Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

March 9th, 1986

Destiny. That’s what Will calls the feeling when he finally gives the long-awaited explanation to Richie, even if the word isn’t exactly right. It’s too fond. Too…heroic.

Will being the one that the Mindflayer had taken is the only path that makes sense, looking back on it as he tends to do - now that it’s started to feel like pink scar tissue as opposed to the open, bleeding mark it once was. After all, things might have gone very differently if anyone but Will Byers had been declared missing in Hawkins, Indiana on November 6th, 1983. If it were another kid’s bike found in the woods, or another body pulled out of the quarry, that might have spelled the end of the world.

“I used to wonder why it chose me, but I really don’t think it had a choice,” he says softly, watching the landscape race past outside the passenger window. “We’re all just playing our part.”

“That’s present tense, Byers,” Richie points out, squinting through the glare of sunshine on the windshield. Will looks into the side mirror, feeling that the horrors lurking behind them are not far away enough to be contained to the past.

They're not so far away at all.

Two Months Earlier

“Assigned seats?”

After taking a glance at the chalkboard and the desks for a seating chart, Will shakes his head.

“I think we’re good,” he says, leading her to an empty pair of desks near the middle of the room. It’s fortunate that their only class together this semester lets them sit as close as they like, Will exhaling in relief as Eleven takes the seat to his left. Even without her powers, El still radiates strength. Will is all too happy to let the force field shelter him as she aligns a few carefully sharpened pencils at the top of her desk.

He digs into his bag and finds the yellow binder he decided to use for history, smoothing a hand over the first loose leaf page and scribbling with pens in the margin to see if any of them still have ink. New semesters usually mean new beginnings, but even as the final warning bell rings for the first class of the new year, he feels no different than he did before winter break: out of place.

Different.

Exceptional, his mom might say, but Will would say unique to a taste so specific that he hasn’t found a single person outside Hawkins who gets him. He’s not the smallest in his grade, so bullies haven’t caught on to his simple insecurities yet, but not being mocked daily doesn’t mean you’re liked.

The buzzing mass of students in the aisles begins to dwindle, most returning to their desks in preparation for the last bell. Will’s fingers twitch against the working pen he found, absently mimicking the pattern of pencils drumming on a desk somewhere to his right - another restless classmate waiting for the school day to start.

Ba-nuh-na-nuh-na-nuh-na-nuh, Will works out, pausing as the pencil drums change, playing faster and louder. Should I stay or should I go now?

Will reels from the gut punch to his memories, trying to shut the song out as it viscerally worms its way into his head. His body refuses to fight its sinking stomach, insides going cold and writhing with a deep sense of wrong.

Unable to ignore or flee the issue - to stay or to go, his mind bitterly jokes - Will becomes a puppet to his sick curiosity, turning to face the inevitable. He catches sight of makeshift drumsticks first, bony hands curled tight around the lower half of two pencils. The drummer has a bowed head of dark, messy hair, headphones firm over the ears with wires trailing back to a bookbag.

STOP must be visibly written across Will’s forehead by now, but the drummer doesn’t lift his gaze to notice.

Jonathan had been the most disheartened by Will’s aversion to the song following his narrow escape from the Upside Down. He'd encouraged Will to push through the fear and listen.

That place took enough from you, Jonathan had said. Don’t let it take this.

Will tried. They worked together to reach the point where he could listen without shivering for hours after hearing the gritty electric guitar intro, but that’s as far as Will’s sanity would allow. It wasn’t a song to be played for entertainment ever again. The original mixtape is gathering dust in the garage and the song had left public radio rotation over the years. Will thought he was safe. He thought they’d run far enough.

Turns out that being dead only gives the song permission to haunt him.

Rotting and earthy, the stench of sour fear burns Will’s nose as the florescent light over the drummer’s desk flickers. Pencils slow to a stop. The guy looks up and his hair falls away from his face.

His profile mellows Will’s rabbiting heart, the glasses he wears breaking up a typical view of Mike’s sloped nose and dark eyes, which squint at the lone strobing bulb. The light resumes its steady buzz upon being observed, but the drummer’s familiar gaze continues searching their oblivious classroom.

Will’s ears ring in phase with the last bell when their eyes finally meet, the resemblance being too complete to comprehend all at once. Mike’s features twitch before a crease appears between his eyebrows, the clearest sign of confusion becoming hidden when he pushes up on the bridge of his glasses.

A white-gloved hand closes around Will’s arm. He traps a scream between his teeth, turning sharply to see Eleven’s concerned stare. Her bare fingers retreat.

“You okay?”

Will swallows, lips dry and parted. “What?”

“Your hand,” she whispers. Will takes inventory of his limbs, lifting the unconscious grip on his own neck. The pebbled skin withdraws. He inhales slow and holds tension in his chest before letting it go, remembering the coaching on breathing techniques in times of distress. Eleven is watching him when he opens his eyes again, but before he can reply, her gaze slides away, toward Will’s object of interest.

“He just…looks like Mike,” Will hedges.

“Yes,” she replies. “Mike doesn’t wear glasses though.”

Will’s exhale is close to a chuckle, mental overload dispelled by Eleven’s obvious nature.

“Nope,” he says, getting a brief smile as her attention snaps back to the teacher.

Even with the cold sweat still clinging to his back, Will risks another glance at quasi-Mike. The prescription lenses make big eyes bigger, and he’s put away his headphones in the last minute, hair mussed like Mike’s after a sleepover.

It’s only because Will’s staring that he catches the guy’s full-body twitch at the beginning of roll call as the teacher, Mr. If-you’re-using-my-last-name-I’m-using-yours-too, calls for Byers.

“Here,” Will offers, peeking around his raised arm to see the guy’s hunted gaze dart to him. Pale fists are clenched around the pencils, which rest flat on the desktop. He’s leaning as far away as one can in a single square-foot seat.

Paralyzing fear looks wrong when formed by Mike’s features. Mike is a person of instinct. He’s the reaction to Will’s inaction – he shouts out the warning trapped in everyone else’s head, he drags people out of the way, he chooses fight or flight, but never freeze. It shakes a deep support in Will’s chest, seeing Mike numb with panic.

No one has ever been scared of Will like that, only for him.

It’s new.

It’s uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Mr. Byers.” A wave of relief crests over the retired drummer and he slumps back into his chair, happy to be pummeled in the wake. Their teacher moves on, none the wiser. “Carroll?”

Will ignores a timid reply from his classmate, his focus fully on this strange interloper that could be his best friend’s twin.

Evil twin, as Dustin would say, his voice low and incriminating. Ultraman type shit. Will considers relaying the situation on their upcoming weekly call to make the current situation less unsettling.

The guy is cautiously smiling back now – a reflection of Will’s unconscious expression at the thought of Dustin’s clarification – and it doesn’t falter, even once Will loses his amusement. Instead, the grin widens, almost too big for his face and definitely too big for Mike’s usual range of expression. His eyebrows rise above the rim of his lenses.

“Hopper?”

Eleven’s hand flies up, arm bumping into Will’s shoulder on its eager way. He rips his concentration away from the bright teeth and brighter eyes, hand returning to his neck to find it warmed dry. Will goes back to scribbling with his pen.

Another coping mechanism: art. Draw, paint, whatever you want, his mom had suggested. Even the stuff you don’t want others to see. Especially that stuff.

Will keeps stock of his periphery, noticing the drummer raise his hand for Mr. Tozier before roll call ends. Having a name makes the guy less intimidating.

The teacher starts laying out the plan for their class in earnest and Eleven pays rapt attention, as she has in all the classes they’ve shared since moving here. Will listens with the mild absentness of someone who’s been going to school for over a decade - he knows there are scarier things to face than a pop quiz or missed homework assignment.

Inevitably, Will’s thoughts drift to his friends, who are stuck in the same situation in Hawkins. If one scrape with a dangerous, incomprehensible alternate dimension wasn’t enough, going through it twice more told them exactly the kind of life they could expect to have - not normal. Never that.

Will’s hand slows in its careless sketching, pen dropped from his trembling fingers and rolling to a shaky finish on the page. He frowns, flexing the digits and keeping them stretched until the tremors stop. Odd, he thinks reluctantly. His body doesn’t act out like that unless he tries to draw monsters and the like. Even basic D&D related stuff makes Will feel stiff and cold, so he avoids it on purpose. He must have slipped up.

Will’s glazed eyes refocus on the doodle he had made while his attention was states away, the gaps between his fingers revealing a red balloon.

Will blinks and the color is gone, dark ink smudged on the stark white page.

Mike’s double is looking forward when Will’s gaze floats to him in muddled distress, wishing he didn’t feel so suddenly alone. Like the thought was heard, he’s given brief eye contact, the corner of Tozier’s mouth quirking. He must be entertained by Will’s hot and cold behavior at this point.

What’re you staring at, freak?

The demand is hissed in Will’s head, giving him the sensation that he’s lit a torch in a dark cavern only to find himself in a bed of vipers. He recoils to his comfort zone, sinking into the unforgiving plastic of his chair and staring at the teacher intently.

Always run. Don’t read into it. You’re only as crazy as other people say you are.

Will waits until they’re asked to pull out their textbooks to tear off the page corner containing the balloon, ripping it free and starting fresh on his notes for the day. He drops the crumpled paper to the floor, desperate to get some distance from the sketch and the state of mind he was in while creating it.

Even once it’s out of sight, the balloon leaves red clinging to the inside of his eyelids.

Will had hesitated to join a club when they entered their new school in mid-September. It felt too close to betrayal, too soon to graze the bruise of leaving behind the only club he’d ever known. There had been no conflict with his Mom’s afternoon work schedule, now that Eleven was around to keep him company at home, so there was no pressing need to keep himself out of extracurriculars.

It was loneliness, in the end.

Will likes Eleven. He enjoys helping her catch up on standard teenage knowledge for both her academic and social life. She’s fun, and spending time with her helps soften the blow of leaving everyone else behind - Will is sure it does the same for her. Still, one person is rarely enough. A lot of his conversation with Eleven is one-way. If she teaches him anything, it involves difficult-to-comprehend ideas about survival and her lost powers that leave Will confused or trembling in turn.

Will misses being surrounded by a tight-knit group with similar interests. There’s no AV Club at Lenora Hills, but there is an art club run by Mr. Patricks, who had looked critically at Will’s drawing after seeing a piece for the first time in class. He’d stared at the rough sketch paper while Will’s classmates were distracted by their own chatter. His gaze had been kind with its scrutiny.

“You have a keen eye,” he notes, fingers reaching out to pull the paper to himself, tracing the heavy lines around each fruit in the bowl. “Do you know what that means?”

“Sort of,” Will says. He’s heard it used before, but that’s different from knowing. Mr. Patricks nods to himself, accepting the verbal shrug.

“You see the world very clearly. You see it in a way all your own. For some artists, it takes a lifetime of practice to find their point of view.” His fingers gently tap the work, sliding it back. “It seems you are ahead of the curve, Will.”

When Will had turned in the club application after class in October, Mr. Patricks gave him that same nod of acceptance.

Eleven sits in the back of the art room and studies on the days that Will stays after, her invisible silence turning out to be highly compatible with the atmosphere. Sometimes, Will catches her and Mr. Patricks in staring contests, a silent comprehension passing between them before they return to work.

Watching them is almost as entertaining as getting to use the school’s wider range of supplies, a benefit that Will didn’t consider until he was sitting before a blank easel and asked to pick a medium.

His primary reason for joining a club remains making connections, and Will does his best to follow through on that purpose as he steps out of the lunch line and navigates the crowded cafeteria. His fellow club members are sitting at a table across the room, absorbed in conversation. He wouldn’t call them friends yet, but they don’t taunt him for liking art and it’s better than eating alone. Loners get picked off the high school food chain fast.

Will’s body jerks to a stop as he passes the first row of long tables, food sliding on his tray from transferred momentum. He tries to take a step forward, but his feet refuse to move, glued to the floor by unseen means and turning him into a struggling involuntary mime.

Panic swamps around Will’s ankles and it shows on his face, head low to avoid making eye contact with the stream of people that are forced to move around him. He’s staring down at his equally uncooperative arms when the goosebumps begin to bloom across his skin.

Don’t do this, he pleads, not sure who he needs to hear him. Once was bad enough, but twice in one day was a problem. Twice was an episode.

Will looks to his destination, hoping none of the other kids have noticed his moment, but his eyes get stuck like his feet. A table away sits Tozier, chewing a slow mouthful as Will returns his stare.

Suddenly operational again, Will’s sneakers squeak under a choppy step, his short walk ending at the wrong table of interest. Getting a closer look corrects Will’s first assumption - Tozier would look exactly like Mike if Mike was a few years older. The lingering traces of baby fat have fallen away from his face, and his limbs better fit into his height.

Tozier’s hand comes up to pull his headphones down to his neck, which might be a good sign if Will was trying to make conversation. As it is, he would prefer to be ignored until his rationality returns and sends him running in the other direction.

No such luck.

“Can I help you?”

His voice is lower too. Will's trance breaks and he averts his eyes, hands shifting to line the top of the tray.

“No, no. Sorry.”

“Jesus, relax. I’m not gonna hit you for making eye contact.”

I’ve gotten worse for less, Will thinks, clearly broadcasting the thought if the beat of awkward silence says anything.

“I won’t even charge for an autograph,” Tozier eventually adds, dry enough that Will can smile without feeling like a fraud. “Are you sitting, Byers? My neck hurts staring up like this.”

Will is halfway on the bench before he realizes that his name was used, trepidation making him pause before looking up. He takes in the faded band t-shirt and dark jean jacket, the leather and plastic bands around a thin wrist incongruous to the bulky glasses and unstyled hair. Tozier’s fashion taste is some bizarre mix of Dustin, Jonathan, and Billy. The natural feeling of trust that the first two give Will collides with the crippling fear of facing down the latter, and Will grows faintly queasy trying to sort it out.

“It’s Will,” he corrects.

“Willie,” the guy accepts. In his voice, it’s not earnest like it would be from the Party or taunting like the goon squad at Hawkins Middle. Will’s nose still wrinkles.

“I don’t think so.”

“Not a fan of nicknames, Steamboat?”

“Not when they’re bad.”

The kid’s teasing aloofness blooms into a grin that Will doesn’t recognize, surprised that Mike’s face can manage such a mischievous arrangement of features. His enlarged eyes survey Will with fresh interest.

“That decides it then. I’m Richie, but you can call me the worst mistake you'll ever make.” His hands reach across the remains of his bag lunch, clasping Will’s palm and forcing it through a series of movements that might be a secret handshake if they were reciprocated. He abandons the effort soon after, but the chill of Richie’s fingertips lingers in Will’s hand.

Will picks up his plastic fork, trying to give his buzzing fingers an outlet.

“Where are you from, Richie?”

“A backwater town in the asscrack of nowhere called Derry,” he says, the rest of his words barely a hum in the back of Will’s mind as his body ices over.

Bad place. Unlike the scratchy, stretched minute of discomfort after he saw Richie, this feeling blinds Will like static through his bones, busy with nothingness. The lights in the cafeteria grow brighter in strobes until they create colored formations that remind Will of riding the Round Up at the fair, body pressed to the outer wall as he’s spun sick.

“Earth to Will.” A hand snaps in front of his face and the light show flickers out. “Come in, Will.”

“Sorry,” Will inhales, face pale. He presses his fork down into the mountain of mashed potatoes on his tray, white curls streaming up through the tines. “Zoned out.”

“That sounded like asthma,” Richie says, digging for the truth while giving Will a chance to shut him out. “I knew a guy who got worked up like that. He’d go quiet right before he passed out.”

“I don’t have asthma,” Will assures. “And I won’t pass out.”

“Good, because you’re not light enough for me to carry you to the nurse’s office. Might be able to drag you by the ankles though.”

“Thanks,” Will says, maybe too genuine given that Richie glances at him again, unsure if he’s about to keel over.

Will accepts Richie’s offer to finish lunch together – it’s not like the art club table will miss him. Avoiding the topics of their hometowns and medical ailments, Will listens intently as Richie rambles about the California heat and the city’s size. They stumble onto their mutual adoration of comic books just as the bell rings and Richie demands that Will walks him to class.

“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Richie says decidedly. “I need to know if you have any taste at all when it comes to these things. It’s serious stuff.”

When Will agrees to play along, Richie slings an arm around his shoulders. Will wears a slight smile through the interrogation. Richie’s unflinching use of language reminds Will of Dustin, his fast tongue a lot like Lucas when he was on a roll, and the view from this angle is so obviously similar to standing near Mike that Will feels immediately welcome just hearing him talk.

Everything else about Richie is new – and for the first time in a while, new is fun and exciting and not life-threatening. Will can take bouts of dizziness if it means getting to experience the rest of whatever this is.

“You think Issue 32 is better than Issue 14?” Richie asks, arm slipping away when Will nods. “My instincts were wrong about you, Byers. I want a divorce and I’m taking the kids.”

They click. Just like that, Will finds the person who turns out to be his first real friend in California.

Richie knows that their school is overpopulated, but even so, he was sure he’d caught a glimpse of every other student at least once.

Then he noticed Will Byers staring at him, and his theory was toast.

Will Byers has a face that Richie is sure he’s never seen before. He would remember - and not for the reason that the football meatheads might think. No, Will is unquestionably new to Richie’s eyes because he doesn’t have the dour, exaggerated look of your average miserable high schooler. His face doesn’t scream this is the end of the world or my life sucks because I have to be here. It doesn’t say homework? ugh, barf me out.

For some reason that endlessly interests Richie, it says, you too?

Richie drives to school with the music way up, hands drumming on the wheel. He can’t remember the last time he was excited to abandon his car and get to first period, but he practically skips today, entering the room a full ten minutes early to find Will talking to the person seated beside him.

Richie saunters over, dodging a pack of giggling Valley girls and a pair of jocks that lost interest in taunting him after sophomore year. He swings his backpack off his shoulder as he comes to a stop.

“It’s dark under your eyes,” Will’s seat partner says, tapping her own face to illustrate the area to Will. Richie checks above the gentle slope of Will's cheekbones and finds that she’s right - there are definitely shadows. “You are having nightmares again.”

You too? Richie wonders.

“I stayed up to work on my painting,” Will argues. It’s a weak excuse from where Richie’s standing. He can sense the need for a rescue coming on.

“What painting?” Richie asks, dropping backwards into the chair in front of Will and startling the duo from their private bubble. As Will does his best impression of a deer in headlights, Richie surveys the girl on Will’s left. “Hiya.”

She stares. A chill runs up Richie’s back, warning him off as effectively as finding a knife held to his throat. Interesting.

“Um- Richie, this is Jane. She’s my sister.”

“Twins?” Richie asks, figuring they look about the same age.

“Step-siblings,” Will says. Jane continues to stare at him. Through him?

“So, you’re a painter,” Richie says. “Let me guess, figure art?”

Will stalls out. “I mean I draw people, but not that kind of thing.”

“No nudity in the old portfolio?” Richie drawls, getting another panicked look before Will catches on, rolling his eyes.

“No, Richie. Even if there was, it would be anatomy studies.”

“Right,” Richie says, winking.

He reels Will into a conversation about his actual art, getting stilted responses at first, like Will doesn’t remember how to answer questions about his hobbies. His eyes dart to his sister often - for reassurance or pacification, Richie doesn’t know - but eventually Will’s going on full tangents about a book he read on color theory and pose construction that lets Richie listen in peace, only dropping the odd joke to push Will further along in his thoughts.

Genuinely making friends has never been Richie’s forte, but he’s making an effort here. He wants to know why Will’s eyes are older than the rest of him.

“Class is starting,” Jane says, seconds before the warning bell rings. Will stutters to a stop.

“Oh.” Will blinks like he forgot where they were. He starts digging through his bag and Richie swivels in his seat to face the front, pencil eraser tapping against his jaw.

“Why do you not go to your desk?”

Richie glances over his shoulder, Jane’s eyes cutting into him. He smiles, then faintly writes his name on the light wooden surface of his desk, brushing away the excess graphite.

“This is my desk. See? It’s got my name on it.”

“You just wrote that.”

“Duh. How else would it get there?” Richie twists to put his arm across Will’s desk, writing Byers in the upper left corner. He moves to graffiti Jane’s name, pencil blocked by her hand slamming down and curling around the edge of the desktop. She gives him a look that could kill a man, but Richie feels practically immune. He’s been stared at with that much irritated disgust before, but he can’t remember when, or who he teased to the point of nuclear detonation.

The unfinished memory is still bothering him when the final bell rings, forcing him to face the front. Richie waits until the teacher has settled into the lesson to pull a scrap of paper from his bag, writing carefully in the center.

Give me your class schedule.

He folds the paper into clumsy squares, then drops it over his shoulder. A crinkle of noise and a long pause comes before feather light fingers graze his collar, waiting for him to reach up and retrieve the note.

Why?

Richie writes back. Stalking purposes, obviously. I’m not too proud for shortcuts.

He feigns fixing his glasses to toss it back. The wait is much longer this time, but when the paper returns, it’s a crisp page with a cramped list of classes and their locations filling out the first few lines.

Richie does some mental math, marking in the connecting tissue of their days to every spare minute. He knows he could ask why Will looked at him like that yesterday, but he doesn’t want Will to see his reaction, in case it reveals too much in return. Like any detective that’s up to snuff, Richie will work it out in his head first, just through observation over time. He’s better at seeing people than being seen.

Richie slips the annotated schedule into his folder as the teacher makes a lap of the room, giving him a thin smile when she notices him taking proper notes.

