hurtling through the air towards him. He manages to bat it away just in time to avoid a grade four concussion and a split skull which is a fucking miracle really because he’s always hated baseball. 

“STEVE?” 

With the light behind him, it’s too dark in the tunnel to make out anything more than vague shapes - of which he is certain there are two distinctly human shaped ones - but that’s a voice he’d recognise anywhere. 

“Nancy?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She trudges out of the shadows, uncaring that her trousers are wet to the middle of her shins, until he can see her face properly. Jonathan, as the other figure turns out to be, isn’t far behind. 

“I could ask you the same.” He points the bat between them lazily. “Are you like, into all that exhibitionist stuff now because,” his hands go up in surrender, “no judgement, but a drainage tunnel? ” 

Nancy sighs, that same one she would always use on him when she was fed up with his antics. “Yes, that’s exactly why we’re here,” she deadpans. 

Steve nods to the camera in Jonathan’s right hand. “Taking photos too? Freaaaaky .” He has to bite back a smile at his own joke.

“Steve, for God’s sake.” 

“Fine, fine .” He swears no one around here is any fun anymore, he was just attempting to lighten the mood. Though, from over Nancy’s shoulder he can see the corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitching into a slight smile, even if his cheeks are flushed a deep crimson. “Then enlighten me, why are you actually here?” Steve aims the question at the both of them.

“Work.”

“Didn’t realise the Hawkins’ Sewerage Works were hiring.”

Nancy sends her eyes skyward. 

“She’s writing an article.” Jonathan cuts in, offering the first useful piece of information of the conversation. 

“About the sewers?” 

Nancy nods. “Holloway just hands me any old bullshit article that he doesn’t want to write. I had to go and interview some city-council people this morning about the drainage issues and flooding in town but they were pretty useless”

“Sooo,” Steve tries to fill in the blanks, “you’ve come down here to see for yourself?”

“No, yes.” She sighs. “The guys at the office wanted Jonathan to get some photos for the article. Pretty sure they’ve just sent us here because they think it's funny though, but it’s not like we can tell them no.”

Steve doesn’t like seeing her like this, defeated. It looks wrong on her. She burns too bright for the likes of Tom Holloway and Bruce Lowe to ever understand.

Steve ends up joining them after that, he doesn’t even know why because the last thing he wants to be doing is spending his morning trudging through greywater just to get a photograph for the back page of that shitty paper. It doesn’t help that, now they’ve rounded the corner, the only source of light is a wind up torch that Jonathan brough along with him. Darkness never fails to make Steve twitchy.

Something tells Steve that there’s more to Nancy’s intention than just some newspaper article photos. She has that look in her eyes that she gets when she has an idea in her head; one part curiosity to three parts determination.  

For a while, he considers not saying anything, just letting her lead them on whatever wild goose chase she’s leading them on, when they come to the first fork in the tunnel and Nancy just powers on like it’s nothing, Steve sees fit to intervene. He glances first over to Jonathan who simply shrugs like he hasn’t got much more of an idea than Steve does. 

“Hey, Nance?” 

She hums in acknowledgement, not even bothering to turn around. 

“What’s this really about?” He probably could have eased her into the question, at the very least, though Steve’s never been one for subtlety.

“I told you it’s just -”

“Nance.” Steve speaks softly. “After the shit we’ve all seen, do you really think we’re going to judge you for whatever it is you're thinking? Just tell me so I know what I can do to help.”

That’s enough to get her to stop walking, the water rippling outwards from her ankles, lapping against the sides of the concrete tunnel. She turns to face him, expression warm. She sighs, resigned. Steve notices the way her eyes flicker across to Jonathan. It’s a question, Steve can tell from the way her brow twists, just for a moment, and Jonathan nods, almost imperceptible. 

“You know about the missing kids right?” 

“I -” Steve falters. He vaguely remembers some things that have been said over the last few weeks but he doesn’t bother to read the paper usually. There certainly hasn’t been anything on the same scale as when Will went missing. 

“Goddammit.” Nancy shakes her head, staring at the ground in clear frustration. Steve feels his cheeks flush in shame.

“Sorry, I -”

Her head tilts back up with enough speed to give her whiplash. “No, no, Steve, not you. It’s just -”

When Nancy’s words trail to a stop, Jonathan picks up. “Three have gone missing so far.”

Steve nearly drops the bat. Three children. And there’s barely been a word said about it? The shock must show on his face because Jonathan gives him a look that says, yeah, crazy isn’t it?

“They’re actually from just outside Hawkins, you know out east headed Jasper way.” Steve nods. “So Hopper technically doesn’t have jurisdiction - even though we’re the closest town - and both the state and county police are barely looking into it.”

Steve doesn’t understand how three children could go missing and the world can just move on like nothing’s happened. “Why?”

It’s Nancy who answers this time. “Because they’re troubled kids. No parents. No family. No one to fight their case. There’s this house out that way, old farmhouse, the owner died like ten years back and no one really owns it. It’s sort of become a home for wayward kids, y’know? A few of them live out there. Pretty sure Hopper called CPS a while back but nothing was really done about it.”

“So what?” Steve says, feeling the same stir of frustration that he’d seen on Nancy a few moments earlier. “People think they aren’t worth the time?”

She shrugs. “I suppose. A lot of people think they’ve just run away or something, so they’re not overly worried. A couple of them got into trouble often - drug dealing, theft, that kinda thing.”

“Hopper’s looking into it,” Jonathan adds, “but he doesn’t have official jurisdiction and, since the kids were all trying to keep out of the way of CPS, he hardly has anything to go on.”

Nancy kicks at something under the water, a stone perhaps. “I get how it can look like they’ve just run away or moved on, I get that, I do, but a couple of the other kids from that house came to Hopper begging him to help. They knew that it would probably put CPS on their backs but they came anyway. Something’s wrong, I know it .”

“I believe you,” Steve says because, really, how could he not? After everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through, nothing feels impossible anymore. And Nancy Wheeler may just be the smartest person he knows. 

And then he adds, “so why are we in the sewers?”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

“Are you actually okay in the head?” 

Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of winding Eddie up. He’d go as far as to say that it’s one of his favourite pastimes. There’s something so sweetly satisfying about it.

He’s sitting on the floor of Will’s living room, back pressed against the wood-panelling of the dividing wall, cradling the telephone in the space between his jaw and right shoulder. 

“I resent that,” he protests, tone light. “You could be talking to the greatest mind of a generation, Eduardo. I might be the next Stephen Hawking or,” he tries to conjure up the name of someone else impressive, “Louis Armstrong.”

“The trumpeter?”

“The astronaut.”

Eddie snorts, so does Audra from across the room. 

“Neil Armstrong, what a musician,” she jibes.

At the same time, Eddie says, “Wrong guy, but yeah that sounds like a good idea. They can send you off to space and leave you there. Like the monkeys.”

“Monkeys?”

“Yeah, space monkeys.”

Richie opens his mouth to reply. It’s a pointless attempt though because before he has the chance to even get the first word out, Chewie comes bounding down the hallway and launches herself into Richie’s lap with all the force of a goddamn jet plane.

The phone falls from his grasp, landing with a clatter on the floor next to him. Richie laughs freely, one hand coming to scratch the soft spot behind the dog’s right ear, the other reaching to pick up the phone. 

“Heya girl.” She barks softly, more of a contented grumble than anything, and nuzzles into his neck. She licks across his cheek; Richie only laughs louder. 

Eddie’s voice crackles through the phone line. “Richie, are you letting it lick your face? Richie? Don’t do that. You could catch something. Richie? For fuck sake.”

“S’alright Eds, this mouth is only for your mother.” 

Richie can practically see the look on his face, even though there’s states between them. With only a few feet of living room between them, he can actually see the roll of Audra’s eyes. 

Will wanders into the room, dog lead hanging from his grasp, just as Richie’s giving her the middle finger. His gaze slips between them as he shrugs the coat from his shoulders. “What’s he done this time?” 

“ Hey ,” Richie shouts indignantly, “why do you always assume it’s me?” 

Eddie, regardless of the fact that he can only hear Richie’s half of the conversation, adds, “because it usually is.”

Will says something along a similar vein. 

“I resent that, both of you.” 

Richie notices the way Will’s eyes shift over to Audra and, when he sees that she’s relatively engrossed in the book that she’s reading - a battered school copy of the outsiders - he looks back to Richie, mouth moving to form a soundless word. Eddie? It’s a question. 

Richie nods. 

There’s a flicker of something warm on Will’s face, then a smile. “He should come visit.”

“I’ve been telling him to.”

“You’ve been telling who what?” Comes the voice on the phone. 