The gaze Jane keeps on his back is practically burning a hole through his shirt at this point, but Richie mulls over ideas without real interruption, trying to fit Jane’s behavior into his working theories like a new puzzle piece.

Will finds him for lunch again, smile shy as he takes the same seat across from Richie. His expression grazes a jagged hole in Richie’s chest.

I did that.

A tide of Voices compete for the honor of making the smile stay with a cheap joke, but Richie bites his tongue against them. There’s no reason for Will to stick around if Richie annoys him to oblivion on their first day as tentative friends.

“You like music?” Will asks, gesturing to the headphones hanging around Richie’s neck.

“Oh no, this is the tape that keeps me brainwashed for this cult I’m in,” Richie says. “You want to listen?”

Will shakes his head, bemused. “Does your cult have a name?”

“Well, most teachers call it dreaming. When my mom thinks I’m out of earshot, she calls it unrealistic.” Richie reaches into his bag to turn off the Walkman. “I want to work in radio. Turns out it’s harder than it looks, even though Hollywood is practically next door.”

Will brightens. “Really? What kind of music would you play?”

“Only the hits, Steamboat. Rock of the last quarter-century with some alternative for taste.”

“You sound like Jonathan.”

“The listening public would be better off if everyone in charge of radio sounded like Jonathan, who is…”

“My brother.”

“-your brother, exactly. The older and wiser Byers - he goes to school here?”

“It’s his last semester,” Will confirms, softly discouraged.

“Lucky bastard. They’ve got me for another year.”

“You’re in eleventh grade?” Will tries stabbing the glazed fruit on his tray, giving up when Richie offers him the tangerine from his bag lunch instead. “Why are you in a freshman history class?”

“Credit nonsense. I transferred here last year, and the schedule was flipped at my old school. You don’t have a California accent, so I’m guessing you’re new too.”

“Not completely. We started in September.”

And yet he’s alone unless his sister’s hanging around. Like an animal identifying its own species, Richie figures that Will’s used to being an easy target. If you avoid people altogether, they can’t know enough about you to make fun.

“Well, my vast experience of six more months in this desert means I know what assholes you should avoid at all costs.” Will tenses and Richie’s suspicion is confirmed. "What was your spawn of Satan called?”

Will takes a slow breath in and out, his faint tremble coming to a stop. “There were two of them. Troy and James.”

“Ouch, a tag-team. My school had Henry Bowers.” Will looks up in surprise. “Yeah, Bowers, not Byers. Almost shit myself when I misheard your name during roll call.” He takes a beat, waiting for the joke to loosen the line of Will’s shoulders. When he remains stiff, Richie pushes on. “Are they the reason you didn’t sleep last night?”

Will’s throat twitches, vacant gaze staying on Richie without seeing him. “Is that what most people have bad dreams about? School bullies?”

“Most,” Richie mutters, stepping over the tripwire. “Not all.”

They silently agree to move on.

For the rest of the day, Richie tries to recall the nightmares that have his head jerking up from the pillow, a scream just behind his lips. He can’t remember anything of substance, even right when he wakes up, but he knows they’re bad. He knows they’re not always about Henry catching up with him.

Nothing rises from the blank corners of his mind, but every time he finds Will for a few minutes between classes, Richie recognizes the muted chill behind the eyes. He knows it from the bathroom mirror, when he drags himself free of sweaty covers and dampens his neck with cupped water from the sink, staring into his own terrified face and wondering what got him there.

Yesterday, Will would have said Richie was indulging Will’s uncontrollable staring out of the kindness of his heart, but that was yesterday.

Today, Richie has taken every opportunity for them to even catch a glimpse of each other. Will can’t pretend to be disappointed, equally invested in spending time with Richie to fully experience a budding friendship. With Eleven and Max, it was like they’d always been in the Party. Will blinked, got possessed, and woke up to a world where two of his friends were girls. There was no small talk. It was osmosis, not intentionally getting close to another person.

Richie’s the first person that Will’s choosing to befriend since he was in fourth grade, which is just as daunting as it sounds.

“Benefits of being a junior: I get to drive myself home,” Richie says, his side pressing into Will’s shoulder as they navigate the end of school day exodus. Will is starting to get used to Richie’s habit of dropping into a conversation without a preamble, and he’s hardly surprised that Richie found him again, now that they’ll have more than five minutes to talk. “If you grovel enough, I might even give you a ride to spare you from the monstrosity they call a school bus system.”

Will elbows him lightly. “Oh, thanks, but my brother’s friend beat you to it. He’ll be here any minute for me and Jane.”

“Jane and I.”

“No, it’s me and Jane,” Will assures, furrowed brow relaxing at Richie’s crooked grin. Something he’s learned about Richie in their (one day) acquaintance is that he’ll play dumb to manipulate people into responding. Will is especially gullible about it, turned around before he can think twice. The purposefully bad grammar is probably meant to cheer Will up – which only works until Will realizes that Richie must know how out of it he feels today. Complete strangers aren’t supposed to read each other so well.

They draw to a stop by the stretch of road leading out of the student parking lot, arguing about using the term “quad” for the grassy courtyard at the center of their school buildings when it’s so clearly divided into more than four sections.

“If anything, it’s a duodec because of the…”

Will follows Richie’s diverted gaze over his own shoulder, Eleven planted behind him like his shadow. Will subtly tips his head, eyes flaring wide, and though Eleven notices the effort, she can’t interpret it as be cool. She resumes her brutally intense and one-sided staring contest.

“I think that’s my cue.” Richie takes a step back, bouncing his car keys on his palm. “I expect you to have a better counterargument by tomorrow.”

“Like I didn’t have enough homework already,” Will says, trying to slow the steep drop into awkward territory.

“Uh-huh,” Richie says, the suggestion of a smile crossing his face as he glances between Eleven and Will one last time. He’s only a few yards away when Eleven breaks her silence, just loud enough for Will to catch.

“When did you meet?”

“Yesterday. We ended up at the same table for lunch.” Total coincidence, definitely. Will checks his watch, a light wind whipping away the anxious sweat that threatens to ruin his performance. Argyle is usually pulling around by now.

“He looks like Mike.”

“Mike doesn’t wear glasses,” Will replies, heart pounding in relief as he sees the pizza delivery van veer out of the lot before jerking to a stop against the curb. A lightly sunburnt arm beckons through the open window. Will adjusts his backpack and hurries toward sweet escape, letting Eleven climb in first.

“How was school?” Jonathan asks, tone practiced but not completely disinterested. Eleven says nothing.

“Fine,” Will replies cheerfully, slinging the wide door shut. The backseat is usually the quieter half of the car, so when neither of them say a word to each other, it goes unnoticed. Will’s reflection in the window nods along to the music as he suffers an uncomfortably long ride home.

It’s all downhill from there. For two weeks, Richie shows up at the end of every school day, accompanying Will to the parking lot or the entrance of the art room. They have a scarce amount of minutes to talk about nothing before the terror begins.

Will can compare the sensation to entering a haunted house: you go in expecting to be scared, but you have no way of knowing where in the house they’ll get you. Even though Will is positive that Eleven doesn’t have her powers back, she once appeared beside them during their mutual flinch as a locker door slammed nearby, reflexively-shut eyes opening only to get startled again. Eleven usually lingers at Will’s shoulder until Richie’s best attempts to salvage the conversation are ruined. He departs, tail between his legs.

Then Will and Eleven move on with their day and don’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary.

Will tries his best to work it out. He segues into topics that Eleven enjoys when she shows up - Richie lets him, openly addressing Eleven’s arrival, greeting her and making physical space to have her join as she pleases. El is just impossibly stubborn about the silent treatment. Will thought he had seen her act coldly around Max, for those months after her return before they mysteriously bonded, as girls tend to do.

This is nothing compared to that. Will would ask her to cut it out if they were on better terms, but Eleven isn’t exactly talking to him when he’s alone either. It’s exhausting to balance the relationships.

The stress has already started to take its toll when Richie uses their moment of calm before the storm to propose a change of plan.

“Why don’t we catch a movie?” he suggests. “If we go now, we might get the half-off Monday matinee.”

Will feels their time slipping away already, so he wants to agree, but-

“I have to go home,” Will says, hands clenched around the straps of his backpack when the hopeful lift to Richie’s eyebrows falls behind his frames. “I’m not just saying that. It’s my mom. She worries about me if I’m not back on time.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Richie points out.

He’s right, obviously. It’s weird and Will knows it’s weird, but sharing part of the embarrassing truth is better than letting Richie assume that Will is dodging him on purpose.

“Damn,” Richie says. “Here I thought my eight o’clock curfew was stiff.”

Will exhales, finding enough genuine relief for a smile. “You too?”

Richie pauses for a moment, then tucks his hair behind an ear, running the hand down to his neck. It’s a nervous gesture, not quite suited for Mike. Richie goes quiet where Mike would start spewing nonsense until his point had been made, but it’s similarly transparent and endearing. Will waits him out.

“I could drive you home instead? Unless your mom expects you to teleport, it would get you home around the same time as your sister.”

“I can ask,” Will says, trying to rein in his immediate excitement. The thought of getting to talk to Richie without Eleven staring, even for one afternoon, sounds too good to be true. It might be a hard sell to his mom, but he’s prepared to cut a deal. He’ll do the dishes, he’ll wash the car, he’ll sweep the driveway, anything.

Anything except letting his mom meet Richie.

“Is that really necessary? I’m almost fifteen.”

Will cuts her off when she stoops to pick up a shirt from his bedroom floor, throwing it with his dirty clothes and retrieving the full hamper. She turns to leave, forcing Will to assist her by following.

“Being fifteen means I can’t know the people you’re spending time with anymore?” Joyce scoffs, amused at Will’s attempt to draw a line in the sand – about this, of all things. “That wasn’t in the parent handbook.”

“You don’t ask to meet all of Jonathan’s friends!”

“Jonathan has more than one friend?”

“Mom, come on.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned him before? I don’t even know his last name, Will.”

"It's Tozier," he supplies. Joyce doesn't miraculously change her mind. They reach the top of the stairs and head for Eleven’s bedroom, retrieving her laundry bin. His mother swipes a jacket from the bedframe on their way out.

Will changes tack. “Can’t you just trust me?”

“I trust you, sweetie, I do, but I don’t trust a complete stranger behind the wheel of a car with you in the passenger seat. Why should I?”

“Richie’s not a stranger to me. I trust him.”

“You trust him,” Joyce says, head swiveling back to squint at Will as she hefts Jonathan’s basket onto her knee, pulling it up to rest under her vacant arm. Her expression says that she would sooner believe Will if he told her that Richie is an alien from outer space.

“Yeah. He’s…nice.” Unable to let the uncomfortable silence sit while Joyce shuffles sideways though the narrow doorway, Will digs his heels in. “Whatever, it’s not important. This is just a ride home. Why do you suddenly have to meet him before we can hang out?”

“For the record, this is only sudden because I didn’t know Richie existed until ten minutes ago. It shouldn’t surprise you that I’m curious about him, Will. Any mother would be.”

“You’re hovering,” he complains, guilt bubbling in his stomach when his mom’s face scrunches up. Will doesn’t like playing this card, but the odds of success are highly out of his favor if he backs down now. If she recognizes Richie, it’s all over. “You promised that the fresh start would mean letting up.”

Joyce waddles to the broom closet that houses their washer and dryer set, dropping both baskets with a hefty sigh. She stares down at the bundled garments for a moment, then sets the back of her hands on her hips. It’s not a great sign.

“I’m not seeing the issue,” she says finally, focusing on Will’s distressed, pleading face. “I know you don’t have the coolest mom in town, but I’m not trying to embarrass you by meeting your friends. I just don’t want to be caught off guard if anything happens to you. I want to know who I should be talking to in an emergency, Will.”

“There won’t be any emergencies.”

“When have we ever gotten to decide that?” Joyce asks, softly sad for him. She knows it’s a pain, but she can’t help it. She worries. She’ll worry for the rest of Will’s life. He’ll be sixty and his mom will worry about him getting to bed on time.

Will’s fighting fire goes out. “But-”

“No. My answer is no. I don’t want him or anyone else giving you a ride home until I’ve looked them in the eyes. That’s all. It’s not that difficult, not if you really want this to happen.” She gauges Will’s reaction to the response as she pulls down the detergent. “If Richie is a nice boy, then he won’t care about meeting me first. I don’t bite.”

You just worry, Will thinks, shoulders slumped in defeat. He drops his laundry and sulks back to his room, turning up his music as an audible Do Not Disturb sign. It was nice while it lasted, but there's no way his mom will have nothing to say about the resemblance. At worst, she'll decide Richie's part of some conspiracy and demand they be moved to a new, safer location. At best...

Will stares up at his bedroom ceiling and crosses his fingers.

Chapter Text

January 23rd, 1986

Joyce fusses with Will’s collar until the moment the front door of the Tozier house opens, an older man with Richie’s hair - kept short and styled to professional cleanliness - greeting them as Call-me-Went Tozier. It surprises Will that he doesn’t look more like Mike’s dad, given their children’s resemblance, but it’s a promising start. His fingers are starting to cramp after being twisted together for the last few days.

Went shows them into the front room with attentive, pleasant eyes, asking how Indiana compares to California, making a light joke about the heat. His humor reminds Will of Mr. Clarke more than Mr. Wheeler. Looking closer now, Will decides that Went doesn’t act much like Mike’s dad either. He doesn’t take strange tangents into current events or war histories. The best way Will can think to describe Wentworth Tozier is to say that instead of picking through the Sports, Politics, or Finance sections of a newspaper, he reads all the Health articles before skimming the local news, then goes back to read the Health section again.

The largest difference between him and Mr. Wheeler is the way his attention shifts as soon as Richie’s mom enters the room. Mrs. Tozier tucks her long, straight hair behind her ear and apologizes for leaving them alone with Went for so long, the jest returned with a simple laugh about her being the fool who married him. It’s sweet in a way that Will isn’t used to seeing outside of the rare sleepovers at Lucas’ house. Even Joyce is hesitant to disturb their well-balanced energy.

“You can call me Maggie,” Mrs. Tozier says, asking if she can get them anything.

“That’s really nice, but I don’t want to impose when I can’t stay for dinner,” Joyce reminds.

Will purposefully chose the one weekday where his mother works in the evening, hoping that her memory won’t click in the limited time she gets to spend in Richie’s presence. There’s a chance, given the way that Richie’s voice is a bit deeper, his face thinner, his hair longer, his clothes looser. There’s a chance.

“It’s no trouble,” Maggie says easily, arms crossing as she smiles. “Let me know if you change your mind. Will, are you staying?”

He blinks, not used to being included in parent conversation. “I think so.”

“Wonderful.” She lowers her voice, pretending they're speaking privately. “Maybe I can sneak you some leftovers for your mom to try after work.”

Joyce’s face twists into a gracious smile. “Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I didn’t say anything,” Maggie insists, winking at Will as Joyce accepts her fate. Will is starting to like her. “You probably do have to get going though, I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Eventually,” Joyce says, shoes shifting awkwardly on the rug. Maggie’s face gets its first trace of disapproval as she glances around the room, unable to find her target.

“Where is…” She turns, stepping to the bottom of the stairs and ducking her head over the railing. “Rich? The Byers are here!”

“Two seconds,” Richie calls back - the echoing shout makes Will tense, reminded of his peril. Beside him, Joyce cocks her head, pleasant mood disturbed by the narrow escape of deja vu. Will avoids eye contact.

“I’ll make sure the table’s set,” Went offers, passing Maggie with a light hand on her back. She hums gratefully, returning to her guests.

“I’m so glad you stopped by. I’ve been asking Richie to meet Will since he first mentioned him, right after the New Year. We moved here from a smaller town ourselves and this place felt so big at first that I wasn’t sure he’d find friends like he had before. It’s harder when everyone doesn’t know everyone’s mothers.”

“Oh, right,” his mom says, uneasy about being included. The mothers of Hawkins were polite enough, but the Byers weren’t invited to Sunday brunch, to put it simply. Maggie seems immune to whatever aversion the other women felt for Joyce, complimenting her sneakers without a hint of malice.

When rapid footsteps start down the stairs, Joyce looks relieved to be let out of the conversation. Will’s heart attempts cardiac arrest.

“Are you feeling okay?” Joyce murmurs, catching Will’s chin while Maggie is poised at the banister, scolding Richie for shaking the house with his impression of an elephant coming down the stairs. “You’re pale.”

Will can only nod, pulling his face free of her hand as Richie rounds the banister, passing Maggie with ease. His grin widens to its extreme at the sight of Will, then moves to Joyce, dimming to a much more reserved attitude. Richie’s dark hair is tame for once, recently trimmed and framing his glasses-free face. He’s wearing a tucked-in polo. At the sight of him, Will wishes Lucas were here, so they could groan in miserable harmony.

Right now, Richie couldn’t look more like Mike if he tried.

There must be a greeting that Richie offers, but Will is busy taking in his mom’s slack-jawed stare, her face buried in disbelief that Mike didn’t fly across the country for a ridiculously complex prank. Her mouth tries to form sounds, setting off Maggie’s hosting instincts.

“Joyce, are you alright?”

“What-er,” she manages, question sticking to her tongue. “Some water, please. Dry throat.”

“I’ll get it,” Richie says, bounding from the room while followed by Joyce's disturbed stare.

When Maggie recommends that Joyce take a seat, she is guided to the couch. Will lets her grab his arm to slow her descent. Maggie opens a window in the room and turns on the fan to make sure that there’s fresh air circulating in the room, worrying that the cleaning products she used to scrub the floor before their arrival is making it hard to breathe. She’s not reassured by Joyce’s dazed expression and inability to speak long sentences.

The torture continues as Richie returns with a fresh glass of water in hand. Joyce’s fingers pause in the air between them, scrunched features staring at Richie with open confusion.

“Will told me he looked like his mom, but you’re more similar than I would have thought,” Richie says.

“Uh?” Joyce says, sounding close enough to a request for more information.

“He makes that face when I catch him off-guard.” Richie’s smile flashes across his face as Joyce almost drops the accepted drink. “It’s the glasses, right? Will must have told you how lame they look.”

“They’re not lame,” Will argues, going quiet as everyone stares at him. The pressure threatens to fray his last nerve.

Joyce looks away first, toward the cup in her hand. “What glasses?”

“Mine,” Richie says, looking relieved that Will really didn’t feel a need to laugh about the glasses behind his back. Will wonders how many people had to react that way for Richie to form his harsh default assumption. “I don’t usually wear contacts, but I have them, just in case my lenses break.”

“Which is more likely than you think,” Maggie sighs.

“But rarely my fault,” Richie says. “Completely accidental.”

“Glasses,” Joyce says, voice distant. She squints, and Will knows that she’s trying to impose glasses on Mike in her mind’s eye. “Really?”

“Yeah, I blame genetics. Dad used to wear them too.”

Maggie picks a stray thread off the shoulder of Richie’s sweater, dusting the cleared fabric. “If you hate your glasses so much, why don’t you use the contacts more often?”

Richie develops a thick accent. “Excusez mon français, but putting them in is a pain in the-”

“Richie, please,” Maggie says, taking a seat beside Joyce and offering an apologetic smile.

“-in the eye,” he finishes, shrugging at Will. “N'est-ce pas?”

Will’s smile is nervous at best, unable to be entertained by Richie’s antics while he’s struggling with the resemblance to Mike just as much as his mother. He misses Richie’s glasses with a passion.

Their conversation is carried entirely by the back-and-forth of Richie and his exasperated mother as Joyce offers the odd noise of agreement when prompted and Will does his best impression of a normal awkward teenager instead of a desperately mortified individual.

Richie is Richie at his best, pushing obnoxiousness into humor without causing blatant offense that might lead to Joyce disliking him. At some point he runs upstairs to get his glasses, trying them on with exaggerated distaste. Maybe Will could have warned Richie that there was little he could do that Joyce would find unacceptable given her learned tolerance of the unusual. He definitely should have warned Richie that the only mistake he could have really made was coming downstairs at all.

A grandfather clock chimes for the last quarter of the hour and Joyce checks her watch, pushing to her feet.

Finally. Will could cry with relief.

“My shift starts soon,” she says, eyes lingering on Richie despite directing the words at his mother. “Thank you so much for inviting us over like this. You have a lovely home – and your family too, you must be proud.”

Maggie nods, attention torn by the timer that goes off in the kitchen as the untouched glass of water is returned to her waiting hands.

“One of these days, we’ll have to get you all over here so I can say the same to you, dear. As one mom to another, it was great to meet you. I should get back myself, but Richie would love to show you out – wouldn’t you, Rich?”

“It would be an honor and a privilege,” Richie says, voice veering into cartoonish formality.

Joyce assures them that’s not necessary with a series of wordless noises meant to convey grateful refusal.

“I think I can find the door. Will, would you-” She gestures over her shoulder with a vague jab of the thumb and Will’s stomach drops. That’s her we need to talk face.

Went returns to make their goodbyes at Richie’s shoulder. Will is sure his eyes are begging for his friend to save him, but Richie just gives him a sly thumbs-up as he holds the front door open for them.

At least the Toziers didn’t notice that the introduction couldn’t have gone much worse. Just like Will feared, his mom stops outside the car, shoulders hunched beside the side mirror. She watches him for a moment, trying to find the words.

“Honey, Richie is…”

“Nice, right?” Will tries, getting an undecided grimace.

“Well, he seems sweet, but it’s-” Her eye twitches. “I mean he’s-” She chews the corner of her mouth. “Don’t you think-”

“He looks a lot like Mike?”

Joyce’s breath escapes in a drained hiss, fretful eyes tracking over his face. “I wasn’t sure if you noticed.”

“I have eyes,” Will shrugs, her hand buzzing from his shoulder to the side of his head. Will thinks it comforts her as much as it’s meant to soothe him. “I know it’s weird.”

“Oh, hey,” she says gently, tugging a wrinkle out of his sleeve. “You know, he just surprised me, that’s all. Mike is the last person I was expecting to come down, but that’s fine. You must have seen a friend in him.” She stops to dig through her purse and pull out her keys. “He was nice. Good manners. I liked his glasses.”

“Mom.”

“He’s taller than I thought too. Funny, with all those little voices he does.”

“Mom.”

Joyce’s nose wrinkles as she smiles, holding up a hand to signal a truce. “Alright, I’m done. But- well, you get it.”

Will isn’t sure he does, but he holds open the car door as she climbs into the driver seat. When she leans out the window, Will bends to accept the tricky hug, a kiss disappearing into his hair. He’s feeling grateful enough to bear her attention without complaint. She’s recovered better than he thought, considering how blindsided she must have been.

“Jonathan will be back to get you at seven. Don’t forget to thank Richie’s parents-”

“I know, I know – I’ll remember.” Will pulls back, hand remaining on the window frame when Joyce clasps her own overtop. Despite her hectic attempt at accepting the odd situation, there’s still a bit of concern in her eyes when she smiles up at him.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, dismissing his quiet sincerity with an arrhythmic series of hand squeezes. “Just doing my job.”

As Will is clicking into his seatbelt, Richie lifts his foot off the brake, offering Jane a sharp salute before pulling away from the sidewalk. Her lone figure shrinks in the side mirror. She looks pissed, not that it changes anything.

“Hey, is your sister adopted?”

Will’s hand curls sharply over his knee. “No. Why?”

“Her sentences are pretty stilted and most of my jokes go right over her head. I thought English might be her second language, but I can’t get any accent from her voice.”

“She was homeschooled until this year,” Will explains, skirting defensive. Like he’s got something to hide. “There wasn’t a good chance to get experience with talking to people her age, so she’s a bit out of touch.”

Richie makes a turn at the intersection out of the school’s side road, looking over to see a kid repeatedly pressing in the button to make the crosswalk light change.

He thrusts his fists against the posts…

“Has she been to speech therapy?”

“Definitely not.” Will’s mouth squirms at an unknown inside joke. “El and doctors don’t mix.”

“El?”

Will sits up, clutching his bag tighter to his chest. “Oh…yeah. Just a nickname. Her middle name is Eleanor, so that’s what we call her.”

Will is weirdly tense whenever the topic of his sister comes up – made stranger by his extreme willingness to discuss all things Jonathan. Richie lets it go, mentally adding the slip to his curated list of inaccuracies and contradictions.

Is it shitty to hold verbal evidence against your friends? Richie can’t remember having anyone around long enough to get mad about his private investigator tendencies. It’s not like he wants Will to be lying to him. Maybe the Byers are in Witness Protection. Richie snorts at his own wild imagination, then finds an alarming number of clues that fit under that theory quite well, puzzling over the crime that one of them must have witnessed to get them sent across the country.

If they even were, his mind whispers, suddenly doubtful of Will’s childhood in Hawkins. Maybe they’re not from Indiana at all, or they could be a host family for El’s safety and that’s why she seems to be a wrench in the gears of the well-coordinated Byers’ machine. Is El related to her real name?

“Isn’t this our turn?” Will asks. Richie swings the sharp right and Will’s frantic hand fumbles against the door, trying to get a safe grip.

“My bad,” Richie says, correcting the car inside the lane.

Probably not the best time to think about these things.

He thinks he might get some peace and quiet once they reach the house, but they’ve hardly cleared the front door when his mother corners him, shoving an old box into his hands. Richie cranes his head to the side, attempting to read words scribbled across the cardboard flaps. Richie’s Storage.

“Wait, is this-”

“From the spare room I asked you to clear out two months ago? Imagine that.”

Richie groans, hefting the unwieldly belongings with extra bitterness. “I don’t even know what I put in here anymore. Can’t you just throw it out?”

“No. You can, once you’ve looked through it properly. I don’t need you throwing away family heirlooms for the sake of just getting it done.”

“This is child abuse,” Richie decides.

“Spare me the bellyaching. I want this split into staying and going, by tomorrow.” She holds up a hand to stave off Richie’s protests. “I’m sure there are embarrassing family portraits in there that Will would love to see. I don’t care how you do it or who helps, but get it done.”

As Maggie’s walking away, Richie leans into Will’s side, barely lowering his volume.

“She only wants the spare room cleared to have space for a personal Jazzercize studio.”

“Richie,” she barks, turning back around to find her son already racing up the stairs, almost dropping the box to drag Will with him by the elbow. Will does his best impersonation of an unwilling hostage.

They collapse into Richie’s room. He locks the door behind them for good measure, unloading the burden from his suffering arm. Richie’s first inclination is to find a second bin and start chucking, but Will peers at the worn flaps, taking a seat on the rug.

“My mom was probably kidding. I doubt she’s ever trusted me enough to hold onto my own baby pictures.”

Will refuses to be dissuaded, peeling the cardboard time capsule open and marveling at the contents. He pulls out a faded shoebox, delighted to find cassette tapes with bands suited to a taste that Richie has long outgrown.

“Those can go.”

“Are you kidding?” Will exclaims. “These are great artists. I know guys who would kill for these.”

“Don’t do anything drastic,” Richie says, diving into the box as well. If Will is determined to keep digging, Richie has to find the dirt first. He makes a safe secondary pile for Will to scour in his own time.

“You played baseball?”

“One season of Little League. I don’t mean to brag, but that’s a bona fide participation trophy.”

Will lets Richie put it back in the empty box to be pitched (ba dum tss), moving on to marvel at a disposable camera. He shakes it beside his ear, then holds it up, aiming at Richie, who flicks him off. Busy in his own little world, Will hardly minds, tracing the viewfinder with his thumb.

“The film must be old, but I bet Jonathan could check the negatives. He’s good with cameras.”

“You can take it. I warn you, I have no idea when the pictures were taken and will deny any affiliation with the camera should they contain incriminating content.”

“It’s probably blurry vacation shots,” Will shrugs. “That’s what most people bring in, once they’ve remembered it.”

The subpar comic book issues are given a passing glance, and Will agrees they’re safe to go. There are a few paper scraps featuring jokes that Richie wrote down when they got especially big laughs, briefly convinced he was going to be the next Paul Reiser. Will holds up a Freese’s shirt that Richie can’t place until he finds a hole near the hem, reminded of the war he waged against his mother to keep the garment in rotation. Last he can recall, she had handed it to the garbageman directly, unaware that Richie had slipped him a dollar to have the shirt returned once Maggie’s back was turned.

He traces the cracked vinyl decal until Will lifts an item from the dwindling mess with an expression like he’s discovering the Holy Grail.

It's Richie’s ninth grade yearbook, but one man’s trash and all that shit.

Richie likes getting his picture taken. He’s not worried about Will seeing his own photo, bigger glasses and all, but Will doesn’t get past the first pages of the freshman group, scanning the column of names. He looks from Barkley to Caldwell twice, picking at the corner of the pages like they might be sticking together.

“Was Bowers not in your grade?”

“He was a grade above us, but you won’t find him in there. He was arrested for murdering his dad just before the school year started.”

Will’s eyes grow to take up half his face. “What?”

“Yeah, he took an insanity plea. I told you he was a bad guy.”

“Sounds like bad doesn’t begin to cover it,” Will says, morbidly curious as he leans over the book again. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“That’s subjective.”

Will finds Richie’s grinning face and makes the appropriate comments about the button-up and tie ensemble that his mother made him wear for picture day. His hand traces down a row, noticing a name underlined in marker. The kid’s portrait is diagonal to Richie’s designated rectangle.

“Who’s Stanley Uris?”

Richie pushes aside the discard box and pivots, leaning into Will’s side to survey the person in question. The collared shirt looks far more natural on that kid than it does on Richie, his curly-haired head held high.

“Beats me,” Richie says, giving the small smile one last look before he relaxes his flexing memory.

“Really? You don’t know why you marked his name?”

“I don’t have a good reason for most of the things I do,” Richie replies, disturbed by how easily Will accepts the improvised line of reasoning. There are a few other names marked, each equally unfamiliar to Richie’s gaze. They’re all boys - which doesn’t say much to the casual observer, but makes Richie eager for Will to consider his goal accomplished and close the cover on it forever.

“Fair’s fair, you know. This means I get to see your middle school yearbook eventually.”

“There’s no way I’m letting that happen,” Will says, the book slipping from his grasp as Richie tugs on the top.

“What’s the damage?”

“Let’s just say I had the same barber since I was six, and my mom thinks the Beatles are hip.”

Richie slides the yearbook onto his bookshelf as he throws his head back to laugh, prompting Will to roll his eyes and find a new seat on Richie’s bed, dragging his bookbag up with him and settling in. More time together should have dampened Will’s enthusiasm for Richie’s personal brand of dickishness, but Will does love to prove him wrong. Ever since the first short car ride, he’s asked Richie if he can hang at the Tozier house before being taken home, the visits only growing longer by the day.

They’re clear into comfortable silence territory now, and Richie returns from trashing the undesirables to find Will right where he left him, his narrow legs folded up to form an easel for his sketchbook.

“More art club work?”

Will’s angled head rights itself as he makes a sound of agreement, dusting off the page.

“What’s the theme?”

“Lost treasure,” Will says, reinforcing another long sketch line.

"Byers. If you’re drawing booty, why didn’t you say so?” Richie demands. Will lifts his pencil from the page to avoid stray marks as Richie jostles the mattress by clambering over to Will’s side, sitting with the wall at their back.

A half-completed drawing of a ramshackle fort in the center of the page gives Richie pause, eyes searching the mess for mountains of gold. Shaded letters across a plank of wood nailed above a cloth door spell out Castle Byers. Will’s hand traces down the side of the page, fussing with the rough edge.

“A treasured place?” Richie guesses, folding his arms across his stomach as it stirs with nausea. A clubhouse to call their own-

“It used to be,” Will says. His deep breath presses their shoulders together.

“Hence the lost.”

Will nods, erasing the end of a sketched branch along the roof to draw it jagged and uneven, dark with details. It’s not hard to read the fondness on his face, but there are glimpses of frustration as he forces distinct lines from the sketch, like he’s failing to remember a dream.

“It was out in the woods behind the house in Hawkins,” he shares, building a cross hatch shadow to support the wall of sticks. “I told Jonathan that I wanted to good place to run toward, so I didn’t have to think of it as running away from things.”

“Clever. I guess they didn’t call it the home of ‘Will the Wise’ for nothing,” Richie says, reading the faint letters smudged above the Castle Byers sign. He lets Will work in peace, wondering if the model is true to life. He’s caught glimpses of Will’s art before, and he tends to lean toward realism despite the content being based in fantasy. If he’s drawing a dragon, it’s going to be painstakingly accurate to the concept stuck in his mind.

The hand sketching starts to slow, hesitating before it adds a detail only to erase it and try again somewhere else. Will's irritation makes his exhales harsh, his face hardening with every mistake.

“Well? Aren't you gonna offer to teach me the secret knock?”

Will’s focused profile falters. "There was no knock."

"Of course not, one stiff wind and that place would have been toast." Will jabs his arm with the pencil eraser, hardly discouraging. "You're more the password type anyway. A man of words, not a fighter," Richie says, stomach swept low at his own jest. A lover.

He's wondering if he caught whatever Tori Tanner was sneezing in second period when Will’s head turns, his hand cupping around Richie’s ear as he leans in, whispering a word to Richie like a child on the playground.

Will pulls back and continues drawing. The password floats in Richie's empty head until he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"You're a real nerd, Byers. You know that, right?"

Will goes so far as to shove Richie this time, but he's smiling.

"It bears repeating," Richie mutters, pushing off the wall with his shoulders and rolling to lie on his stomach at the end of the bed. He folds his legs up so they don’t hang off the side of the bed, resting his chin over his crossed arms.

Will starts to hum a song that Richie could place if he cared to try, knowing it from the 60’s records that his mom puts on while she does the dishes. It’s slower music than Richie prefers, and the lyrics are always too lovesick, wringing out Richie’s soul despite his complete lack of experience in longing and heartbreak.

His eyes drift shut.

Richie breaks the surface of the cool quarry water from below, air surging into his lungs. A nearby splash is followed by panicked spluttering as wild hands grasp Richie’s shoulders, attempting to push him back under.

“You could have killed me, you shiteater!”

“Blame your mom, she likes the taste,” Richie replies, letting Eddie think he wins the ensuing struggle only to grab his ankle underwater. Eddie’s muted scream brings an explosion of bubbles out of Richie’s laughing mouth.

He swims up, accepting the flurry of curses that welcome him back. Eddie’s expression drips with disgust, excess water running from his chin and the end of his nose. Richie turns from the sight and his own racing heart, lazily paddling for shore.

“Hey! Get back here!”

“Make me,” Richie shouts, flipping onto his back and keeping a safe distance between them as Eddie fights to catch up, limbs not long enough to outpace Richie’s evasive serpentine. He splashes out a sharp wave in frustration, Richie’s grin only serving to enrage him further.

“Are you two going to wrinkle in there all day?”

Richie’s bare feet find purchase in grainy sediment and he tips his head back in the water, finding an upside-down Stan perched on a hot stone slab, sitting far enough away to avoid being dragged back in.

“Why?” Eddie asks, closer than Richie thought. He dodges left and Eddie’s lunge crashes over empty air.

“Yeah, why? You got something better for us to do?”

Stan shrugs, draping his arms around his knees. His hair glows like neon in the sunlight that leaves the clearing drowsy with warmth, sandy strands half-dried and pushed out of his face. Richie knows Stan keeps a comb in his pocket if they’re headed to the Quarry, to tidy his curls before they leave, but he doesn’t mind the haphazard appearance when he’s alone with the losers.

Richie has a working theory that it doesn’t cross his mind to worry about how it looks when he knows Richie will tease him either way.

“What about a movie?” Beverly exhales in a cloud. She’s splayed out on a similar rock further off, so Stan’s nose doesn’t have to wrinkle from the smell of tobacco. “There’s a new creature feature at the Paramount.”

“Is it any good?” Bill asks.

“Gee, Bill, let’s get back to you on that - we have to watch the movie first, you see.”

Mike ignores Richie’s jab. “I heard it’s not that scary. More of a cautionary tale.”

Richie stumbles under Eddie’s weight as wiry arms cinch around his neck, forcing him to faceplant back into the water. A few squirming kicks later, they separate before Richie can lose his glasses. Eddie crows with vengeful glee, his supposedly weak lungs making his voice echo off the stone cliffs surrounding the lake.

Defeated, Richie clambers up the shore, limbs struggling to support his own weight after treading water for almost an hour. He tugs one of Stanley’s stray curls until his hand is smacked away, limbs collapsing in a damp line at Stan’s side. The sunshine gets to work desiccating his exposed skin.

When he tunes back in, it seems that Ben has started gently promoting Beverly’s idea (who could have seen that coming) but Mike makes a good argument for using their money to get pop instead, aiming to beat the humid heat. Mike’s plan would give Richie more spending money at the arcade for the week, which is usually a good enough reason to do anything.

“I have homework waiting for me,” Eddie grieves, shoving at the arm Richie has tucked beneath his own head. His lifted elbow makes room for Eddie to sit. It blocks the light that was reaching Richie’s chest, but he’s running hot enough without the sun’s help, thanks.

“Don’t insult my free time,” Richie says. “When did you guys get so boring?”

Stan snorts. “You’re not exactly Evil Knieval yourself.”

“I’m being honest here,” Richie says, cracking his eyes open to peer at each of them. “We go through the same shit, day in and day out. Aren’t you tired of it? Can’t we think of anything better to do?”

“Not in Derry,” Bev sighs, putting out her cigarette.

“She’s right, Richie.” Bill pulls his bare feet from the gravel shore, dusting them off before pulling on his socks. “If we’re bored, being stuck in this town is to blame.”

“You’re pathetic. All of you,” Richie accuses, lifting his head enough for them to see his disappointed face. "These are the best years of our lives and we're spending them doing the same three things because we have as much imagination as the dirt beneath our feet. Think, people! It's your last day on Earth and you do what?”

“Why does it have to be our last day?” Stan asks, puzzled by the prompt.

“Because shit is bad! It's a hypothetical, alright? The world’s gonna explode in T-minus twenty-four hours and you can do anything you want because none of it will matter tomorrow. I'd do Eddie's mom," -Eddie plants a foot in his side- "what would you do?"

They blankly stare at him, then one by one, fall into deep contemplation, little minds hard at work to imagine the best last day ever. Richie surveys each of their faces, hoping for a good solution to their dire straits.

Mike is sitting on his hands, legs swinging over an outcrop with a dreamy look on his face. He would abandon his chores and his delivery job, then take a bus to the coast to catch the sunset. He might bring a light novel to devour during the ride out, and a picture of his parents to share the view.

Beverly has a vindictive little grin on her face. She'd devise the perfect revenge scheme for Greta, performed with enough vigor to leave a lasting impression, no matter how many days they had left. She might stand up to her dad for good measure, but there's a hesitance in her eyes that suggests she would rather run as far from him as she could get, knowing that her time would run out before he could catch up.

Ben is sneaking glances at Beverly and blushing at his shoes. He would ask her out as friends, to start. He'd buy her movie tickets and popcorn and whatever candy they wanted. He would try to hold her hand, bolstered by the courage of not getting another chance ever again, and if she let him, he wouldn't let go, not for anything. It would be sweaty, but he wouldn't care. Not if she didn't.

Bill absently resumes tying his shoelaces. He would spend his day with George, staying out past dark and having as much fun as they want, no matter how loud their mom called for them to come inside. He would ride Silver down the Up Mile Hill until he was tired of lugging the metal beast to the top, and then eat ice cream until he was sick and maybe save the world with his remaining hours - it was Bill, he’d find the time.

Stan sits with elbows locked and hands clenched tight over his knees, thinking hardest of all but not getting far. He doesn’t see how he could be a day away from his own demise and feel frivolous enough to go out and have fun while it lasts, but he can’t let Richie make a good point, not as his self-respecting friend.

Stan would get up early and catch the sunrise at the Standpipe, where the first birds of the morning wake up and begin foraging for food. He would watch them for a while, having a picnic breakfast to the content sound of their singing, away from the noise of downtown. He would mail away his savings as a donation to National Geographic magazine, doubtful he’d need the money after his time was up. He might write a few letters, if the world would go on without him.

Then, there’s a flash of childlike desire in Stan’s eyes that he only gets when he’s thinking about his dad’s Buick. He’d swipe the keys off the hook by the front door and be driving down the block before his parents even knew he’d left. Take the left on Harris and right on Main until he was cruising through the city square and out the other side, straight out of the town, out of Derry, far away and-

But no, Stan’s mind chortled. That was ridiculous.

Richie turns to the last loser, surprised to see Eddie staring back, perfectly lucid.

“What would you do, Eddie?”

Eddie shrugs, fingers picking at the hem of his shorts.

“You’re not even gonna think about it?” Richie presses.

“I don’t like thinking about stuff like that.”

“Too fucking bad! You want to eat snacks and watch movies and hang out in the Clubhouse until the day you die?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Eddie asks, guarded and prickly.

“What’s wrong? Where do I start?” Richie scoffs. “I say you can do anything and you can’t bother to think of trying something new. I should have known.”

“Known what, dickhead? I’m not boring just because I won’t play your stupid game.”

Richie snores dramatically, catching Eddie’s wrist when his fist tries to plant itself in Richie’s diaphragm. He wrings his arm out to get it free.

“There has to be something,” Beverly says gently.

Eddie’s betrayed eyes dart up to her, then the others, defenses lowering when they all look expectant. It’s one thing to have Richie call you lame, but when everyone’s pointing the finger, it’s a lot harder to deny.

“I- I don’t know!” Eddie’s anger turns inward, unable to produce the necessary desire for more. Cast as the loyal follower in life, Eddie rarely stops to consider what he would want, if anyone ever thought to ask. Richie regrets pushing the point. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I choose to do, as long as I spend the day with all of you.”

The clearing goes muggy and still, wind in the trees dying down to respect the stunned silence. All at once, everyone grows sheepish, wondering if their own ideas were selfish or their minds simply thought being together was implied.

"Jesus,” Richie says, eyes rolling before they close again. He swallows the lump in his throat, throwing an arm over his face to hide the wash of affection that’s sure to stain his cheeks. “I need cooler friends.”

“Richie.”

“Mm.”

“Are you awake?”

He opens his eyes slow, prepared for sunshine to spear his pupils only to find them well-adjusted to the dim light of his bedroom. His body’s other senses wake up on a delay, feeling the hand at his shoulder after he’s already seen Will kneeling beside him.

Richie takes a deep breath.

“I fell asleep.” There’s a tightness around Will’s eyes as he nods. “Time?”

“Around six,” Will says, hand retreating as Richie sits up on his elbows. “Are you okay?”

“School must have kicked my ass,” Richie mutters, rolling his neck to stretch away the stiff muscles. He can’t remember the last time he took a nap in the middle of the day, or even fell asleep so easily.

“You have nightmares because of your classes?” Will meets his baffled stare with poorly hidden concern. “You were crying, that’s why I woke you.”

“Bite me,” Richie says, a laugh escaping him as he sits up fully.