“I’ve been telling you , to come to Hawkins,” he clarifies, “Will said you should come. Then you can meet him and Audra, you’ll love them.”

Audra, still annotating her book, mumbles, “if he’s even marginally less annoying than you, we’ll probably prefer him.”

That earns her the second middle finger of the hour; at this rate, she’s on course for the hattrick. Not that she even sees, she’s too busy violently shaking the biro in her hand to get the ink flowing once more. By the looks of things, she’s having minimal success.

“Audra?” Eddie replies a beat later. His tone has shifted a little, losing some of its earlier lightness. 

For a second, Richie just nods until he realises that the gesture isn’t much use over the phone. “Yeah, she’s in our art class.” The girl in question looks up at the mention of her name, one eyebrow raised as she waits to see what he says next. “She’s pretty annoying actually, hangs around me and Will all the time, can’t get rid of her, she’s like chlamy - AH SHIT, ” he exclaims, right around the time the cushion makes contact with the side of his head. Richie manages to keep hold of the phone but the impact is enough to send him toppling over sideways. “Fine, fine . She’s wonderful. An absolute joy, in fact.” He straightens his glasses so that they sit back evenly across the bridge of his nose. “She reminds me of Bev but like, more sarcastic. You’ll love her.”

“Oh okay,” Eddie says, and this time his voice has really fallen flat, “I’m sure I will. Anyway, mom’s shouting for me, she wants me to go pick up something from the pharmacy for her. I’ll speak to you later. Bye .” 

“Bye,” Richie says weakly, confused, but he can already hear the disconnect tone so it’s not like Eddie will have heard anything. He pulls himself up from the spot he’s been curled up in for the last half hour and returns the handset to its usual home. 

Will raises an eyebrow at him. He looks brighter, happier than he has in all the weeks Richie has known him. And yeah, some of that could be down to the flush of cold on his cheekbones - which Richie and Audra would also have had they not refused to join Will on the dog walk, much to his disdain - but it isn’t that alone. He’s lighter almost, in the way he carries himself, and the way his smile now reaches his eyes. 

“That ended abruptly,” he states, but there’s definitely an underlying question to it.

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, his mom’s a bit psycho. Wanted him to pick something up from the pharmacy and she has zero concept of patience.”

“Is that the hypochondriac one?” Audra asks

“Yeah, that’s her alright.”

Richie’s arms dive into the air as he stretches, body contorting at peculiar angles until he manages to get the base of his spine to crack. Satisfied, he moves onto his knuckles. Audra gives him a look - she’s always hated it - as she begins to put away her english homework, trading it for the box of sketching pencils on the side table next to her. 

She gestures for Will to take his place on the sofa once more. He groans, “can I not have five more minutes, I’ve been sitting for hours .”

Her eyes roll and she jibes, not unkindly, “ one hour, singular, okay fine one and a half, but you’ve just been on a walk to stretch your legs and I want to get this drawing finished. Pleeaaase .” She bats her eyelids comically. 

“You could draw Richie instead.”

“Have you seen him?” Two pairs of eyes turn to face him; Richie just frowns. “He can’t sit still for more than a minute.” He glances down to where his left leg is tapping rhythmically on the carpet. It’s a fair assessment.

“ Ugh ,” Will exclaims, resigned, “only if he makes me some food.”

Audra’s gaze turns back to him.

“So now I’m being dragged into this.”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll have pancakes please,” Audra grins.

“You’ll get what you’re damn well given.” 

He ends up making eggs on toast. Originally, he was aiming for mac ‘n’ cheese - getting pretty damn excited when he found a box of it at the back of the cupboard - but those plans were dashed when he smelled the half-used bottle of milk in the fridge door. After serving up Will and Audra’s, he cracks another two eggs into the pan, watching as the whites begin to set. 

His thoughts jump momentarily, from the eggs to the current lack of music since Bono had finished wailing about singing a new song. “Will?” He shouts over the noise of the hot oil, “can I put another record on?”

“Yeah, just grab one out of Jonathan’s room, be careful with them though. They’re his pride and joy.”

“Gotcha, thanks.” 

Leaving the eggs to cook - they’ve still got a few minutes left until they’re done - Richie makes his way down the hallway to the door at the far left. It reminds him of his own back in Derry, though that may just be because it’s a bit of a mess and the walls are home to a number of band posters. Ironically, his record collection is actually housed under one of the few film posters in the room - though, admittedly, it’s a pretty cool poster of the evil dead which he and Bev had snuck into a few years back at the Aladdin. 

He’s quick in choosing an album, aware of the fact that he’s left the pan on the stove so he just grabs the first one he knows pretty well - Bowie’s Diamond Dogs - and heads for the door. He doesn’t make it though, because Richie’s attention catches on a pile of newspaper clippings resting on Jonathan’s desk and he stops in his tracks. The album gets forgotten, abandoned on the chair to his right, while Richie reaches instead for the pile of paper.

His stomach drops. Falls to his feet and then carries on through the floor.

DONNA BRANDON, 15, MISSING - SECOND CHILD TO DISAPPEAR IN HAWKINS THIS MONTH.

The article itself is as small as it is short, skimming over a vague outline of the case with little thought or care, with a picture the size of a postage stamp. It’s clearly a back page article or one that’s been tucked in the corner of an inside page. It’s dated back to a few days before he arrived in Hawkins. 

Richie doesn’t even realise that his hands are shaking until he goes to pick up the second clipping. This time, the face staring back at him is a boy, a little younger than the last with a mess of light hair and a scar across his right cheek. Underneath, the caption reads: David McCauly, 13, reported missing last Tuesday.

 This one is even briefer than the last, though the date given in the main body of text is a month prior to the first he had looked over. Worse, it spends most of its word count on painting the kid out to be some kind of orphaned delinquent which, even if he has gotten in a bit of trouble with the law, shouldn’t be the focus of the article as far as Richie’s concerned. 

There’s another: Bryan Lister, aged fourteen. There’s a moment where Richie thinks that the nausea is about to win out but he manages to take a deep breath through his nose, swallowing back the heaviness in his throat. None of it stops the churning in his stomach though, nor the way the anxiety prickles at his skin, drawing sensation from his fingertips.

It can’t be. It just can’t. The drawing and now this ? It’s been five years. It has to be a coincidence. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it isn’t.

His heart hammers in his chest.

“ Richie ?”

He doesn’t hear it at first. Or he does, but in that distant sort of way, like when you’re just untangling yourself from the final grasps of sleep, and you hear it, but your brain doesn’t think to truly acknowledge it.

“ Richie .”

This time he does. The hand on his shoulder makes sure of it. He flinches, every muscle in his body tensing like a weighted spring. His head whips around, the paper slipping between his fingers. Will and Audra are staring at him.

“Are you okay?” Will asks, in the sort of tone often used to comfort small children.

At the same time, Audra says, “you burnt your eggs.”

Fuck . The eggs. Will seems to understand where his thoughts are at because he holds a hand out to stop him from making the journey back to the kitchen. “It’s fine. We’ve turned the gas off, don’t worry.”

Richie nods, failing to make eye contact with either of them. “Sorry. Thanks.”

“It’s alright.”

There’s an elongated pause, like all three of them expect another to speak.

Will gives in first. “What happened?”

“Nothing, uh, I just.” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Richie makes for the door, angling his body in a way that allows him to slide between the two people standing in his way. Or it would have, had Will not reached out to take hold of his arm. It’s not enough to actually stop him, it’s more of a way of saying stay . Richie could easily pull free from his grasp if he wanted to, but he finds himself pausing, walking backwards into the room. 

“You don’t have to tell us what’s wrong, but we’re friends, right? You can trust us.”

God, there’s something so sincere about it. Audra, who’s never been as good with these situations as Will, nods earnestly in agreement. 

Perhaps he could just tell them. Not all of it of course. Richie doesn’t know if Hawkins has any kind of mental asylum but, if they do, it’ll become his home for the foreseeable future if he starts talking about shapeshifting clowns that eat kids. 

But if he leaves things out, gives them a watered down version.

“It’s nothing,” he starts, almost instinctively, “it’s just, back home in Derry, must’ve been like five years ago now, there was a string of murders. All kids.” He tries to push away the dull ache in his chest. “One of my close friends had a little brother, Georgie.” Richie doesn’t know how to say it. His words fall to nothing more than a whisper. “He - he was only six.” 

Before he can even figure out what else to say, Richie feels a warm weight around him. Will’s a lot shorter than him - though not as short as Eddie, his brain supplies - so he can almost rest his chin atop the smaller boy’s head. His arms wrap firmly around his middle then, only a second or two later, another pair of arms pull him in and the scent of strawberry shampoo lingers in the air around him.

“He was like a brother to me too,” Richie admits.