“I’m serious,” Will says, sincere enough that Richie reaches up to touch his own face, amusement curdling as he finds his skin damp. Both hands fly to his face, patting the skin beneath his eyes to find the epicenter of the mess. Richie pulls the fabric of his long sleeve up over his palms and scrubs until his face is dry and raw.

“Calculus,” Richie jokes. “I’ve considered dropping out.”

Why Will lets him get away with such a blatant lie is a mystery that Richie doesn’t want to solve.

Richie’s unilateral decision to take Will home makes for a quiet and lonely ride. He’s embarrassed, which is an embarrassing way to feel, creating one nasty feedback loop of gut-churning shame. As Richie has observed, Will is not a guy without quirks - but if he ever cries himself awake, he knows better than to let it happen in front of Richie.

The engine idles in the Byers’ driveway as Will opens the passenger door, hesitating to climb out.

“I don’t think it was a bad dream,” Will says. There’s a careful attempt to make eye contact that ultimately fails, but Will forges on. “You were smiling the whole time, right until you woke up.”

“I must be a masochist.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Will says, unable to hold back his grin. “We’re alike in a lot of ways, so what would that make me?”

Richie sighs, offering him a shoulder pat of condolence before delivering the bad news.

“Doomed, Byers. You’re doomed.”

Chapter Text

February 8th, 1986

The doorbell rings, disturbing the calm bustle of a Saturday morning at the Byers house, and Will drops his fork.

“I’ll get it!”

His hasty attempt to stand bumps his knees into the small round table, knocking over Jonathan’s glass of orange juice while he’s mid-pour. They all scramble to save the placemats from becoming permanently sticky, and his mom looks to the door when the ring comes again.

"Sorry, I'll get it," he repeats, darting around her before she gets any ideas.

Will slings himself around the gap in the room's dividing wall, shoulders relaxing once he’s out of his family’s sight. He stops short of the door to settle down, feeling hunted despite no one openly calling out his nerves.

His eyes catch on the entry table. Resting innocently inside a narrow wooden frame is a photograph taken in front of the Byers house on the day they left Hawkins. Everyone bears a bittersweet smile, trying to keep their chins high. Standing front and center, with El on one side and Will on the other, is Mike.

There's a brief, jaunty knock on the door, cut off like Richie's waiting for the two-knock response.

Not allowing himself to think about it, Will grabs the frame, pulling out a shallow drawer fit into the table and shoving aside miscellanea until he can tuck the picture away. He closes it with his hip, opening the door just as Richie shouts Radagast.

Big eyes blinks in surprise. “Whoa. Didn’t realize you took the secret password thing so seriously.”

"Hey," Will says. He jams his socked feet into his sneakers, too eager for the sturdy double knots. "Are we ready to go?"

"About that." Richie steps into the doorway, forcing Will to move or be moved. "I may have promised your mom I'd hear out her lecture first."

"But-"

"Two minutes," Richie assures, shimmying past. "Then you're free as a bird. Scout’s honor."

Will sighs with his whole body, reluctantly watching Richie shuffle through the wide archway into the living room, putting himself in view of the kitchen table. He offers waves all around.

"Good morning, Byers Bunch. Those pancakes smell divine."

There's a chorus of greetings with varied enthusiasm. Will stands at Richie's elbow as Joyce beckons for them to wait by the bar, her gaze focused on the hissing pan of bacon.

Richie speaks under his breath. "Did I miscount or do you have a mysterious third sibling living in your attic?"

"That's Argyle," Will explains. Seated to Jonathan's left, he's applauding Eleven’s abuse of whipped cream on her waffles. "We're not related."

"Do Jonathan's friends usually get to have breakfast here?"

Will’s best reply is a shrug. There’s no way of knowing if Argyle is the rule or the exception when he’s the only friend Jonathan has.

"Damn it, I chose the wrong brother."

Will ignores him, backing toward the door. "Mom, we need to get going."

"Not so fast!"

Will stops, mostly because Richie is resisting their departure and refusing to be pulled. Will's silent pleading does little to persuade him.

"I know I said you could go out alone today, but I have rules." Joyce glances over her shoulder to make sure they didn't ditch. "Fill the gas tank before you get out of the Hills. Don't talk to strangers. Make sure you eat when you start to get hungry – Will, you hardly touched your eggs. Do you have emergency money?"

"Yes, I promise. We went over your rules last night."

"I'm forgetting something," Joyce says, wrist knocking against her forehead. "I know I am. Jonathan?"

"If you get lost-"

"-don't be afraid to ask for directions, that's right," Joyce finishes, handing Jonathan the spatula when he stands to tag her out. She uses her freedom to crowd Will, hands fretting. "Are you gonna be walking around? There's a lot of traffic in cities and the drivers don't care about pedestrians. They'll mow you right down."

Will does the talking for once, answering her questions with the calm, repetitive answers that he'll be fine and they'll keep an eye on each other. It's one day in a city, it won't kill them.

Just when Will is starting to think they’re in the clear, the landline rings. His mother's pupils shrink to a fine point, frenzied with panic. Her hand catches onto Will’s sleeve to draw him away from the non-existent threat. Eleven slips out of her chair and runs into the front room to grab the line.

The sound stops, leaving a thick silence behind as everyone remains motionless, like prey on high alert. Will extricates himself from his mother's death grip.

"We have to go now, if we still want to get there before dark." Will regrets his extreme choice of words as Joyce’s protective instincts rekindle.

"That reminds me, when are you getting back?"

"There’s not really a schedule."

"I'd bet around five," Richie offers. "My mom gets worried when I drive after dark, so I promised to be home before then."

"Listen, use a payphone if you'll be late," Joyce says, patting a thankful hand on Richie's chest for his estimate. "Call the house. Someone's bound to be here to pick it up. Keep me in whatever loop I need to be in to know that you're both safe."

"You're in," Will says. "Please, can we go now?"

There's serious conflict in Joyce's expression before she shoos the idea of demanding to play chaperone. "Alright, go. Go, go, go."

"Thank you."

"One more kiss?"

Will submits to the inevitable, pressing their cheeks together. One of Joyce's arms catches his back in a hug before he pulls free. When his mother decides to give Richie a brief squeeze of parting as well, Will rolls his eyes at the stupid grin Richie gives him over her shoulder. Her hands cling to her own biceps when she's done, holding herself back from further preventing their exit.

"Drive safe. Oh, wear your seatbelts!"

Will exhales as they reach the far side of the room, escape so close he can taste it.

"Will?"

So close, yet so far. He turns and finds Eleven cradling the handset to her shoulder, body positioned between them and the door.

"It's Mike," El says. "He wants to talk to you."

Shit. Will's heart picks up in uneasiness as everyone's eyes leave Eleven and drift to him, waiting for his reply. Mike never calls – or at least he never asks for Will personally. The most likely reason is also the one that Will’s been dreading for weeks now.

Eleven must have finally told Mike about Richie.

And of course it has to happen now, with Richie right beside him and everyone he knows in the same open, echoing space. Will could take the call and deal with whatever fallout will come from Mike's opinion of the situation, but that doesn’t feel like a conversation he’ll ever be ready to have, much less on this particular morning. He could just ignore the request, as some petty revenge for Mike refusing to call for months, but something deep rejects the idea of not answering out of spite. He wants to talk to Mike. He always wants to talk to Mike, even when the topic is less than desirable.

Maybe he has a really good reason that has nothing to do with El, Will’s mind suggests. Maybe he's in trouble.

Will has to get the phone, if only to make sure it's not a Party emergency. If it’s an argument Mike wants, he won’t get it. Will can just pick up and hear him out really quick. It doesn't matter if he and Richie leave now or five minutes from now, in the grand scheme of things. He takes a step toward the offered handset.

"Whoa, wait," Argyle says, leaning forward in his chair to squint at Richie. "I thought you were Mike."

"No, he just-" A painfully long hesitation on Jonathan’s part. "Mike is the one in Hawkins."

Will's stomach flips itself into knots as Richie puzzles over the comment and response, eyes drifting back to Will with fresh confusion. Richie's going to ask. Will can feel it coming, like the way air feels charged before a storm, the fresh ozone spelling disaster. He doesn't have a good answer for those questions either.

“Tell him I’ll call back later,” Will blurts, taking Richie’s arm and pulling him around Eleven’s blockade to get out of the house.

The front door closes and leaves a conversation gap behind it. After a complicated series of facial expressions that Joyce can't parse, Eleven turns on her heel and stomps upstairs, the distant slam of her bedroom door shaking the house. Then there's a soft creak as it reopens, just about three inches, but her point's been made.

When Joyce takes back her cooking duties, Jonathan returns to his breakfast, uneasy.

“Do you think he knows?”

“Who, Richie?" Joyce gives him an undecided grimace, emptying the skillet onto a fresh plate. She brings it to the table, making room among the remains even though they’re down two mouths to feed.

“Did you talk to Will about it?”

His mother takes a seat, hands gesturing helplessly. “What am I supposed to say, Jonathan? If I come at him out of nowhere, he’ll clam up.”

“But Will’s using him." Jonathan leans closer, elbow braced on the table’s edge. "You know what he's doing. There’s no Mike in California, so Richie’s the next best thing.”

“We don’t know that,” Joyce defends. “Maybe, in Will’s head at least, they’re…compartmentalized.”

Jonathan lifts a doubtful eyebrow. On the far side of the house, there’s the telling creak of floorboards being paced upon.

“Awesome bacon, Ms. B,” Argyle says, giving her a double thumbs up.

Jonathan spends a moment deciding if his friend looks like Nancy, then sighs, successfully pouring himself a glass of orange juice instead. It'll work itself out.

Hopefully.

They leave Tower Records with several pressings that are worth their emotional weight in gold, so Will considers the trip a success by mid-morning, even with the hefty dent in his savings.

And when he said they don’t have concrete plans, he meant plans they had discussed. Richie knows perfectly well where he wants them to go next, and he shares this information with Will by bringing a hand down on his neck when he tries to climb in the car after they’ve delicately laid their purchases in the trunk. He steers Will back on track.

“We’re walking, Byers. The next stop is close enough.”

Richie moves casually down the sidewalk, indulging the simple guessing game that Will devises to pass the time. He points out the name of a store once he spots it on the street, and Richie passes them all with a shake of his head.

“Al’s Waffle Shop?”

“You just ate,” Richie says dismissively.

“Mervyn’s?” Will pushes up on his toes as he walks, trying to peer around the next corner. They’ve travelled four blocks now with no end in sight. “…Bank of America?”

When Richie doesn’t burst into laughter at the pitiful guess, Will turns, finding he left his friend a few feet back. Richie's hands are pushed into his jacket and he’s looking innocently across the street. Will follows his eyeline, brow furrowed.

“Treelan Realty?”

Richie clears his throat, stepping back a few paces to lean against a wall. It takes a moment, but Will registers a mural painted onto the brick, faded paint detailing a sword with a wavy blade protruding from a crudely-drawn face, the hilt fashioned in a yellow that Will assumes is meant to look like gold. The weapon possesses a red handle, and an orange center runs to the sharp end, which points down to a tall green door set back from the other storefronts.

“Wait,” Will says, angling his head as the image tickles his memory. “That’s that sword. The one from the supplement rulebook with the-”

Demogorgon and the Mind Flayers.

Will forces himself to focus, ignoring the slow chill running down his back. “The Sword of Kas?”

“Nerd,” Richie says, speaking with more fondness than he probably intended. He pushes off the wall, leaning into the alcove and opening the green door, waving for Will to join him. Escaping the persistent string of thoughts that attempt to stick to him like a spider web, Will braves the nondescript entrance.

The heavy door closes behind them, and Will's eyes adjust to the dim lights of the interior. Set out in uneven, but perfectly organized rows are racks and racks of comic books, tabletop games, and plastic figurines. Where the shelves stop, posters and cutouts fill the wall space all the way up to the second story ceiling. There’s another mural on the back wall of superheroes in pop art format, a low counter with glass casing along the left featuring the rarest (and most expensive) of merchandise. It’s a genuine heaven. There are no stores like this in Hawkins, though the Party had held on to the abstract fantasy that they exist.

Richie’s presence reappears at Will's back, hands patting firmly on his shoulders before leaving him to his awed staring.

Even though Will doesn’t end up buying very much, they spend twice as much time here as they did at the record store. For the first hour, Will lurches from incredible thing to incredible thing without diminishing excitement, helplessly calling Richie over only to find him a few steps away, already bearing witness to Will’s speechless stare. That genuine delight is the reason why it takes an embarrassing amount of time to realize that Richie isn’t browsing at all anymore, just following Will and surveying the first thing his eyes land on once they’ve stopped moving.

“We can go, if you want.”

Richie looks up from the open monster manual cradled in his forearms. “You’re bored already? I thought I'd have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming."

“It was a really nice surprise,” Will admits, voice neutral so Richie doesn't feel guilty if he wants them to move on already. “I’m good to stay here, but does that work for you?”

The book snaps shut in Richie’s hands. “Aw, Steamboat. I didn’t know you cared.”

“This is your day too,” Will says, the sarcastic smile on Richie’s face flickering like a candle. “You should be able to enjoy it.”

Richie ducks his head for a moment, spinning to put the book back on the shelf. Expecting the request to leave, Will returns the hardback sci-fi collection he was skimming to its stand.

“I am enjoying it.” Richie pushes up his glasses, even though they haven't slipped down.

“Really?”

Richie's head turns enough for Will to see his profile. There are words trapped behind his eyes, but he only nods before slowly walking away.

Will returns to his methodical search of the store. Every now and then, Richie will come back around and stare at him a little, departing with a one-liner. The consistency of the pattern is more comedic than the jokes by the time Will decides to spare Richie the hurdle of starting a conversation.

“How’d you find this place?”

“Phonebook.” His eyes dart to Will, then to the far wall. “Called around until I got someone on the line that sounded like more of a nerd than you do – believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

Will smiles as Richie passes behind him, leaning up against the shelves and letting his fingers drum on the metal.

“I figured I owed you for not running the other way,” Richie says.

Will searches Richie’s face, genuinely lost. He may have more cause than most to run from certain parts of his life, but he can’t remember anything Richie’s done that would warrant such an overreaction.

Richie notices his blank attention. “Jesus, do people cry around you that often?”

“Oh.” Will shrugs, head tipping to scan the limited-edition titles in front of him. “No, but that’s not a big deal. I know what it’s like.”

“Not a big deal,” Richie mutters, turning to lean back against the shelf.

“Did you want it to be?”

“What do you think?”

He’s practically pouting. Will watches him for a long beat, then turns to hide a laugh.

“Are you kidding me? I’m trying to have a vulnerable fucking moment here and you’re laughing at my pain.”

“I’m not.”

“What you’re not is subtle!” Richie tries to circle in front of him and Will ducks his head. His exposed forehead gets flicked. Will protects it with a curled hand, shoulders shaking. “That’s what I thought.”

“Are you seriously upset that I’m not pitying you?”

“Maybe,” Richie says. “It’s freaking me out.”

Will sighs, almost set off again by Richie’s narrowed eyes. “I’ve been there, okay? I’d have to be a pretty big hypocrite to judge you for crying in your sleep.”

“Say it a bit louder, they didn’t quite hear you in the Hills.”

“And I’m your friend,” Will says, deciding that it’s about time to wrap up his shopping anyway. “It’s going to take a lot more than a few tears if you want to scare me off.”

Richie follows him to the front counter. “That implies there’s a threshold where you would ditch me. Now I’m curious – on a scale from inappropriate joke to helping me bury a dead body, how close do you think we are?”

“You show up on my doorstep with a body and we’ll find out.”

“Only a matter of time before that happens anyway,” Richie says, pacified.

“We got Will the Wise here to hypnotize-”

“No, Richie. That’s the worst one yet.” Will only shakes his head as Richie laughs.

“What, you don’t like the goofy 60s route for radio? I thought that could be my schtick.”

“The less gimmicks, the better,” Will insists, the car pulling onto Lonzo Way with a wide right turn.

Richie doesn't listen - because he loves to annoy people into forgetting that they're right - cycling through a series of stingers with just as many failed rhymes. Deep in a hysterical Audrey II impression, they tumble through the front door of Will’s house with his excessive purchases in hand, drawn to a stop by the chilly stare that greets them from the couch. Eleven’s mood darkens as Richie steps out from behind Will. They sober from their giggling.

“We’re back,” Will says reluctantly. He notices the picture frame cradled in her lap with a growing twinge of guilt.

“You’re going to call Mike?”

Richie’s keys clink in an uneasy grasp - he won't stick around and wait for Will to get off the phone.

“Later, El.”

“It is later now,” she replies. Her voice is flat and uncomprehending.

“Later later.” Will tries to recover the light floaty feeling of the last few hours, frowning when it escapes him.

Richie is willingly herded down the stairs without a guiding hand, keeping a step in front of Will until they reach the seclusion of his bedroom. He sprawls out on the floor, digging through Will's shopping haul.

“Who’s this Mike I keep hearing about?”

“Someone from Hawkins,” Will says, dropping to sit beside him. Understatement of the century. “It’s not urgent.”

“You sure?”

“Positive."

Richie scans his tense features, then looks around the room, nodding toward the corkboard of drawings. “Are those yours?”

Will nods, pulling down a stack of loose sketches. He offers them to Richie, who moves past his surprise to accept the glimpse at what Will's been working on. Richie is gentle with the pages, once he has them. He looks at each one like a professional studying a piece in a museum, and Will starts to feel exposed, even though there’s nothing particularly revealing in the art.

Watching Richie silently make his way through the stack becomes closer to torture by the minute, so Will turns to set up one of his new records instead, the bouncing guitar riffs of The Cure getting Richie’s subtle headbang of approval.

“This is your wizard,” Richie checks, holding up an older drawing from Will’s collection. “Does he have a voice?”

"It's my voice." Will speaks slowly, puzzled beyond belief. "I play him.”

“Oh? I thought you played board games with a real wizard. I’m not interested if the wizards are fake,” Richie says, eyes lighting up at Will's exasperation. “I’m asking what he sounds like. You said a lot of people do voices.”

“He's older.” Will doesn’t know how to explain the voice when it comes so naturally while he’s playing. It’s him, but he’s confident and powerful and…more. “A bit medieval and fancy. I don't know.” He lifts the record cover into his lap, tracing the stark lines of the album art. “That's mostly when people are trying to distinguish between characters. You'd probably be good at that, making them sound different.”

“Good?” Richie snorts. “People don't exactly enjoy the voices I can do.”

“Well maybe you've been talking to the wrong people.”

And Richie stares at him until Will feels compelled to drop his eyes to his own crossed ankles. “What?”

“That easy, huh. If people find me exhausting, that's their problem?”

“Doesn’t that make more sense than you being the only one with issues?”

Will looks up to find Richie frowning at a page he’s lifted from the stack to get a closer look. A spike of panic drives into Will’s chest. He doesn't know what it could be that caught Richie’s curiosity, but that almost makes it worse - it could be anything.

He lurches forward, hand closing around the side and angling the paper to face them both, which Richie allows.

It’s a new drawing, a simple warm-up from last week’s art club meeting. Will sits back, heart still racing. Richie’s eyes don’t leave the page, and Will starts to feel a bit proud. He’s always liked drawing landscapes, and even though he had been worried about getting the perspective of the roofing right, he thinks it turned out okay.

Richie’s fingertip traces the top of the covered bridge’s exposed railing. “Where is this?”

“Only in my head,” Will says. “We were supposed to put a building in the foreground, but I twisted the idea a little.”

“It’s good,” Richie murmurs, starting to look a bit vacant. Will gets the strange idea that if he were to shout at Richie, the words would echo.

“You can have it. If it stays here, I’ll probably end up throwing it away.”

Will blinks as the page wrinkles, Richie’s grip going firm enough that he’ll soon tear the paper.

“I’ll take it.” His shoulders loosen, then his fists. Richie shakes his head a bit, hair falling into his face. “I’ll take it.”

Will keeps one eye on him for a while. The rest of the stack is carefully searched, and Richie’s brow furrows as he reaches the end, almost like there should be more for him to find.

Like something’s missing.

Richie moves on, eventually, a slow return to normal happening as Will nudges him with questions. He wanders around the room, picking up trinkets and trying to guess their origin before Will can explain. Scouring the bookshelf for Will’s yearbooks fails, but Richie seems to have fun regardless. Apparently ‘returning the favor’, he makes himself at home by sitting on Will’s bed so violently that the mattress bounces, falling back against the hastily made blanket.

The lines of his face smooth out as he closes his eyes and sinks into the comfort.

“Wake me up before I start weeping this time.”

“You want to take a nap?” Will checks his watch, eyebrow lifting. “Don’t you have to be home by dinner?”

Richie doesn’t respond until Will kicks a foot out to nudge his leg. It swings into the other ankle, knocking it into a gentle sway. Richie grumbles bitterly.

“Do I have permission to take a piss before you kick me out?”

“Not on the bed,” Will says, one of Richie’s eyes cracking open to properly aim a raised finger. He rolls off the bed, groaning like the dead to relay his obvious displeasure with the situation at large.

Two songs later, the record player’s needle hits the dead wax, pulling Will from his wandering thoughts to set the needle back and store the vinyl in its cover. He starts to tidy the belongings laying out across his floor like a tornado swept through his room, busy hands pausing when they land on the drawing that captured Richie’s interest. Will looks to the cracked bedroom door, wondering if Richie might have taken his exile seriously. It was mostly a joke, even if Richie does need to go home soon.

Can’t imagine he’d leave this behind if he did go, Will thinks, recalling Richie’s attachment to it. Maybe Richie was just having a moment and he didn’t really mean to take the sketch. It was rough, anyway. Not Will’s best work by far – it’s not even colored in. There are better ones Will could give him, ones with actual people in them.