The pair of them only hug him tighter. 

⭒ ✯ ⭒

“Are you going to tell us why you were even out here?” Nancy asks. It feels like they’ve been walking for ages but, in reality, it's probably been less than five minutes. The anxiety needles at him, the only thing between them and complete darkness are two old camping torches that Nancy and Jonathan have brought along with them.

Steve shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Was just out for a morning walk.”

Jonathan’s left eyebrow hitches up his forehead. Only a fraction of a centimetre, but enough to be noticeable. “With a baseball bat?”

“Yes.”

“With nails in it?”

“ Yeesss .” He draws the word out this time. Nancy and Jonathan continue to look at him like he’s sprouted another head. “Hey, you never know what you’ll find out here. I’m telling you, those squirrels can be vicious.”

“Squirrels?”

“Have you ever read Charlie and the Chocolate factory?” Steve reasons.

Nancy bites back a smile; Jonathan doesn’t even try to hide his. 

“Yes,” she replies, walking backwards so that she can face him as she speaks. Jonathan, who never seems to have had much coordination, opts to walk alongside Steve. “We had to -“ 

Neither of them get to find out what she was going to say because she’s cut off with a scream. Her arms flail to the sides as she tries to regain her balance, to find something to hold onto, but neither yield any success and Nancy tumbles backwards, water splashing up around her. 

Steve should be embarrassed - because he honest to god shrieks when the water hits him - but he’s too busy laughing at Nancy, who’s sitting in the tunnel in front of him, drenched in greywater. Her curls lie limply around her face as she lifts her torch from beneath the surface, smacking it with the heel of her palm a few times as if that will do anything to anything to reverse the water damage. “Ah shit .”

It’s nothing more than a hunk of plastic now. The thought puts an abrupt stop to his amusement. There’s only one decade old camping torch between them and total darkness. Steve shivers at the thought. 

After that, it all happens so fast. Nancy’s eyes fall to the water; disgust becomes surprise and surprise becomes horror. She scrambles backwards on her hands and feet. Jonathan’s torch follows her gaze and he almost drops the fucking thing too and Steve’s about to kill him for it until he sees why. 

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

All other words seem to flee from his vocabulary. It’s all he can think to say.

He didn’t notice it at first, just the general shape of it. A pale haze under the surface, a splash of blue, entwined with copper. Then, as his mind runs to catch up with his sight, the haze begins to twist into shapes - still distorted beneath the water, but increasingly well focused, like his brain has figured out what is it he’s looking at and has decided to fill in the blanks for him - and that’s when the swearing starts.

It’s probably not one of his finest moments - they’re coming few are far between these days - but Steve doesn’t exactly know what the proper reaction is to finding out that he nearly stepped on a dead body. At the moment, swearing seems pretty reasonable. 

Jonathan jumps forward, side-stepping the body so that he can reach Nancy on the other side, taking her arm in his and hauling her out of the water. Steve’s already walking back a few paces, eyes fixed to the floor; as much as he wants to look away, he doesn’t think he can. 

Steve’s no pathologist, he barely passed AP biology, but the way her skin hangs loose around her face suggests she’s been there for longer than just a few hours. Her eyes are beginning to yellow, whether that’s the decay itself or just the murky puce of the water above them, Steve isn’t sure. Her hair though, her hair looks so alive - which is ironic really, considering that in life, it was the one part of her that never was - molten copper under the torchlight. 

“Donna Brandon,” the name tumbles over Nancy’s lips in a single breath. She clings to Jonathan’s arm and Steve can’t help but think that, at one time, he was the person who could offer her that comfort. Jonathan pulls her in closer.

“This is inside the town limits.” Steve notes.

The other two look up at him. He meets their combined gaze. Jonathan looks distraught, Nancy looks hopeful. “Hopper has jurisdiction now.”

⭒ ✯ ⭒

It’s dark by the time she reaches the Byers house that afternoon even though it’s only half five. The irony of it is, that’s later than it would have been in California but it still bothers her more here, everything does. After a year of being in Hawkins, San Diego feels all-the-more like a dream. She can only think about what she misses - the feeling of the sun on her face, salt in her hair and sand between her toes - her mind skims past the rest of it, the darker parts. In reality, Indiana suits her better. She really does miss all the skate parks though.

“Max?”

Will looks surprised to see her, his head tilting gently to one side in question. Down by his left knee, there’s a shuffle of movement. Chewie appears, poking her head around the side of the door frame to see what the commotion is. When she realises who it is, she comes bounding up to Max, jumping up on her hindlegs.

“Hi,” she says, voice small, because while she was the one to come and visit Will, she isn’t really all that sure what to say to him now she’s there.

He gives her a similar reply, in that same cautious tone she used, and this whole situation is a bit of a blow to the chest because it’s never been awkward between them before. She always got on with Will in a way that she often didn’t with the others, and Max knew that he would confide in her.

After a brief, yet awkward, few seconds, Will opens the door fully. “You can come in if you’d like.” It’s a question

She nods, offers up a polite smile, and steps over the threshold into the warmth of the house. Ever since she met him, Will’s home has always run on just the right side of too hot. Lucas told her that it was because the mindflayer liked the cold. Will now hates it.

Will’s house is neither as grand as Mikes, nor as modern as Lucas’, but Max has always found it to be the most homely of them all. Maybe it’s the fairy lights, or the posters, or simply just the fact that it doesn’t look like something straight out of showhome. It looks lived in.

“ Maxine . Hi love, how are you?”

Or maybe it’s Joyce Byers. 

She’s swept up into a hug before she can even respond. Will’s off to the side, looking apologetic, but she doesn’t mind. It’s nice.

“I’m good thank you, Mrs Byers.” 

“ Joyce , please,” she corrects, as she hurries back over to the kitchen. She’s still in her
Melvard’s uniform, name badge pinned to the front of her shirt at a slight angle. “Gosh, I feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks. Or any of you lot for that matter. Think it’s the longest I’ve gone without seeing Mike since you two met.”

She clearly doesn’t mean anything by it -  it’s a passing comment, a simple observation - but Max clocks the way Will tenses slightly beside her, head tilting towards the ground. So his mom doesn’t know that they’re fighting, interesting. 

He gathers himself quickly though. “Because you’re always working, mom.”

She laughs. “That’s true. Do either of you want a hot chocolate?”

“The milk’s off, I binned it earlier.”

“I bought some more on my way back from work.” She turns around to face them again. “Here, you make yourself at home Max, I’ll make you both one. And you’re welcome to stay for tea.”

Max offers her thanks as she falls into step behind Will, following him down the hallway until they reach his room at the end. Somehow, there seems to be even more drawings pinned to walls than when she was last here and there was already an impressive amount then. She’s drawn to one in the centre of the far wall. It’s of her and Lucas, sitting side by side in the grass. She remembers the day well, they’d climbed Weathertop in the scorching heat and stayed there until the stars were reborn, drawing constellations in their minds. God , the sunburn she woke up with the next day was hellish.

“You can have it.” Max doesn’t even realise that she’s lost in her own memories until Will speaks up. 

“No,” she shakes her head. “No, I can’t, it’s yours. I -”

“I’d like you to have it.”

She turns around to face him, fingers still resting on the paper. Will steps around her, pulling it gently from the wall before placing it in her hands.

“See,” he smiles, “it’s yours now.”

And God does that make Maxine feel like a bitch. She’s been distant lately, too caught up in her own shit to make the time for Will when she knows life’s been hard for him lately. And he’s still so fucking thoughtful. It pains her. 

The smile melts from his face slowly. “Listen Max, I appreciate you coming, but if you’re here to talk about Mike then -”

“- no,” she cuts him off. “I’m not here to talk about Mike. I’m here because of what happened with Mike, but I’m not here to talk about him.”

For a moment, Will looks like he’s deciding whether he can be bothered with all this but he relents with a sigh, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and gesturing for her to do the same. 

“What are you here to talk about then?”

“You.”

His brow furrows and that just saddens her, that the idea of someone wanting to check in on him has become so foreign. 

“Are you okay?”

“Um.” He scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck, a nervous tick. “Yeah, I’m good. Just started a new painting that I’m excited about, Audra and Richie were over earlier which was nice, and -”

“ Will ,” she says, voice soft with the guilt of interrupting him, “that’s not what I mean.”

He looks at her, then back to the floor. She’s not approaching this right, he’s becoming more closed off as the seconds pass. “ Talk to me, Will, ” she pleads.

“Im fine -”

“ Will .”