I can do way better than this, he thinks, making his way up the carpeted stairs.

“El, did you see-” Will swallows his question about Richie going home as his friend turns to face him from the corner of the kitchen bar. Eleven is standing diagonal to Richie, and when they both lean away, Will can see the open photo album between them.

Will recognizes it. He stiffly walks closer, the protective plastic reflecting a glare from the overhead lights. It had been Eleven’s Christmas gift from Jonathan, full of old pictures collected from everyone back in Hawkins. Palms sweating, Will gets close enough to see that the book is opened to its most recent pages, photographs from the months following Starcourt laid out in the washed colors of professionally-processed negatives.

"Hey," Richie greets, looking as caught as Will feels. "El was showing me those baby pictures you wanted to hide."

Will’s eyes snap up to Eleven, her gaze steady and victorious. In the pictures that are currently on display, Mike's face is clearest, resemblance unmistakable. She’s gotten exactly what she wants.

"Shit, I need to get going,” Richie says, rolling the watch on his wrist. “I’ll take that, though.” He deftly pulls the drawing from Will's slack grip and weaves around him, heading for the door. Will stands frozen, fear realized through the pleasant, smiling face captured in print. There's a squeak of tile as Richie shoves his sneakers on. The front door opens.

Eleven flips the album shut, jarring Will from his trance. She pulls the book close to her chest, cradling it like the framed picture Will tried to hide.

"Richie," he says, voice escaping hoarsely.

Will turns, seeing the door has been shut again, Richie on the other side. In his rush to catch up, Will's socked feet slip on the tile, his shoulder colliding with the door. His clammy hand wrestles with the doorknob before he manages to get the latch free. Richie is stepping over the low brick wall that separates the front walk from the driveway, free hand searching his jacket pocket for his keys.

"Wait," Will calls, tripping over the doorframe. He skips the shallow concrete steps in one clumsy leap, grateful that Richie stops and turns instead of leaving faster. His expression is wary as Will joins him in the driveway, struggling to explain.

“I know-” Will takes a deep breath that doesn’t do much for his racing thoughts. When words do come to him, he has no filter to stop them. “I know what it looks like, but you’re not a replacement for Mike. No one could replace him, but that doesn’t mean we’re not friends. We are friends, and it was wrong not to tell you sooner. I screwed up.”

Will tries to smile, but he knows it’s weak when Richie doesn’t mirror him. His indifference scares more words from Will's head.

“You may have some features in common, but you’re not similar enough for me to get confused. Not where it counts. You’re really perceptive, Richie. When you talk, I can tell that you’ve been paying attention. You notice things, and you always have a way of making people laugh. You don’t try to protect me from everything. Mike’s nothing like that, and I- I just like you because you’re you,” he insists.

Richie holds up his hand and Will pauses like a tape, breaking into a cold sweat.

It’s over. It’s done. Time’s up.

Richie maintains eye contact, once Will gathers the strength to make it.

“As willing as I am to let the flattery continue, I’ll stop you there,” Richie says. “Take a fucking breath, Byers. My lungs hurt hearing you talk that much.”

Will holds a gulp of air until Richie gestures for him to let go.

“Good?”

“Getting there.”

Richie nods, hand falling back to his side. Will’s knees lock as he braces for Richie’s (righteous) anger.

“Now, I don’t think I’m a replacement. There’s resemblance, obviously, and it may have made you curious enough to reach out, but it didn’t make you stay. It didn’t make you introduce me to your mom or show me your art.”

“No,” Will breathes, Richie quickly holding up the hand to stop him again. He swallows the desperation trapped against his tongue.

That’s all true, he wants to say. Putting his thought process into words is difficult when it comes to this situation. Richie makes it seem so easy, clarifying like that. No confusion. No misunderstandings. Will envies his awareness of other people.

“But I am offended you thought I would ever assume that I’m nothing more than a cheap copy of this Mike guy,” Richie continues, eyes narrow until Will can produce the slightest of wobbly smiles. “I am the genuine article. One of a kind. In your native language, I'm saying that if we were in one of those campaigns, I'd be the immortal king of some really cool shit.”

“In your dreams,” Will says, confidence rebuilding as Richie’s smile returns.

He’s not mad, Will assures himself, words like a lion tamer forcing the frightened animal in his chest to back off. He’s not going to shout or leave or ignore you.

Catching on to Will’s overwhelmed state, Richie walks closer, pinching his cheek with the hand. Will lets him, pretending his eyes are damp because it hurts.

“We’re cool, Steamboat. Unless getting upset means you have to grovel and lend me a few of those records to earn my forgiveness.” Will shakes his head and Richie’s tongue clicks. “Worth a shot.”

Finding his keys, Richie heads for the car again. Will follows him, unsteady inside and out at the thought of being alone despite Richie’s assurances. He stands beside the car as the engine turns over. Richie sets the drawing in the passenger seat and rolls down the window, steering slow out of the driveway for Will to walk alongside.

“El said you were close to Mike.”

Will doesn’t want to ask if Eleven said exactly that or Richie put the past tense in on his own. He nods.

“We’ve talked about your other friends, but you probably avoided mentioning him for obvious reasons,” Richie guesses, fingers tapping on the wheel. “I’m free tomorrow, if you want to catch me up. Or not. Up to you.”

Will nods again, cradling his elbows as he stops where the road meets the drive. Offering a goodbye wave that Will doesn’t return, Richie turns left and heads down the street, car stopping at the corner before it pulls out of sight.

But Will feels on the brink of something still. Even with the immediate problem solved, that was too close. He almost lost someone else that’s important to him. Will turns on his heel, catching a glimpse of El’s stubborn face peeking out the front window before the blinds fall back into place. He’s dizzy and overheated as he marches back into the house, like he’s been in the sun too long despite the sky being overcast for hours now.

It turns out he doesn’t need to go far to hunt Eleven down. She’s there in the entryway when he pushes open the door, returning the framed photo to its usual position on the front table. Her fingers smudge the glass.

Will reads her actions very clearly, but her logic is impossible to understand.

"You wanted him to get upset and leave,” Will says. “You told him about Mike hoping to make him angry at me.”

Eleven’s eyes flash dangerously. “It was protection.”

“You can’t expect me to believe you did that for Richie’s sake, El. You hate him and you don’t care if he knows it.”

“Your protection,” she says, staring at Will like he should have guessed that much.

“You think being mean to my friends and making them want to leave is good for me?”

“Yes. It is good for everyone, Will.”

Eleven starts walking away, like the conversation is over – which it obviously is not. Will has gotten too comfortable with letting Eleven shield him, and she’s starting to think it’s a unilateral decision, instead of a mutual arrangement. Will cuts her escape off at the couch.

“No one asked for you to protect them, especially me. If Richie is a dangerous person, I wouldn’t be friends with him.” She stares him down, but Will’s not budging. “Good friends, despite what you tried to do.”

“You do not talk to Mike because of Richie. You hide pictures to keep him from knowing.”

Mike doesn’t talk to me, Will seethes. The correction isn’t worth distracting from the point.

“That doesn’t make it your responsibility to tell Richie anything,” Will says, fist clenching at his side. “You don't get to choose what other people know about me and my friends.”

This is apparently news to Eleven, and it’s bad news. She pushes past him, aiming for the open porch doors. Will can't let her get away that easily, not when he knows she regrets no part of what she did. This is only the latest issue in a line of behavior toward Richie that Will has ignored for too long.

“Are you jealous?”

Will's voice isn't harsh, but the question stops Eleven cold.

“I know how hard it is to make new friends, El. It’s easier to keep the ones in Hawkins close, rather than taking the risk of letting someone bad in, but we have to open up sometime. People like Mike and Dustin and Lucas and Max, they don’t come around very often. When they do, you can’t push them away or you lose them for good.”

Eleven remains tense. Will can’t see her face at this angle, but he doubts it’s eager to accept the honesty of his words.

“You’ve never given Richie a fair chance,” Will points out. “He’s nice to me, and he tries to be nice to you, even when you brush him off. He didn’t deserve to get ambushed today. You need to apologize.”

“No.”

Will sighs and presses a hand to his temple, headache rising between his eyes. “Good people shouldn’t get hurt just because you don’t like them.”

“He is not good,” Eleven snaps, turning with sudden fury. If she had her powers, Will might consider cowering, but all she can do is bark and snap, with only words to throw. “Richie is bad, Will.”

“How would you know?” Will demands, bristling on Richie’s behalf. “You refuse to look at him. The longest conversation you’ve had happened today, and it was only to use him. I know Richie, okay? He's a good person.”

“Not okay. You knew he was bad before you ever talked to him - you put your hand on your neck. I saw it, you cannot lie.”

Seriously? That’s her problem with Richie?

Eleven will throw the occasional tantrum about little things in daily life that she doesn’t appreciate, but the only times she gets this upset are when certain rules are violated, like being back late without a call or canceling plans. Or Lying. Everything that isn’t the truth is a Lie. Half-truths, comforting words, and even omissions are lies, and Eleven resents nothing more than a Liar.

Will resents nothing more than her stubbornness over this one ridiculous rule. She thinks Richie is bad because Will had a fleeting moment of uneasiness? She thinks that Will would lie about Richie being good to benefit himself – to fill some rift that’s developed between him and Mike? It stings, knowing Eleven makes Will or Richie out to be the enemy when she’s the one twisting a few truths to support her own ideas about Will’s life.

And as for that Friends Don't Lie line she parrots out-

“That’s not even fair! Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be perfectly honest all the time? No one is always honest because it sucks. There are some things that you don’t want people to know, even if they are your friends.”

She sneers at him, every inch a rabid animal backed into a corner. “You are trying to replace Mike."

Will feels like pulling his hair out. Why does nobody listen?

“Richie is nothing like Mike. You’d know that if you bothered talking to him!”

“I will not talk to bad people.” It’s a practiced sentence, and Will can hear the recitation in her voice. It’s infuriatingly unmoved by Will’s argument. “Richie is bad. He is a stranger, and you do not see it because you think he is Mike. He is pretending like you are pretending. You have to stop before it's too late."

"I'm not stopping anything," Will says, throat tight. "You-"

"I am looking out for us. Being his friend is stupid, Will, and we are not stupid.”

The word cuts deeper than Eleven could ever know. It digs up every last agonized feeling that Will has spent the last year and a half burying, and then keeps digging.

Will knows stupid. He’s made a lot of mistakes and trusted the wrong people and been manipulated by his weaknesses. But this – fighting to fit Richie in his life? It’s the only smart decision Will’s made in the last three years. The decisiveness of her words (like she could never be wrong about anything) is so condescending that a deep rupture opens in Will, rage and misery spilling into his chest. Honestly, the thought that Eleven, of all people, thinks she has any idea what’s right and wrong for him!

"I said no, Eleven! If it were that easy to get rid of other people's friends, then I never would have let you stay in the Party and ruin everything.”

Will’s chest shudders through a sharp inhale, the painful head rush knocking him back a step. He sways on his feet in the crushing silence, and he may have escaped self-suffocation, but guilt closes around him in a vise as Eleven’s expression passes through shock. She grows hurt and confused in the space of thundering heartbeat.

The terrible words are out. There’s no retrieving them.

“Will?”

Jonathan is standing in the entryway, keys still in hand. He looks horrified. His eyes drift to Eleven, hand twitching like he means to comfort her, like she’s the one who’s suffering-

And it’s too much.

Will is out the back door and down the garden steps before he can lose the last thread that’s keeping him from letting it all go. He has more to say, a lot more, but his self-preservation instincts have finally kicked in, reminding him that there’s a lot he doesn’t want to be heard, even if he needs to get it off his chest. He throws open the garden gate, steering his bike from its lean against the outside of the house.

After a brief running start down the sloped drive, he stands, pushing hard through the intersection.

“Will,” Jonathan shouts, crossing their driveway and running into the road to cut him off. The wide sweep of Jonathan's outflung arm grazes the cargo rack mounted on the rear tire, but it's not enough to slow him down. “WILL!”

At some point, his limbs go numb. Will doesn’t feel a pedal catch the back of his ankle when he guides the bike over shallow gravel, or sense the thin branches that grab at his shirt and scratch his upper arms when he doesn’t duck low enough through the tree-lined backyards. He rides with tunnel vision, seeing only the next curb to jump and car to avoid as his muscles burn with exertion.

Will forces the bike to take him far away from Ground Zero of this mess, fast as he can go, and it obeys.

He can’t figure out where he’s headed until he gets there, his overworked heart making his vision dim. Will hoists his weight off to one side and lets the handlebars fall away. His bike crashes to the dry grass with the tires spinning. Leaden legs carry him across the yard of the Tozier house.

Will’s hand clutches the curled end of the porch railing just as a car turns onto this street, its familiar engine dying down when it slows to clear the driveway. Noticing an unexpected guest, the driver parks in a hasty diagonal. Will blinks away sweat to see Richie climbing out of the front seat in disbelief, staring at Will like the sight of him is a desert mirage that might fade with proximity.

When Will continues to exist – trembling, panting, and faint – Richie pushes him up the stairs with a firm hand that demands no explanation, leaning past to open the door for him.

“California traffic is really something else.”

Chapter Text

Richie’s room has quickly become one of Will’s favorite places to relax. There are endless comfortable places to sit, he has a respectable games and comics collection on tap, plus the carpet cleaner Mrs. Tozier uses makes the room smell like oranges.

And Richie’s there.

Will checks on his friend by glancing through his own fingers as they run down his askew bangs. Richie’s thrown himself across the bed, leaning on his side without a care in the world as Will fidgets by the door. It occurs to Will that Richie can’t exactly read his mind.

“Can I sleepover?” he asks, not sure what to expect.

“We just spent the whole day together and now you’re trying to spend the night," Richie says, pointing out the obvious. Will knows that Richie’s comedy of choice involves witnessing people reach the peak of discomfort, so he lets his surrender show, asking for a little mercy. "Aren’t you sick of me yet?”

Will firmly shakes his head, which spoils Richie's joke but brings a certain light into his eyes.

"Okay," Richie says, blunt nails picking at the seam of the pillow tucked under his arm. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Relief floods Will's crowded chest, sweeping away the immediate concerns fighting to be solved. Now it can all wait until Tomorrow, which is leagues better than Right Now.

“Richie?” Mrs. Tozier’s voice drifting up the stairs makes them both freeze. “You need to park that car properly before your father gets home – and why is there a bike in my front yard?”

There’s a bit of pointed elbowing as they leave sanctuary and head for the stairs, Richie amused at Will’s silently fervent refusal to demand shelter on his own. Maggie looks up from the stack of mail in her hands as they draw to a stop before the landing, her stance alert and prepared for resistance.

“Will wants to stay the n-ow,” Richie yelps, foot crushed under Will’s shoe for the blunt delivery. He scoots down on the stairs, warily watching Will’s legs for movement. “I think what I meant to say is that I need to ask you if Will can stay the night.”

Maggie sighs, tossing the mail onto the coffee table and putting her hands over her hips, fingers drumming in contemplation. Will can’t claim to read the signs of her mood as well as Richie might, but she looks very ready to decline, right until her eyes catch on Will’s face and linger.

Will is used to seeing that expression. Even though the hint of pity stings, he lets Maggie look him over and make her judgement. If she’s going to feel bad for him either way, Will might as well get something out of it.

“You can stay if you’d like,” she says, approaching the banister to put her hand over Will’s own. Her voice grows hushed, like she’s tending a sick child. “Honey, you look so pale. Let me get you some water.”

“Thank you,” he says to both offers, infusing it with complete innocence. Richie’s scoff at the doting attention draws Maggie’s focus, and her eyes lose their pity.

“You made him bike all the way here in this weather? I thought I raised you better than that, Richie.”

Richie’s voice goes flat. “I’m deeply ashamed.”

“Go move the car,” Maggie dismisses, taking Will’s shoulder as he comes down the last few steps, so they all know that the demand is directed at Richie alone. “Get Will’s bike onto the porch while you’re at it - the news said it’s supposed to rain tonight.”

“Well, if the news said it.”

Will was expecting Richie to cave earlier, but he waits until they’re sorting out sleeping arrangements after dinner to take a heavy seat on the bedroom rug and whistle the Jeopardy think music leadingly.

“I don’t want to talk about Mike,” Will mutters, trying to head off the dangerous questions.

“Mike who?” Richie sits back, leaning against the wall.

Will complimented Richie's ability to read others, and it shows in his patient silence. He doesn't try demanding answers, offering the time to process thoughts safely. Will needs to talk soon to avoid a massive meltdown, but that's complicated when most of his life feels too fragile to discuss.

“I’m the one who destroyed Castle Byers,” Will says, not aware he was going to speak until the words have left his lips. It’s a strange choice to pull from his stirred-up memories, but as Will accepts the truth behind his words, the internal rot reveals itself. “I did. I went out there one day and I tore it apart, all on my own. It was the only place I could be myself, and I ruined it.”

Will looks out Richie’s window, the promised rain offering a dull view. It fits the sudden nosedive of his attitude, surfaced thoughts casting a darkness over the months since that day in Hawkins.

There are entire sketchbooks full of poor imitations of Castle Byers these days, always drawn from the outside looking in. Will finds that he can’t remember the warmth of being encased within its walls, safe from everything. He can’t recall the pleasant glow of the lantern on gray days or summon the same surge of confidence he would get right before heading out - borrowed from the knowledge that he could always come back to gather strength again.

“I ruined it,” Will repeats. He lost so much more than a fort of twigs and twine.

“You were tired of hiding.”

Will swallows the grief in his throat, thrown by the response. When he looks over, Richie’s hand pats the empty space beside him, offering Will room to sit. He doesn’t need much convincing. Once he’s down, Will can’t imagine standing up any time soon.

“Hiding?”

“Sure,” Richie says, drawing in his stretched legs until they cross, covering Will’s bent knee with his own. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but I think you did yourself a favor.”

Will directs an unimpressed stare at the side of Richie’s head, not satisfied with the lacking explanation.

“You’re like a hermit crab,” Richie continues, dedicated to his…creative idea of a helpful metaphor. “Your shell was great when you were little, but you grew up. Trying to stay in such a small space would only hurt you, no matter how safe it might have seemed and how pretty it might have been. You broke the shell that was smothering you, and now it’s your job to find a new, bigger shell – even if being without one makes you feel naked for a while.”

And it does.

Richie turns to look him right in the eye, encouraging and certain. “It’s good, Byers. Once you find the right shell, you’ll be ready to face what you couldn’t before, when you were trapped in the past.”

Will’s mind latches onto the fresh perspective, finding that it answers his fears better than any reassurance he’s been offered before. Everyone who found out that Castle Byers was taken down has offered to help Will rebuild it. They propose thicker walls, a sturdy roof, even a real door.

We’ll fix it, they tell him. Then you’ll feel safe again.

Will had brushed them off, always unsure why the thought of going back was so repulsive. It never had occurred to him that Castle Byers was torn down by instinct, rather than temporary insanity. But-

“What if I’m not ready for that?”

Richie shrugs, hardly needing to think about his answer. “You can come here.”

Making his point, Richie pries his arm from the cavity between their sides, draping it around Will’s shoulder. Exhausted, Will leans against him, cheek resting on his shoulder. The muscles in Richie’s arm tense for a moment, then melt, going limp and relaxed. As Will’s brain puzzles over its new outlook, a possibility drifts to the tip of his tongue.

“What if I’m running from you?”

“Find my mom. She likes you better anyway.”

Will takes a deep breath, unshed tears sinking back into his chest. “You’re too bony for this.”

Richie yanks on his ear and Will laughs thickly, ducking into his own collar to escape the reprimand. They stay there until someone knocks to gain entry, Richie retrieving the limb that had served as Will’s temporary shell to answer the door.

“Oh, Richie. Is Will in here?” He stands aside for Maggie to see her true target. Her face immediately softens. “It’s your mom, sweetie. She’s on the phone.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. See what I mean?

"I can come and get you, if you're worried about Richie driving in the dark. I don't mind. Actually, I was already headed out to pick up a thing for the leaky faucet upstairs, so it's not a big deal."

"Mom, I'm really okay here." Will forces a smile at Mrs. Tozier as she laps the kitchen for an empty glass of ice before returning to the hall. Will's been on the line for at least ten minutes - he's started to repeat himself.

"You've never slept there. Do they have a bed for you?"

"No, but I've gone to a million sleepovers. The floor has always been fine before, right?"

Joyce is unconvinced. "I just don't know if it's safe, Will. I mean, I hardly know Richie's parents. Are you sure they're okay with how sudden this is? Most people like fair warning before they have an extra teenage boy sleeping in their house."

Giving up on deflection, Will tries to lessen the blow that his words will deliver by lowering his voice.

"I don't want to go home tonight."

Based on the deafening silence, he didn’t do a very good job. He can see his mom's face so clearly in his head - desperately curious but careful to keep out of Will's set boundaries. The witnessed ‘disagreement with Eleven’ had been briefly mentioned when he got on the line, but she hasn't pushed him to elaborate. She won't force El to talk either, not if she can help it.

"I'm safe and I want to stay. Should I ask Richie's parents to talk to you, so you know they don't mind if I'm here?"

Will hears the crackling rustle of his mother changing her grip on the handset. Please, please, please-

"You have to call me, if you need anything. Any time of night."

"I promise," Will exhales, the grip around his heart loosening. "But don't stay awake by the phone. You know it rings loud enough for the whole house."

Joyce mutters noncommittally. "Tomorrow's my day off, so I'll pick you up in the morning.”