“No really, I am.” Will is the one to cut her off this time, she’s glad to see him standing up for himself more. “That's the thing. Maybe I wasn’t for a while. Which I think is pretty justified, really, given the whole possessed by a creature from another dimension situation . But I’m good now. Me, Richie and Audra, we’re a good team, y’know? I can just forget about it all when I’m with them. It’s nice. It’s really nice.”

And, as Max nods along, she finds herself smiling because Will is too. Because it’s really fucking obvious up close. He’s happy. Hell, he’s the happiest she’s seen him in a long time, or ever, actually. Whether that's Richie and Audra’s doing, or something else entirely, she doesn’t know but, to whatever lifted his mood, she can’t help but be grateful. 

“I’m glad, you deserve that. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” Will looks a little confused but she continues regardless. “So many people spend their entire lives wanting to be special. To be famous, to be respected, or just anything other than ordinary. But, when you’ve been through some of the shit that we have, normal looks pretty damn good.”

He laughs, wholly, freely. “Yeah, it really does.”

Still smiling, Max lets herself fall back against the bed with a gentle thud, Will following close behind. It’s comfier than her bed back at home, which is all broken springs and lumps in strange places.

“Richie sounds pretty cool,” she says, following a few minutes of silence. Then, as an afterthought, “so does Audra.” 

“Yeah, they are.” His smile is genuine. It makes Max happy to see it. 

“Mike has always been dramatic. I trust your judgement more.”

He laughs, like it’s both funny and a little depressing. “Yeah, yeah he is, isn’t he? I mean he’s right about some things. Richie’s loud, like he has no volume button, or mental filter, and his jokes are always just the wrong side of tasteful. But he’s a really good friend, y’know.”

“And Mike isn’t?” While her intonation kicks up at the end, it isn’t really intended as a question, more of a prompt. Max has seen the way Mike’s been acting over the last several months. He wasn’t exactly nice to her when she first moved here.

“He is, was . Well, maybe not at the moment.” Will looks like he has something else to say but he’s holding back, like he doesn’t want to badmouth his friend, even after all this. 

“Hey,” she reassures, “talk to me. I’m not going to say anything.”

He tries to shrug while lying down which ends up as more of an awkward shuffle as opposed to anything else. “It’s probably mostly my fault.” Max wants to protest that statement but she lets him continue. “After everything that happened, I lost like two years of my life. I just wanted everything to be how it was, playing shitty games in Mike’s basement like we were all kids again. But he grew up, and he didn’t want that anymore, which is fair, who am I to tell him otherwise? But it’s still shit. And, I don’t know,” his voice becomes small, “sometimes he makes me feel like a burden because of it. I don’t think he means to, but…”

“ Will ,” she breathes. Between words as he spoke, Will had taken the chance to sit back up, fingers now curled around the edge of the mattress as he stares out of the window. Joining him, Max finds herself pulling him into a hug and he lets her with less resistance than she expects. His head falls to her shoulder, arms tightening around her. 

“Don’t tell him.” He pulls back to look at her. “Things are good now, and honestly I’m just tired.”

Considering it for a moment, she nods. A conversation would do them both some good, so long as it doesn’t devolve into the shouting match that Mike had described, but it’s not Max’s place to make that decision.

“Look, Will.” Suddenly, the piece of loose skin at the side of her thumbnail is of particular interest to her. “If I’ve ever made you feel like that, I’m sorry. And I know I’ve been distant lately, from everyone really, but it’s just with Neil being ill and Billy -”

He stops her there. “You haven’t.”

“But you’d tell me if I ever do?”

Will smiles. “If you want me to.”

“Yes.” She reaches out her little finger like she’s ten years old again. “Promise?” 

Will’s finger wraps around hers. “Promise.”

When the laughter fades, so does Will’s smile. “I haven’t been the best friend either, I know you’ve been having a hard time and I haven’t checked in on you. I’ve been too caught up in my own stuff, I’m sorry.”

Max could almost roll her eyes. While he hasn’t sat down and spoken to her about her life in the past month, he’s still more thoughtful than the others. He would photocopy his notes when she missed a lesson, help her with her homework during lunch break because she was too busy looking after everyone in the evenings, and cycle  with her to work on their way back from school, even though it adds an extra fifteen minutes to his journey. Will’s thoughtful like that, he always has been.

And yes, he’s been more distant of late, anyone can see that, but he’s still made more of an effort with her than anyone else. Aside from perhaps Lucas, though she doesn’t count him since it’s probably an unfair comparison.

“No more apologies, agreed?”

Will laughs. “Agreed.”