Knowing when to quit, Will doesn’t refuse, grateful that another hurdle has been cleared. She may not know the whole story, but she knows how Will works. Ever since the Mind Flayer, anger has felt so much closer than before, and Will finds it harder and harder to stay nice and kind. Horrible words and feelings just bubble up and make him say what he doesn't really mean. In reality, people don't need superpowers to hurt each other, and the brittle unhappiness on Eleven's face will not be forgotten soon. It's dangerous for Will to be around her - around any of them - in this state. The safest bet is distance.

"Will?"

"I love you," he says quietly.

"I love you too. Put Maggie on the phone before you go."

Yeah, Will saw that coming. He leaves the handset off its hook, heading into the hallway with the weight of guilt slowing his steps.

"-such a long call. Doesn't it remind you of Eddie's mother?"

Will stops behind a column that forms the entryway to the front room, not liking the context of whatever he almost walked in on.

"Sonia was acting out of self-preservation, not genuine concern," Went replies. "For an unplanned overnight stay, I think Joyce is well within her rights to ask a few questions."

Maggie speaks as though she hardly heard him. "They’re alike, aren’t they? Will and Eddie, I mean. In a way.”

“Mags, there are only so many personalities that mesh with Richie’s disposition. It’s not that strange for his friends to be similar.” Canned laughter leaves the television set before someone lowers the volume. “Didn’t you like Eddie?”

“Of course, he was so polite. Will too. I think he’s a good person for Richie to be around.”

“But?” Went prompts knowingly.

“They worry me,” she confesses. “Have you noticed Will’s eyes? Eddie always had the same look, like he’d just gotten some horrible news he couldn’t shake.”

“That’s cognitive bias talking,” Went says.

“You think?”

“I know. You mainly see the kids when they’re upset because they look to Richie for comfort. He knows how to make people smile, doesn’t he?”

Maggie agrees, lapsing into silence to ponder the idea.

Feeling intense déjà vu at the reassurance routine, Will rounds the corner and gets one of them up to grab the phone, retreating to Richie’s bedroom and falling back against the door. Richie stops scrounging through the dresser to look him over.

“Call went that bad?”

Will hums, moving to join him as he resumes his search.

“You’ll need to cuff these, but the waist should fit,” Richie says, pulling out two pairs of pajama pants. “Any preference?”

Will takes the blue plaid, applauded for his taste as Richie crumples the other pair and stuffs it back into the tangled mass. Will lets his thumbs run back and forth over the thin wool.

“Do I remind you of Eddie?”

Richie frowns, tossing aside a matching set that features dancing candy canes. “What?”

“Your mom said you had a friend named Eddie, and that I'm a lot like him,” Will explains. “Is she right?”

“Why, would you be jealous?” Richie grins at Will’s flustered silence, getting distracted as he fishes out a flannel combo that’s suitable for the slight chill of the house. “She tell you his last name?”

Will shakes his head, not mentioning how he overheard the information.

“Then I don’t remember him well enough to say.”

“Really?”

“My mom has a good memory. I might have just been too young,” Richie says, shutting the drawer with his elbow.

“Richie, dryer’s done!”

“Coming,” he calls back, hanging the pants around his neck and heading out. Will hears him stomp down the stairs, followed by Maggie’s absent scold for his attempt to break the house.

Moving on much lighter feet, Will crouches before Richie’s stout bookshelf, fingers plucking out the tall, thick book jammed between band biographies. The yearbook cover opens with a soft creak of the faux leather, signatures scribbled in pen across the blank cream backing of the hardback.

Richie’s dismissal of his friend felt familiar, and Will finds his suspicions confirmed when there’s a signature for Eddie Kaspbrak tucked into the bottom left corner of the front cover.

So Richie lied. He probably has his reasons, and there's not much room for Will to feel betrayed without becoming the world’s biggest hypocrite. Based on what Richie’s done for Will today alone, he's owed the benefit of the doubt.

Despite knowing this, a sick and squirming uncertainty writhes to life in Will's gut. He reads Eddie’s name again, flipping to the pages dedicated to Richie’s grade level. Next to Edward Kaspbrak, there’s a deep mark in black pen that Richie must have made himself. Will traces across the row to the matching portrait, finding a sharp face that bears a nervous and practiced smile. Eddie's eyes are smaller, but Will can find enough familiarity with himself in the sadness that lingers around the edges.

It's ridiculous to be hurt, Will reasons. Does any of it really matter as long as they're friends for the right reasons now?

“Get your ass up and help me lay these out,” Richie says, kicking open the door with his arms full of laundered blankets. Will is sitting on the floor mid-sketch, the yearbook hiding in plain sight once more. “Unless you intend to take my bed like you’ve taken my role as the favorite son.”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? If you asked nicely, my mom would let you move in.”

“I doubt that, Richie.”

“You shouldn’t. I mean she wouldn’t give up her new exercise room, but the yoga mats look comfortable enough. It’s a good gig, as long as you don’t mind being woken up by synth music and Jane Fonda telling you to stretch it out in double time.”

Will cannot deny being comforted by the high spirits of a friend. Richie counts aloud while they create a makeshift bed on the floor, taking every opportunity to make it into an exercise.

He knows how to make people smile, doesn’t he?

Will finds his artistic inspiration preoccupied with sketching eyes, so he puts the obsession to use during art club that week, testing watercolors over the faint linework and trying to get a good shade.

Breaking routine, Mr. Patricks lingers after his instructive comments have been made.

“You can’t get them quite right, can you?”

Will swirls a bit of yellow onto the damp brush, trying not to sulk. “Is it obvious?”

“Only because art comes naturally to you. Seeing you fight the piece, I can assume the rest.”

His teacher pulls up a stool, settling his weight on the edge and leaning into the canvas. When Mr. Patricks angles his head, Will mimics him, trying to see if he can catch the problem on his own. Will knows the shapes are right. The deep shadows around the inner eye could be lifted, but the outcome of that fix doesn’t solve the larger issue. The pupils are even in size and shape, the slight gap between the bottom edge and the lower lid hitting the right age with its childlike stare out of the page.

The sketches are accurate, but they’re not showing what Will sees in the yearbook picture.

“What emotion are you trying to convey?”

“Sadness,” Will says, remembering the Tozier’s hushed conversation.

“Why are they sad?”

“He’s afraid, I guess.” Will waits to be asked what the eyes are afraid of, but Mr. Patricks looks down to cross his ankles, evaluation complete.

“Sadness and fear often go hand in hand,” he explains. “You’ll see it in every medium from every time period. The combination is rich with material for artists to reproduce, and it’s easy for an audience to relate to such a common mixture of emotions.”

Will’s heart twists, his frown directed at the sketches clipped to the easel. He tried all weekend, but-

“If it’s simple, why can’t I get it right?”

Mr. Patricks points at him. “That there. You have a very similar look in your eye, but you’re not afraid that your art is bad - you’re doubting that it’s any good. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t get it,” Will says, giving in to confusion. His teacher pushes off the stool, hands clasping low behind his own back.

“If you were afraid that these drawings were poorly done, you could move on quite easily. Draw more eyes. Practice shading. Work harder. You tell yourself you can do it, so you do.” He steps in front of the easel, severing Will’s hard stare at the page.

Once he has Will’s full attention, he continues.

“I don’t think that’s the case here. When you look at this piece and see its failings, you begin to fear that you don’t deserve to be called an artist at all. This is not a slight that can be solved by erasing a stray pencil mark - it’s proof that everyone who ever said you can’t do it was right, and no amount of practice would fix that.”

Will doesn’t respond. His lips have bled white, pressed together to keep his eyes from watering. The palette braced against his palm starts to wobble, held too tight.

“Your eyes and these eyes have that in common. There’s sadness, but it’s the doubt that shines through, not fear.”

Mr. Patricks moves to the side, gaze returning to the painting like he hasn’t flayed Will to the bone. In Will's rattled state, he doesn’t notice his teacher’s smile until it’s already gone, sinking back into neutral observation.

“Attempting to replicate such inner conflict is a challenge, even for practiced artists. However this piece turns out, it will be a good learning experience,” Mr. Patricks says, nodding to himself. Preparing to walk away, he pauses. “A word of caution, Will. Fear is simple. It can be fought from within, once it’s acknowledged. But doubt will prove far more dangerous. Doubt can only be relieved by others, and you have to let yourself believe them.”

Mr. Patricks tends to remind Will of the village elder from Mike's campaigns, his speeches often cryptic and foreboding. The lessons aren't as ominous, when Will thinks of it that way. They're just part of a game. They're just words.

Wise and troubling words.

Chapter Text

February 13th, 1986

When Richie first suggests going to the arcade, Will refuses without explanation. He’s not expecting to have an episode, but all the resurfaced stress makes him hesitant to attempt having a calm night out.

A week of spending his nights at home – bored out of his mind – does wonders to his defenses. In the bargaining stage, Richie promises they’ll have fun or die trying and demands Will’s cooperation.

It’s only after Will’s agreed that Richie explains their predicament.

“I thought that you could drop us off before you go hang out with Argyle and then pick us up on your way home,” Will says, making his pitch to Jonathan.

His brother shifts on the recliner, not looking away from the television screen. “Why do you need a driver? Richie has his own car.”

“We’re going to an arcade,” Will reminds. “Gas money means less quarters.”

“How much are you guys planning to spend?” he asks warily.

“Can you drive us? Please.” Will does The Face, as Richie would say, watching Jonathan’s minor reluctance crumble into acceptance.

“You have to be here right after school then. And my car is still acting up, so you're helping me push if it breaks down on the way there or back.”

“Deal,” Will promises. "Didn't Mom tell you to get it fixed before it died for good?"

Jonathan huffs, waving away Will's concern.

Will unearths the phone on the desk in the front room, bouncing on his heels as he dials the Tozier home to give Richie the good news. They could have asked their parents, but they would have had to sit through a lecture on sensible money usage and the brain decay induced by playing too many games. Asking Jonathan first only makes sense.

“Hey, Will?”

He punches in the last digit, the line ringing in his ear as he ducks back into the main room.

Jonathan is sitting up now, eyes steady on him. Probably changed his mind. Will's enthusiasm falters, hand cupping over the end of the phone to keep Richie from hearing the very genuine pleading he might be about to do. He'd never hear the end of it.

“You’re asking to go tomorrow?” Jonathan checks.

“Yeah, Friday. Richie has no self-control, so we have to go right after he gets his allowance.”

“Tomorrow is the fourteenth,” Jonathan says slowly. The words mean nothing to Will. “Of February? It’s Valentines’ Day.”

Oh.

Will’s palms sweat as the reminder floats through his head, bumping into other thoughts until he’s left uneasy and tense. Richie didn’t mention the coincidence. It’s entirely possible that he’s lost track of the days too – and likely, considering Richie’s tendency to be airheaded about the bigger picture. It’s going to be a normal Friday at the arcade, as far as they’re concerned. Will is more shaken by Jonathan feeling the need to point it out like they should care, like he’s waiting for Will to fill in the blanks.

“Does that matter?” Will asks, throat sticking like he's dry swallowed a pill.

Jonathan’s head starts to shake before his mouth catches up. “No, not really.”

“Hello, Margaret Tozier spea- Richie!”

There’s a sharp clatter and muffled shouting over the line as Will goes over to sit at the kitchen bar. A part of him is stuck on the distant relief provided by Jonathan’s answer. Will’s not sure he knows what they had both implied with their exchange, but he’s not going to ask outright.

“So?” Richie demands, successful in seizing the phone. “I’m on the edge of my seat here, Byers, spit it out!”

“We’re good to go,” Will exhales, allowing his anticipation to creep back in as Richie whoops, firing off exclamations of joy with a revolving door of voices until Maggie yells for him to settle down.

They’ll have fun. Who cares about that silly holiday anyway? Will has certainly never bothered with it before.

No reason to start now.

Will has entered a sort of limbo. By the end of first period on Friday, he is able to deduce that Richie has no idea about today’s date (not a date like a date, but the date), despite several pointed reminders made by posters in the hallways. The rich smell of chocolate that wafts around the buildings between classes only makes Richie note that he's hungry.

Deception isn’t the right word for Will keeping the revelation to himself – at least, not in his eyes. It’s just having consequential information. Eleven would probably beg to differ, but Will’s not touching that ticking bomb yet.

Playing a video game is an oddly accurate comparison, emotionally. He’s put in his money with the knowledge that the round will end, one way or another. Richie will find out and have some sort of reaction to the news. The suspense isn’t even that bad – it’s nothing like waiting for the Demogorgon to find him, at least. The impending fallout can’t be worse than the end of that encounter either.

For now, Will lies in uncertain wait.

There are some near misses, like when they first enter the arcade and a string of paper hearts is actively being hung over the door. Richie sidesteps the ladder and the trailing end of the decoration, already absorbed in the closest row of cabinets. An hour after they arrive, they go to the snack bar for drinks and there’s a Sweetheart Special for flavored popcorn on the menu. Richie’s eyes pop wide.

“They have cheese-filled hotdogs, I fucking love this place!”

Will is able to put it out of mind once or twice, enjoying himself despite everything, but the game can’t go on forever. In the end, it’s the fault of a glimmering claw machine.

Richie grabs his sleeve while they’re heading to the Skee-Ball alley for the third round of their Best of Three competition, attention stolen by the flashing lights reflected in the clear plastic box.

“I don’t want to brag, but you’re talking to the master of crane games,” Richie says, already digging in his bottomless pockets for a token. Will watches a happy couple depart the machine’s controls, hanging back a step as Richie takes their place. “Three tries or less guarantee. What’ll it be, Byers?”

The prizes taunt Will from their cage. He lets a pair of running kids pass between him and Richie, not closing the distance after they're gone.

“Nothing,” Will says, dismissing the whole detour. “These things are pure luck anyway.”

Richie is beyond reach, eyes bright with the promise of a sure victory. “Not the way I play.”

“Come on, just forget about it. We can play other games,” Will tries.

“There’s a doctor heart or a rock star heart – I think that one’s supposed to be a surfer.” Richie takes a step back, surveying the exterior of the machine. “Why’d they fill it up with plush hearts anyway? You think they’d use it to sell game merchandise.”

Skin flipping hot and cold, Will realizes that waiting is more uncomfortable than dealing with whatever Richie will do once he knows the truth. It feels like everyone is watching them.

“It’s for Valentines’ Day,” Will says, falling from the crest of a rollercoaster’s first hill as Richie snorts.

“Seriously? That’s not for another…” He does some mental math, muttering numbers under his breath until he gets to fourteen, amusement dying like a firework. “Fuck. It’s today?”

Will mechanically nods.

“Um. I didn’t-”

“Know?” Will supplies, getting a small shoulder lift in return.

When Richie pushes up his glasses, looking out over the busy arcade and finally registering the endless couples, Will’s sympathy starts to fight his own embarrassment for precedence.

He finds himself puzzled by Richie’s reaction to the information. Dustin would have shrugged and claimed that someone had to be there to fill in for Suzie due to long-distance complications. Lucas would make up a rule about sharing quarters with your lover to ensure a prosperous relationship. Mike would point out the obvious – two guy friends can hang out any day they want.

Richie is glowing red, face perfectly blank despite its color. His eyes flit around, never sticking to anything for too long.

The tension coiled around Will’s spine unwinds. He thinks about what his friends might do to help him relax, then decides to make it up on his own. After all, they don’t know Richie like Will does.

“It’s cool,” he says, feigning nonchalance while his heartbeat rattles in his throat. “I mean, if this was a date, it’d be pretty lame so far.”

"Excuse you,” Richie starts, reeled back to his usual self by Will’s terrible acting. It takes a moment for him to address Will’s points in the right order. “This is a killer place for any date worth having. You’ve been dying in the first round of every game, so I understand why you’re lashing out, but I will not tolerate an undeserved diss toward my romantic prowess or the fine establishment in which we stand.”

“Your soapbox is a soda-stained carpet,” Will says, unimpressed.

“That doesn’t make you any less of a sore loser,” Richie replies, shaking his head in disappointment.

Crane game forgotten, Richie weaves a path back to the platforming games, drumming the side of a cabinet and gesturing for Will to step right up. Will buffs a token against his shirt before popping it into the machine, breathing easier at the small smile it brings to Richie’s face. In no time, Richie resumes his judgmental stare at the screen, critiquing Will’s reflexes.

Will doesn’t get any high scores for his trouble, but he can stand to lose a few rounds if it means keeping a friend.

Jonathan’s ear is talked off on the car ride home, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His profile is smiling every time Will turns to talk to Richie, who leans in between the two front seats for the whole drive.

Will can’t say that the fateful night at the Hawkins Arcade is entirely rewritten, but tonight has been fun. He takes really good days where he can get them.

“Are you gonna get in trouble at home?” Jonathan asks, parking in front of the garage. The engine sputters and pops like a cork gun, but it didn’t require any manpower assistance for this particular outing, so that’s a win. “Will said you had a sunset curfew.”

“My mom made an exception. Your brother has her wrapped around his little finger.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Will says, climbing out of the car.

“He denies everything, of course. Typical,” Richie sighs, bundling his jacket around his midsection and peering at the fading light on the horizon. When Jonathan bids him goodnight, Richie is a beat late with his reply, suddenly running a hand through the hair on the side of his head. He’s fidgeting. His eyes have started sliding away again.

Will isn’t sure what to make of it, so he doesn’t ask yet. He watches Richie as they head over the hill of dry grass that leads to the front semi-circle drive, Richie’s car waiting where they left it.

“Nice night,” Richie says, steps long and wandering. Will hasn’t been able to stop smiling since they left the arcade, but he feels a burst of fresh amusement at the comment.

“Yeah,” he agrees, even though there's a cloudy sky overhead and a wind chill. “I guess so.”

Will is forced to a sudden stop as Richie moves to cut him off, halting them beside the trunk.

“I know you weren’t too skipper about going, but look at it this way – now that we’ve crossed the place off our lists, we never have to go again.”

“No, I’d love to go back,” Will says, trying to let his genuine excitement show. His feelings aren’t used to being advertised, but Will doesn’t want Richie to think he was miserable the whole time and just suffering through it. “My pockets need a break, but I owe you a rematch or two.”

“I’ll make sure to place money on the reigning champ next time,” Richie says. “Get a return on my investment.”

“You do that,” Will laughs. He waits for Richie to climb in the car, but he stares at Will instead, smile slight.

Now what?

Will’s expectation builds as Richie doesn’t feed another line to keep the laughter going, the lively buzz of crickets and croaking frogs creeping in to fill the silence. Richie’s gaze searches his face, seeming to find what it needs before he releases the arms crossed over his torso, reaching into the cavity between his jacket and his shirt.

“I uh- I had a minute, right before we left. Didn’t want to waste it, so-” Richie’s hand returns, gripping a red stuffed toy. His fingers shift once it’s out of its hiding place, revealing the vague heart shape and a simple smiley face stitched in black thread across its front. On top of the right curve of the heart, there’s a blue wizard hat standing pointy and tall, complete with little silver stars. Will’s heart thumps against his ribcage – only once, but hard enough that it hurts.

“It’s for me?”

“If you want,” Richie says, both hands flexing around the seams. “I could take it home as a trophy instead. Mount it on the wall, like a big game hunter. Joystick is my weapon of choice, but the title works both ways. You know, like game being an actual game.”

Will rescues the prize from Richie’s clutches, its fuzzy cotton fabric pressing against his palm. While it’s impossible to place what he’s feeling, he can tell it’s trying very hard to be heard. He ends up tracing the edges of the wizard heart with his thumb, a helpless grin returning to his face.

“You really got one. I was in the bathroom for two seconds,” he says, delighted by disbelief. It had to be right before they went out to meet Jonathan. That’s the only time Will can remember Richie being alone.

“I told you, I’m a master at the Art of the Claw,” Richie gloats. “If I wasn’t down to my last token, I could have snagged a few more.”

“This one is perfect.” Will looks up, the warmth swirling around his chest reflected in Richie’s subtly relieved face. They both look down at the heart, then up again, exhales bashful and eager for a distraction.

“I’ll call your house,” Will says, backing toward the front walk. “To let your mom know you’re on the way.”

Richie starts patting his pockets. “Yep, you- I should get going. Enjoy the uh…thing.”

“Good night,” he offers.

“Good?" Richie gets the car door open, his smile flashing in the dim glow of the porch light. “I guess so.”

El stares Richie down, filling the doorway despite her dainty size.

This level of scrutiny is new and frankly unnecessary, considering he’s here every school day to drop Will off and even got to enter the Byers fortress last weekend, but he endures.

When El first caught him on his way back to Will’s room and showed him the photo album, Richie had thought she was extending an olive branch. The reveal of Mike - and Will’s subsequently panicked attempt to explain the situation - assured Richie that he couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a declaration of war, not a truce.

Richie returns the stare, letting her evaluate to her heart’s content.

“Come in,” she says, stepping aside. Richie slips out of his shoes in the front hall. “Dinner is not ready.”

El doesn’t wait around, leaving Richie to show himself further inside on his own. He takes his time surveying the living room, a space he’s only caught in passing glances before. The room feels snug with warm browns and yellows. His mother prefers blue and silver for decorating, but it doesn’t extend the same comfortable welcome that emanates from the Byers’ shared space.

“Oh, good,” Joyce says from the stairs, breaking his mild trance. “You’re here. I thought I heard your car.”

She grips his shoulder as she passes, balancing a few cans in her opposite hand. Richie wanders after her. Will is standing at the stove, stirring a large pot with a tall ladle. The room smells like fresh-cut vegetables, and Richie figures soup as Jonathan mentions different ways to prepare stock, head ducked into the fridge.

“Got the sides,” Joyce announces, setting the cans on the nearest empty counterspace and pulling down glasses by reaching over Will’s head. Like a practiced balancing act, Will stays hunched until she leans away, then steps aside to let Jonathan by to retrieve the cans.

Like trapeze artists. Richie hears faint circus music, the noise fading as Will glances back and notices him.

“Richie,” he greets, circling the low island in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited him,” Jonathan says, shrugging at Will’s wide-eyed attention.

Richie knows the feeling. When his mom called him downstairs with the Byers on the phone, he was fully prepared to talk to Will and got his brother instead. Even though he couldn’t figure out why Jonathan asked him over, he wasn’t about to turn down the offer. Being here is a good opportunity to learn more about Will’s family, which serves the dual purpose of helping him understand Will and figuring out the secret he can feel lying beneath the surface.

Curiosity is only natural when a family is shrouded in such mystery. Here’s hoping Richie’s not the unfortunate cat that gets killed in this situation.

“Careful not to invite me over tomorrow. Three days in a row and you’re never getting rid of me,” he jokes, taking a step into the dining area only for Will to cut him off with a quick jerk of the ladle.

“We’ll be done soon,” Will says, his eyes darting to the set table, where El sits alone. “I found the first issue of that series we were talking about at the arcade yesterday. It’s in my room, if you want to wait there.”

Richie, unable to navigate the murky waters of Will’s standoff with his sister, figures there will be plenty of time to investigate once everyone’s ready for dinner. He lifts his hands in retreat and Will returns to the lesson, standing at Jonathan’s elbow as he outlines the finishing touches.

Will’s bedroom is glowing with sunlight, the beams from his window stretching straight across his easel, which is likely intentionally placed to maximize the light. Richie basks in it as he surveys the current painting-in-progress, a pair of detailed eyes staring out of the canvas.

Scared is Richie's first thought. Strong. Trapped. Brave. Angry. Funny. Nervous. Cute-

Richie turns away from the easel and the window as pressure starts pushing out at his temples, the surest sign of an impending migraine. He searches the low half-wall along the side of Will’s room for the mentioned comic. When he can’t find it in the usual collection or mistakenly hidden under a stack of sketchbooks, the tidied bed seems promising. Knowing Will, he might have curled up with it as soon as he got it home, abandoning the finished comic among the nest of bedding. Richie pulls the pillows away from the headboard one by one, throwing them all back in the end. The search provides nothing.

His thwarted gaze lands on the nightstand, seeing the corner of a comic book peeking out from beneath a loose page full of doodles and ideas taken down after dreams. He hardly has time to rejoice before his eyes catch on another addition to Will’s clutter. It’s propped up on the lamp’s stem, facing the bed.

“Richie,” Will calls, voice coming quickly down the stairs. “You know, I think that comic is actually still in my mom’s car! Can you go look and-”

Will stops in the doorway, noticing the book in Richie’s hands and the growing smile on his face. Ears turning pink, Will ducks his chin.

“No, go on,” Richie says lightly. “Sounded like a pretty good excuse for such short notice.”

Will takes a deep breath, moving to join him by the bed and retrieving the stuffed toy with a quick swipe. He briefly holds it behind his back, like Richie might have the memory of a goldfish, then surrenders, holding it between them with restless hands.

“It’s there for a reason,” Will says, a tad twitchy considering that Richie hasn’t said anything to suggest he's upset about finding the prize in a place of honor. “I like having a reminder.”

Richie lets his grin turn thoughtful. “A reminder of the best first date idea of all time?”

“Of who you are.” Will traces the velvet wizard hat, staring down at the heart like it holds years of nostalgia, rather than a single night. “You’re a good person, Richie.”

“Did the toy tell you so?” he whispers, faking serious concern.

“I told myself. As friends, I’m allowed to do that,” Will says, blowing right past Richie’s carefully calculated defense mechanism.

Will turns away to place the heart in its proper place and Richie lets his throat bob, teasing attitude back by the time Will’s looking at him again. His insides are shredding themselves to bits, desperate to argue Will’s point – to prove him wrong with a thoughtless comment. That’s what he does, when someone swings too close and humor fails him.

Then Will smiles at him, shy and grateful, like Richie’s friend is someone worth being.

“You’re learning how to cook?”

Will looks glad for the change of subject, despite – or maybe because of – his willingness to continue praising Richie’s character like it's not embarrassing for both of them.

“Just a few things. Jonathan wants me to know the basics, so Mom doesn’t have to do everything once he goes to college. It’s nice to spend time together now.” The way Will’s smile makes a valiant effort not to fall has Richie scrambling for another non-sequitur. That’s one more landmine to avoid during polite dinner conversation. Richie is starting to notice there’s quite a few of those.

"I like the painting."

“Which one?”

Will looks in the direction of Richie's head nod, lips parting for a soft sound to escape. It shouldn't have been possible, but he looks even sadder than two seconds ago.

"You do?"

The way he asks gives Richie no indication of the answer that Will wants to hear, but Richie thinks he can reasonably bet that Will wants his art to be liked. "Yeah, it's…familiar, in a way. Like I’m looking at a friend."

Will’s features twitch, but Richie can’t get a clear glimpse at what expression he’s hiding before he leaves the room with a murmured warning that dinner will be ready in five.

Nice going, Tozier. You proved him wrong after all.

“Shut up,” Richie mutters. Sometimes he needs a reminder.

"So why a disc jockey?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I love the sound of my own voice."

Jonathan snorts, setting his last stack of albums on the floor beside Richie’s disorganized shoebox of tapes. Part of the dinner offer involved reviewing each other’s music collections, but Richie’s jealousy at Jonathan’s stash is a pleasant surprise. Will is right, they have amazingly similar taste in bands.

"I guess you'd want one of those morning shows."

"No, I think I want a post dinnertime set. That way the audience is too bloated to bother getting up to change the station." Richie waits for the mild laughter to pass. "It's suited to the music I want to play. It would be wrong to catch people on their morning commute."

"Why's that?" Jonathan asks, squinting at Richie’s cramped handwriting on the cassette labels.

"Can't dance while you drive," Richie says. "What's the point of kickass music if you risk honking the horn with every headbang?"

"Fair point."

"They could just sing along,” Will says from Jonathan’s bed, legs folded beneath him and his arms wrapped around a pillow.

"Songs are best appreciated with the whole body," Richie insists. "It has to be a listening experience."

"Since when?" Will asks.

"Since I said so. The show will have my name on it. I can't let it be less than the best.”

Will smiles at him. “We’ll definitely tune in. Do you have a good name yet?”

Richie shakes his head, privately enjoying the boost of confidence he gets from hearing someone offer support toward his pipe dream. It feels closer to being real that way. He suggests a few names that the Byers bounce back. Based on how easily they talk over each other without interrupting, Will probably gets his sense of humor from his brother.

“Hey, Richie?” Jonathan puzzles over a tape, turning it to show him his own writing. “Is this an underground band? It just says Steamboat.”

Will is on his feet and across the room before Richie can blink. He takes the cassette from Jonathan, reading it for himself.

“You made this for me?” Will asks, eyes bright and curious.

“I made it about you,” Richie says. He tries to crush the part of him that wants to stuff the tape back in the box and pretend they never found it. It was just a test run. “Part of working in radio is knowing what people want to hear, based on who they are and what they do. It has songs I thought you would like, based on nothing but the sound.”

Will is still captivated. “Can I listen to it?”

“What, now?”

When Will nods, Richie’s stomach swoops. He imagines the feeling is similar to an actor with stage fright. He can’t work in radio if he’s scared what people will think of his choice of music, but he doesn’t even remember what he put on that tape. He made it weeks ago. What if the songs are terrible and don’t fit Will at all anymore?

“Will,” Jonathan warns, apologetic eyes falling to Richie as he aims to grab the tape and return it to the box.

“Play away!” Richie presses his sweating palms over his knees. “No better person to try it out, right?”

Richie watches Will practically skip to the stereo, hoping his past self hasn’t done him wrong.

The room goes quiet, even when Richie tries stacking albums to break up the anticipating silence. The tape buzzes to life, speakers turned up by Will’s practiced hand. An electric guitar snaps through the room.

Oh, thank fuck. Richie is so relieved. Not only is the opener a classic, but The Clash is well-loved by Jonathan. If Will, by some miracle, doesn’t already know the song, he’s sure to appreciate it, even if it’s not his new favorite. Once the drums kick in, Richie relaxes enough to play along, fingers tapping out the melody.

“We should skip it,” Jonathan says. Richie looks at him in disbelief, seeing his gaze fastened on Will’s back. He raises his voice in the next lyric gap. “Just fast-forward, Will.”

“Are you kidding? This is their best song by a mile.”

Jonathan doesn’t spare him a glance. “It’s fine, man. There are other songs.”

Richie scoffs, looking to Will for backup. Even if Jonathan hates it, there’s no reason for Will to turn it off. His argument sours as he notices Will is keeping his back to the room, shoulders stiff and high. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing.

“Will?” Joyce asks, appearing in the open doorway and noticing his state. She trips around the bed to reach her son’s side, hand resting on his upper arm and squeezing gently. “Will.”

What did I do? Richie remains frozen on the floor as she continues the same quiet attempts at conversation to no reply. It’s just a song, right?

Will inhales sharply, shoulders falling on the exhale. On his left, Joyce’s face is pinched but warm, like she’s welcoming him back while he’s in a hospital bed - hurt but ultimately safe.

“I’m okay,” he says. Will nods, then steps away from the boombox.

Once he turns, Richie reads his face as fast as he can, trying to understand. Mostly, he sees disorientation, like the rug’s been pulled out from under Will's feet. Richie doesn’t know what threw Will off and made his family hit the panic button, but seeing that he’s unsettled is better than the unmoving expanse of him facing away.

Huge landmine there. Fucking ginormous.

Will takes a seat beside him on the carpet – and if Richie is staring, then he’s earned it. That was Definitely Weird Behavior.

“Did you find anything?” Will asks, picking up one of Jonathan’s albums for reference when Richie blanks.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s good stuff.”

Will tries to smile at him, mouth pressed upward with carefully choreographed muscles until he looks down again, fingertips tracing album art as Richie goes into detail, addressing some of his favorites.

When Richie feels it’s safe to look away, he sees that Joyce has decided to stay in the room, sitting at the desk. Jonathan is absently returning cassettes to the shoebox. Their eyes are darting between Richie and Will like they have no better idea than he does about Will’s behavior. The song plays on.

This indecision’s buggin’ me

If you don’t want me, set me free

Richie’s hand gets caught under Will’s palm as he hands off the next album, feeling the slight tremble like an earthquake just for them. For as strange as this reaction has been, Richie gets a bright glow of pride in his chest when he realizes that Will intends to stick around and process in his own time. He’s not running anymore. He’s trying to grow.

“You know what they’re shouting after each line?” Richie asks. Will slowly shakes his head. “It’s the same words, translated into Spanish. When I first got the album, I sat by the player for hours, just figuring out how to sing it right.”

“Sounds like the fun fact a video jockey would give before playing a song.”

“So you admit I’m halfway there,” Richie says, hearing the chorus coming back around. He doesn’t let himself look away when Will catches his eye on the upswing of a big nod. “Want me to teach you?”

Will’s pause is long and considering. Some tension bleeds out of his posture. “Yeah. Why not, right?”

Even though Richie offered to teach, he doesn’t exactly have a good plan. He talks over the chorus first, so that Will can attempt the phrase during the echo, but he gets tongue tied. Then he tries to time himself with the echo, but it leaves Will confused, his memory producing the English while his tongue is forcing itself to repeat Richie’s translation. The effort leaves them in increasingly long bouts of laughter, further damaging their efforts.

“Maybe Richie should write the translation down?” Joyce recommends, offering him a kind grimace. “I don’t think this is gonna work by just talking, even with the best teacher.”

“I’ll get paper,” Will says, shoulder held down by Richie’s hand.

“I’ll get it. I need some agua too, if I plan to keep teaching and want to save myself a sore throat tomorrow.”

He pushes to his feet with the groan of an aggrieved elderly man. As he passes Joyce, she sits up, recognizing the next song.

“Jonathan, I thought you didn’t like my music.”

“It’s Richie’s playlist,” Jonathan says, more an accusation than a compliment.

“I used to sing you to sleep with this song,” she says proudly. “You must have liked it then.”

“Or it was so boring that I couldn’t stay awake to hear any more of it.”

Will’s laugh follows Richie down into his room, and if he wasn’t smiling already, he would have started. That’s what he wants for people that listen to his show. He wants to remind them of things they’ve forgotten, and tempt them towards the new. Richie wants their spirits lifted, even if it’s briefly.

Thinking about how badly the Byers need lifted spirits, Richie fights the guilt that gnaws away at his insides. If he had known the song was going to cause such a fuss, he wouldn’t have put it on there. What kind of song provokes such a visceral reaction, anyway? Joyce had come running at the first sign of it, like she expected Will to be endangered just because he was hearing it.

In Will’s room, Richie grabs the first sketchbook he sees, tearing out a blank page near the middle, fingers skimming over a cracked mug to find a pencil among the paintbrushes.

Richie may not know what problem he almost caused, but he’s glad that his presence is able to remedy the mistake. If Will was right and he’s not ready for every punch the world throws at him, he knows where to go.

I’m part of the problem and part of the solution.

Contemplating this, Richie is a conflicted bundle of emotions as he gets water from the kitchen, juggling the glass and the pencil without getting the paper wet. He comes up the stairs with extreme care, finding El with her back against the wall outside Jonathan’s room. Richie stops, letting her notice him.

“You don’t want to join?”

El gives him a long look, like she’s deciding whether or not he’s worth acknowledging. When she turns away, shoulder to the wall, Richie assumes she plans to continue the silent treatment, but her head tips forward, checking out the room and its three inhabitants. Joyce has started singing along, the boys unable to decide if they want to indulge her or groan in agony.

“It is hard to fit,” she says.

The Byers are unnaturally close. Maggie Tozier wouldn’t believe that her son’s glasses broke by falling off his face, but if Will said the Sun revolved around the Earth, Joyce would take it as gospel. Jonathan has a similar relationship with him, sheltering Will without crowding. The same level of affection and intimate understanding does not extend to El, despite some clumsy and heartfelt attempts. Richie recognizes the lonely kid behind her eyes. He knows about wanting to belong so badly you could scream.

What Richie could only suspect before has been confirmed: El is not a Byers.

Will had called them step-siblings with a mysterious lack of elaboration on the missing father that would make it possible. Leaving of his own volition or dead, he’s gone. No one talks about him. Richie wonders if she was close to him, like he made room for El to exist. Now that he isn’t around, the space has shrunk to nothing, leaving her on the outside of all the love in this house.

With a sincerely high amount of dismay, Richie accepts that there’s nothing he can do for her. He’s not the one who has to let El in.

“Hey,” Richie says, waiting for her to snap back to indifference and face him. “What’s your middle name?”

Jane Eleanor Hopper doesn’t blink. “What is a ‘middle name’?”

“That’s what I figured,” Richie mutters, slipping through the open bedroom door. El doesn’t follow him.

Chapter Text

February 21st, 1986

“Oh, shoot. Will, could you get the mail?”

Will looks up from his homework to find his mom flitting into the kitchen, back from some unknown errand. She sets a stack of encyclopedias on the kitchen counter like a heavyweight lifter dropping the barbell.

“Doesn’t El usually like to do that?” he asks.

“She’s watching her show. I need to check for a bill before it’s too late to call,” Joyce explains, already heading for the stairs.

Will doesn’t mind the excuse to take a break. He catches a glimpse of Eleven on the couch, a blanket tucked up around her shoulders with narrowed eyes on the screen. It must be a new episode for her to be so captivated.

Before the fight, she would give him a recap of every episode after they aired, eyes bright with excitement. Will barely understood what was happening half the time, but she didn’t mind his lack of interest. For him, it was nice to hear her happy.

It's been two weeks now, and they’ve hardly said a word to each other. On occasion, Will catches her staring at him. She always looks away first. He can feel his mother wanting to get involved, also concerned it will only make things worse. In short, Will doesn’t know how to fix what he broke. Even if he did know, he’s not sure he’s ready to forgive Eleven for what she said and did that day - without even acknowledging her prior efforts in ignoring Richie’s existence.

Will can’t apologize for protecting his friend from El’s intense and obvious dislike. He won’t.

The mail does contain two bills for his mom. Will flips through the rest of the stack, pretending his heart doesn't sink to the pavement when he finds a letter for Eleven and none for himself. At this point, Dustin has written more to him than Mike has - which is fine, because Dustin's his best friend too, but-

It's really not the same thing at all.

Will abandons the mail in the kitchen, retreating to his room and withdrawing into a ball against his headboard. What he can't understand is why Mike hasn't mentioned the Richie situation or the fight with El. Surely he should have reached out by now to talk (yell) about either one. Will had never gotten around to calling him back, but Mike must not care enough about that to try again.

Will knows that one dumb fight wouldn’t get him kicked from the party. There’s no way Mike would hate him for saying what he did to Eleven, especially when it was done in a fit of anger.

But what if he does? What if he takes El’s side, like he’s always done before, and everyone in the Party stops talking to you and you lose all the friends you’ve ever loved because you let yourself be angry–

Will flips onto his stomach, crushing his face into a pillow and shouting until his head hurts.

As the situation stands, there are two possibilities:

One, Mike has decided to stay out of it, like Joyce and Jonathan. He knows about the fight and knows that it hasn’t been resolved, but accepts that it’s not his job to intervene as a mature, neutral third party. Mike trusts that Will and El are capable of resolving the conflict on their own. They have no desire to hear his opinion on the matter, nor do they need to be saved by his interference.

Yeah, right.

The reasonable option left is simple – Mike doesn’t know about any of it. The only way that’s possible is if he hasn’t been told. Will hasn’t said anything, for obvious reasons, but El? He’s sure she should have run to Mike right away. Will is aware that they tell each other everything because of the Friends Don’t Lie rule that started all this. The reality of Mike not knowing about the fight yet – of Eleven not telling him - leaves Will with burning questions for the one person he can’t ask.

Will pushes out of the comfort of his wrinkled blankets, taking a heavy seat at his desk. If Mike won’t write to him, he’ll just have to write to Mike.

He takes a long time working out what he wants to say, on scratch paper first. Throughout the letter he tries to bring up Richie, ultimately scratching it from the final cut.

I finally made a friend here.

There’s a guy at my school that I think you guys would like!

Could you ask your mom if you once had an older brother that was given up for adoption?

It’s a futile effort. Even if Richie wasn’t the spitting image of the Wheeler’s lost child, Will would be hesitant to mention him. It’s easier to pretend that nothing has to change than to admit it already has.

Will signs the letter, then tears up the paper and throws it in the trash. He can’t stomach making Mike choose a side, like they’re children fighting over a living doll. Mike’s not even involved, there’s no reason to want his input beyond bitterness toward El for- what, existing?

Eleven is clearly being close-lipped about Richie. Will should just play along.

He’s slightly desperate to know why she hasn’t mentioned it to anyone. If El hasn’t told Mike because she thinks she can get rid of Richie on her own, then she’ll have to be disappointed, but her arrogance is working in Will’s favor right now. It gives him a full month to figure out the best way to mend some bridges and explain everything to Mike before he sees them in person for Spring Break. It’s just Will against the clock.

He has thirty days, so who knows? His problems might even solve themselves by then.

Richie bikes around the street corner and through the curved driveway, wheels passing ever closer to Will’s legs where they're stretching out from his seat on the curb. It's become an impromptu game of chicken, neither of them flinching as Richie goes as far as bumping the tip of Will's sneaker and rides on.

"What’s got you down?" Richie asks, voice going in and back out like the rumble of a passing train.

"Nothing’s got me down," Will says, tensing as Richie comes around again.

"You can't kid a kidder, Byers. Something's wrong if you’re going gray."

"Am not," Will mutters, tugging down the strands of his bangs like they might have lost their color since he saw them last. This Eleven situation certainly makes it a possibility.

Richie slams the bike to a stop in front of him, tires screeching.

"Hey," Will protests - it's his bike, so he's allowed to care. Richie claims he put his own in storage for safekeeping, but his parents chucked it once he got his license.

"Not there," Richie says, dismissing his worry about early aging. "There."

He points at what Will is drawing, the soft charcoal outlining three distinct rectangles. The middle door is open, flanked by closed ones on either side. He assumes Richie is referring to the color, and it’s not a baseless assumption. Will doesn’t often draw in grayscale.

"You want to tell me what's up?"

"Only if you say what’s bothering you first," Will says, looking up defiantly. Richie had shown up without calling and has been almost perfectly silent until now, only asking to use the bike and explaining his own deficit. It was very unlike Richie. If he could read Will, then Will could read him back.

Just like he figured, Richie isn't eager to spill.

"Well played," he says, lifting his feet onto the pedals and lurching back into his shrinking loops.

Will sets aside the sketchbook to watch him. If Richie hasn't started thinking aloud yet, then his preoccupied thoughts likely involve Will. The reverse is true, at least.

"Are you having dinner here tonight?”

“I wish,” Richie sighs, shirt whipping behind him as he coasts past. He’s been invited back multiple times since last week, but his mother must have finally put her foot down about him leeching off other families. Will can see her getting upset about her own son not coming home for dinner.

“Do you want me to call and ask?”

“No, I’ll live. If we pull that move too much, you’ll lose your effectiveness.” Richie stands on the next loop, picking up speed. “My birthday’s on the 7th.”

Shit, he's actually going to talk. Will hopes Richie won't hold him to their hasty bargain about sharing troubles.

“Of March,” Richie adds, like that might have been confusing.

“Really? I’m the 22nd.” There’s a pondering moment where they both absorb the information, and Will calculates the rapidly closing window of time. “If you don’t have plans with your parents, we could go to the arcade again.”

Richie nods absently. “Are you busy that weekend?”

“Not really,” Will says. He has to wait for Richie's response.

“I want you to come on a trip with me.”

Will beams. He wouldn’t mind a second adventure in the city. “Yeah? Did your parents agree to let you drive to the coast?”

“They sure did,” Richie says, amusement drifting onto his face. It worries Will because he knows that a punchline usually follows. Richie delivers on that promise. “The East Coast.”

Will’s brain stalls out, wondering if he got his mental map wrong. Last time he checked, the ocean was on California’s west side.

“We’re going to Maine for a family reunion,” Richie explains, braking to ride past slower. “I don’t like most of my relatives and they don’t like me, so my parents know I’ll be bored. When I floated the idea of them buying an extra plane ticket for you to tag along, they were all for it.”

“Aren’t those expensive?” Will says, empty head voicing the simplest problem to reassure itself that this is all an elaborate joke played by Richie that definitely won’t end with Will being smuggled across the country in his luggage.

“Birthday means big presents. It’s not every day their only son turns 17.”

Unfortunately, the idea starts to sink in. Will’s brain leaps ahead of itself, already thinking of what they can do once they’re set free. He’s too excited by the prospect to think straight, scrubbing a hand across his forehead.

“We could go to the beach,” Richie says, gaining steam even as the bike drifts to a stop. “It wouldn’t take more than a few hours. There’s a great pier out there with a boardwalk and everything. I’d have to ask my mom the name, but I remember they have these kickass ice pops-”

“Isn’t it kind of weird to bring someone from outside the family?”

“No.” Will stares at him. “Okay maybe, but you can be one of those people that comes for emotional support. Besides, I’m only going to show my face for my mom’s sake and that won’t take long. There’s free food too!”

“Richie,” Will says, trying not to get swept up. “My mom will never agree to this.”

“What, you tagging along? It’s not like we’re trying to go without adults. My parents would be around, and we’d be back to the house before curfew.”

“You don’t get it,” Will says reluctantly, knowing he can’t elaborate if Richie asks. “She’d worry too much. I can barely convince her to let me stay at your house and that’s less than half an hour away.”

“Good thing we’re not staying at my house then.” Richie meets his exasperated eyes with expectations too high to be squashed out. “Look, it’s one weekend. We wouldn’t have to miss any school and you can call every night and every morning, if that’s what it takes. I’m going to lose it out there if I have to stay in the house with my extended relatives for two days straight. I would make sure you were safe the whole time, cross my heart.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Will says, shaking his head.

“Don’t make me spend my birthday weekend alone,” Richie insists, hands lifting from the handlebars to clutch over his chest. “Help me, Will Byers. You’re my only hope.”

Curse him and his clever use of references. Will feels like a monster disappointing Richie now, even though he knows there’s no chance of pleasing him.

The idea is crazy, coming from someone else, but Will entertaining the idea? It makes him certifiable. He knows his own mother. Going to Maine would have been a fight, even before the Upside Down. Now, having their history, Joyce Byers won’t let her son sleep more than an hour away from home, much less across state lines.

On the opposite side of the country? Richie could keep dreaming.

“I don’t know,” Will manages. This barely deters Richie’s enthusiasm.

“You have to ask,” he says. “There’s no way to be sure until you do.”

He’s right - and at the same time, completely wrong. If Will thought about it long enough, he could predict his mother’s reaction right down to the words she'd use to gently reject the idea. Of course it’s frustrating, but he can’t redo the last two years. No one can.

“I could ask a million times, Richie, she'll never let me go. I could be Jonathan’s age and she’d refuse.”

Richie offers a hopeful shrug that agrees to disagree. “Tell her it can be your birthday present. Worked for me, didn’t it?”

Yeah, but your mom actually likes me, Will doesn’t say. No need to hurt and disappoint Richie within a single conversation.

It’s a cold and damp Wednesday morning in Lenora Hills, which should have been the first sign. When Will almost walks into a locker door and mutters a distracted apology to it, that should have been the second. But Richie doesn’t really pick up on the impending storm until he’s back home after school, picking up the ringing phone to hear Will ask him to come over with an intentionally blank voice. Even though Richie had dropped Will off less than an hour ago, he agrees.

Richie listens to the faint echo of the doorbell from outside the Byers house. The stillness inside strikes him first. He didn't realize asking to take a trip to Maine would disrupt the balance of the universe.

Eventually, Joyce appears, pulling the door open enough to lean in the gap and greet him. "Richie, honey. How are you?"

"Better, after seeing you," he says. As he intended, the stressed lines of her face relax into bemusement. "Is Will out back?"

"He's in his room," she admits. The weariness starts to return as she braces a hand against the door frame, lowering her voice. "I don't know that it's a good time for visitors.”

"He’s expecting me," Richie says, not allowing much room for disagreement. If Joyce's presumptions weren't born out of love, Richie would be less pleasant about getting around her to reach Will, manners be damned.

"You can come in," a firm voice says, overruling the potential argument. They both straighten as Joyce steps out of the way, revealing Will on the top stair leading down to his room.

Joyce stares at Will for a beat, then moves aside for Richie to enter. Each step toward the bedroom further compounds the discomfort of the obvious power struggle, but Richie trudges on. He slips around Will, back pressed to the wall’s sharp corner to continue downward.

Joyce’s hand clenches around the doorknob. “Will-”

“Not right now, Mom,” he says, a subtly blunt refusal to engage. Will follows him into the bedroom and the boundary is sealed shut with a soft click. Richie exhales, awkward silence lingering as it remains quiet in the house.

Will is quiet too. Despite inviting Richie over, he doesn’t seem ready to look at him, wandering back to his easel and retrieving his palette, a flat brush stabbing at the array of colored paint.

“You didn’t ask her if I could come over?”

“Do I have to get permission for everything?” Will replies, the bristles scratching a long line across the canvas. “You’re my friend. If I want to talk to you, then I will.”

Well, shit. The relaxed expression is deceptive, but with a tone like that, Will has to be genuinely pissed off. Most of the frustration Richie has experience in handling consists of frowns and shouting and threats of physical violence, so he’s pretty far out of his depth with this angry-but-not-at-you attitude.

He can’t just stand here though. Will should’ve called someone else if he wanted peace and quiet.

“Damn right,” Richie says supportively, dropping onto the bed and folding up his legs, hands pulling in on his crossed ankles. “I think this makes me a bad influence.”

“I doubt there’s any damage you can do that hasn’t already been done,” Will says, unusually sour. Richie is the first to confess that acting pleasant doesn’t mean you’re happy, but Will stays afloat on a typical day. If the house’s complete change in atmosphere is any indication, Will’s bout of doom and gloom is highly contagious.

Richie decides to give himself plenty of time to wear down Will’s defenses, sitting back to take in the whole scene. His current painting is harsh and dramatic, completely unlike Will's preferred style of blended colors and faded lines. He’s gotten paint on his fingers and even a few sprays across the front of his shirt, a habit he tries to avoid on a normal day.

Once Will has wound down from the near confrontation at the door, he looks more hurt and irritated than mad. Richie takes a risk.

"It was always a long shot, Steamboat. I'd get it if she said you can't go."

"I would get it too," Will says. "If it was about me being away from home, I wouldn't care."

"Is it not?"

"Apparently." Will jabs at the easel. "It's stupid."

"Whoa," Richie says. "Strong words."

"It is," he insists. "They don't trust me anymore, like it's somehow my fault that I was-"

Richie doesn’t have the knowledge to fill in the blank exactly, but he gets the picture as Will’s hand tightens around the paintbrush. If Will was hurt in the past, it would explain Joyce playing offense when it comes to her son's protection. It's not the time to ask, so Richie pins the thought for later.

"She said I could go on the trip," Will admits, the urge to celebrate tempered by the words being laced with spite. "If and only if I brought El with me."

Ah, Richie thinks. He lets Will vent, starting to see cracks in his shield.

"I told my mom that El would never agree to go, which she probably already knew. They see how she acts around you.” His frown looks painful. “El doesn't care what I want to do. She wants me to stay away from you, which means staying home."

"Hey, you don't know until you-"

"Try?" Will interrupts. "I asked El. She said no."

"What was her reason?"

"She didn’t have one, she just refused. I told my mom that it wasn't fair to leave the decision up to El, especially because forcing me to keep her around is ridiculous, like I need a babysitter. We're the same age!"

Richie is reminded of a pot threatening to boil over as his friend seethes, on the edge of hissing and catching flame. When Will tries painting again his hand is shaking, the next line crooked and bumpy. He gives up with a pointed exhale, setting the distraction aside and shuffling to the bed.

"Your family doesn't know me very well," Richie says, hip jostled as Will sits against the headboard and stretches his legs forward. "Maybe they don't want you to feel surrounded by strangers when you're far away."

"It's not that," Will replies, fingers tangling over his lap. "My mom wouldn't do this to her. If El wanted to go off alone with a friend, they wouldn't make me watch her."

"You're her baby, Will. She's just scared."

"Even if that’s true, it’s not a good enough reason to hold me back anymore." Will’s throat bobs. "I'm trying to have a life, Richie. I know it won’t be normal or perfect or anything, but- I mean how much longer do I have to wait before they stop thinking I’m too fragile for everything?"

Richie watches him, tipping over on the mattress and stretching out until he's lying on his stomach alongside Will’s legs, catching his downturned gaze by looking up. Will’s face becomes swamped in a mess of emotions.

"We argued about it,” he confesses. “I told my mom that I don't need El to be safe. If she’s going to worry, she should just tell me I can’t go. She said knowing El was there would make her feel better. I told her I'd stay with you, so it would be okay." Will’s eyes get watery. "You should have seen her face. She looked at me like I was crazy for saying that."

Richie reminds himself that they met less than two months ago. He feels much closer to Will than that, but as someone looking in from the outside, he can see why people might be alarmed. Sympathizing with Joyce won't help Will, but it keeps Richie from feeling second-hand resentment at her lack of faith.

"I know you're good. I trust you," Will says, mouth closing for him to gather himself before continuing. "And nothing I tell them matters because they think I’m confusing you with Mike. They don’t think I know the difference, so they don’t believe me. They don’t trust me, and they don’t trust you, but they trust El.”

A tear falls without permission and Will scrubs it away with his palm before it can cross his cheek.

"I couldn't even explain how that felt. I started crying before I could get the words out," Will bitterly recounts. "It's so stupid. I’m not a kid anymore, I can’t cry when things don’t go my way."

Richie shrugs, pulling up the corner of the blanket for Will to wipe his eyes dry.

"I hate to break it to you like this, but you are a kid." Before Will’s confusion can work up into aggravation, Richie clarifies. "Everyone is a kid, just a little bit. If it were socially acceptable, people of all ages would throw tantrums. It's great stress relief."

Will looks hesitantly interested in the positive interpretation. Seeing his clasped hands, Richie grabs the wizard heart from the nightstand, making Will’s fingers slacken to hold it so his nails stop biting his skin.

“Before I ran out, she looked so guilty,” Will whispers, voice deep with regret now that the anger has drained away.

“Don’t beat yourself up for being honest,” Richie replies. “You explained the situation to me just fine.”

“Because you’re you.” Will doesn’t elaborate on what that means.

“You want peace of mind, here’s an idea. Let’s figure out what you couldn’t say to them before, now that you have space to think. Then you can talk it over in the morning, once your eyes aren’t so swollen.” Richie lets his voice soften. “Your mom will listen, Byers. I know she will.”

Even though Will’s tears have subsided, he still looks miserable - pale and lost and needing a moment alone.

“Until then, you need to hydrate. You want me to brave the kitchen for you?”

Will snorts, but his hopeful gaze says enough for Richie to clamber to his feet with a dramatic sigh.

“Wish me luck. If I don’t make it back, I leave my comic books and dirty magazines to you.”

That gets a smile. Richie silently slips up the stairs, all but tiptoeing to the kitchen.

Joyce and Jonathan are hunched together on the far side of the bar, heads low. Their heated whispers stop as Richie clears his throat, the Byers trying desperately to appear as though they weren’t talking about Will calling Richie to the house in his hour of need.

It’s all very reassuring.

Joyce keeps peeking at him as he fills a glass at the sink. Her big, brown-eyed gaze is a lot like Will’s, meaning Richie is just as weak to it. Richie begins to leave the room, but his pity (and secret need to earn her confidence) wins him over. He offers a wink before he makes the gesture to seal his lips and throw away the key. Her shoulders drop an inch in relief, a grateful smile blooming across her face.

Richie returns to Will like a goddamn champion, handing over the water. It earns him the same smile with a dash of bewilderment.

Once Will finishes the glass, he props a notebook across his bent legs and starts writing. Richie pretends not to notice at first, in case Will wants to do this alone, but then Will starts to recite his speech. He pauses from time to time, scratching out a phrase that he thinks comes out wrong. Richie offers feedback in the form of aimless teasing, getting Will to laugh when he's too stuck on his inability to explain his feelings.

They absently play catch with the plush toy and Richie’s actual heart breaks a little when Will brings up not talking to them sooner because he thinks they won’t hear him, or nothing will change no matter how much he asks. It motivates Richie to put his own little speech together for his parents, hoping he can convince them to let him stay home from Maine to keep Will company instead.

Will manages to cobble together an explanation that he likes, but he stares hopelessly at the page once it’s complete, not practicing a word of it.

“I can’t say this,” he realizes.

“Uh, unless I've officially lost it, you just did.”

“Yeah, to you,” Will says. “Not them. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to say any of this to my mom’s face. Why do you think I’ve never said it before?” He shoves a hand into his hair, pulling it up in a way that looks painful. “I’ll probably start crying again.”

“So cry. It’s not like their ears will stop working at the sight of tears.”

Will grumbles unhappily at this advice, hands crumpling the paper into a ball. He throws it at Richie, ready to pretend this never happened.

“Look, why not say it in a voice?” Richie pushes up to sit properly at Will’s confused stare. “Your Will the Wise voice.”

“Why would that work any better than my normal voice?”

“You’d be surprised what changing your voice can do,” Richie says. “Think of it like a mask. You put it on and you can be whoever you want to be - say whatever you need to say. It puts some distance between you and the words. It might help you get through it.”

Richie’s speaking from experience here. His Voices operate as defense in a lot of ways. He doesn’t often explain his methods so openly, for fear of people understanding too much when he defaults into impressions, but Will is struggling bad. Richie knows he won’t abuse the information, as far as letting Richie get away with deflection goes.

“Isn’t that like hiding?” Will asks, the question full of disdain for the idea.

“Oh, absolutely,” Richie says, Will’s frown dropping into a reluctant smile. “But it’s temporary, and it’s better than running away.”

Richie unravels the abandoned apology, smoothing out the page on the blanket and pushing it back Will’s way. New outlook achieved, Will gives the written words a considering glance.

“My cleric voice feels kind of weird to use around family.”

“Then find another one. Be British, if you want.”

Will spends a second or two deciding if Richie’s serious, giving up when he realizes he won’t see through Richie’s poker face if Richie doesn’t let him.

“Can I use your voice?”

“Consider your audience,” Richie reminds. “I think the last person they want to hear talk is me.”

“That’s not true.” Will just shakes his head when Richie adjusts his glasses as a silent contradiction. “I’m serious, there are a lot of people they like less than you.”

“I need to try harder, is what you’re saying.”

Will rolls his eyes and starts reading over his own words. As he practices, he goes younger and then older, casual and formal, joking and sincere.

Richie wonders which one of them is right, when it comes to the Byers’ opinion of him. He knows he’s never been El’s favorite, but he thought the others were starting to accept his appearance in Will’s life. They invited him to dinner and everything. The rejection aspect doesn’t sting much because Richie’s used to it, but the pain he feels on Will’s behalf is fresh and unwelcome. If Richie had been different, then maybe this fight wouldn’t have happened. If he had tried harder to earn their trust, he could have spared Will all this regret.

Richie can survive not being liked, but Will not liking that Richie’s not liked hurts a lot. Maybe because it’s nice to finally have a friend that cares about that kind of thing.

“Is that the time?” Will asks suddenly, as most people who ask that question do.

Richie leans forward as Will throws an arm out to display his watch, letting Richie check it against his own wrist.

“Yeah, just past eight. Why?”

“You’re violating curfew,” Will points out, making Richie slump in place.

“Way to ruin the fun, Byers. I was trying to ignore that little fact.”

Will is having none of Richie’s haggling as he tries to stay longer. Like any friend should, Richie accuses him of trying to stay on Maggie’s good side, which Will doesn’t deny. He’s physically pushing against Richie’s back with both hands as Richie tries to go ragdoll by the time they reach the entryway, stopped by Joyce turning on the couch and calling Richie’s name. Will tries to make him shuffle faster, giving up as Richie uses his hidden strength to properly resist.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” she asks, stopping their battle of wills.

Richie shifts on his feet, keeping his reaction neutral as El stiffens on the cushion beside Joyce, hand sunk in the popcorn bowl.

“My parents might have plans for us tomorrow,” he replies, the tense air winding up.

“You can call them, if you want to check that it’s okay,” Joyce encourages, gaze darting to Will, who is looking up at Richie to avoid eye contact with her. Richie looks back at him, eyebrow raised in question.

The nod Will gives him may be the smallest he’s ever seen, but Richie smiles wide.

“Sounds great. Thanks, Mrs. Byers.”

Joyce pushes up from the couch, hands running down her sides restlessly. “Are you hungry? I don’t know if you had a chance to eat before you came, but we have leftovers.”

Richie had dropped pretty much everything when he got Will’s distress call, so he can safely say he’s starving at this point. He accepts the offer and asks to use the phone, quietly hamming up Will’s emotional turmoil to Maggie. Will makes sharp gestures for Richie to cut it out the whole time, but he’s also trying not to laugh so Richie lays it on even thicker.

He’s relaying his mother’s comforting words for Will as they enter the kitchen, finding two steaming plates of reheated steak and vegetables at the long dining table, side by side. Joyce turns from the fridge, closing it with her hip and holding up two sodas.

“New Coke okay?”

“Goes great with a smile,” Richie quotes, accepting both cans. Once the transfer is complete, Joyce’s arms retreat, wary of breaking an unspoken contract. Richie finds his way to the table and Will follows in his shadow.

“I’ll get back to the show,” Joyce says, starting to sidle from the room.

Before she’s out, Will finds his voice. “Thank you.”

Joyce double-takes, not sure the words were directed at her until Will looks up from the plates. She smiles at him, blinking quickly before she steps out of view.

“You had the fight before dinner?” Richie asks under his breath, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “Every teenager knows you wait until you’ve eaten to cause problems. Otherwise, you have to pause your sulk to stake out the kitchen.”

Will steals a baby potato off Richie’s plate to distract him from making a point. To his credit, it works.

Never tired when he’s supposed to be, Richie stares up at the blurry ceiling of Will’s bedroom. His fingers curl and twist lazily in his hair, the strands rasping against the warm pillow under his head.

He’s wondering at the origin of the Byers family’s defensive structure. Will is clearly at the center of whatever happened, protected so fiercely that his life feels more like a prison every day. It might have been really bad for Will, and it probably led to the issue with the desk lamp. Will had hesitated to turn it off when they were preparing for bed, like he was ashamed of wanting a nightlight. Hoping to settle him, Richie had pointed out that he didn’t want to be tripped over in the night. The light is still on now.

“What if El’s right?”

Richie squints at the top edge of the mattress when he hears the blankets shift, but Will’s face doesn’t appear as he speaks again.

“What if I’m using you because I can’t have Mike around?”

“You wouldn’t bring it up during a sleepover, that’s for sure,” Richie says. He wants to ask why temporarily substituting Mike would be such a bad thing, but that’s not the answer Will needs to hear. “You’re not, okay? Just like I’m not using you to replace…”

“Eddie,” Will reminds.

“Right. You’re Will. I like you for that and that alone.”

The bed springs creak like Will’s rolling over. His hand becomes visible, gently gripping a wrinkle in the sheet. It’s quiet for long enough that Richie gets drowsy, eyelids more often closed than open.

Will’s not easily comforted. “It’s more than that, Richie. We fit together. How is that possible if we’re not just replacements for what’s missing?”

Yeah, Richie’s going to pretend he hasn’t had the same thought before. He doesn’t think the truth would calm Will in this instance - which is that it does feel like Will’s role in his life was an empty space waiting for a certain Byers to show up. He would like to say that they chose each other, and chose well, but it was never really a choice at all.

“It’s fate, I guess. Happens to the best of us.”

Over the next few minutes, Will’s hand slackens its hold. His breathing turns deep and slow. Richie doesn’t know if that’s the answer Will was looking for, but it was good enough to let him sleep.

In Richie’s experience, that’s as helpful as anything gets.

Chapter Text

February 27th, 1986

Richie stares at the gray dawn creeping through the curtains for a full ten minutes before he gives up on going back to sleep, patting around the pillow to find his glasses. Will’s eyelids don’t even flutter through the shuffle of Richie getting to his feet and through the bedroom door. For all Will’s fears, he’s fortunate enough to sleep like a rock when a nightmare doesn’t rear its head.

The kitchen light that stretches out across the house suggests a fellow insomniac. Richie ducks to see through the gap in the bar, finding El hunched over the center island, staring fiercely at the open Coke resting before her. She isn’t easily disturbed by his approach.

“Move the can, you must,” Richie says in his best Yoda voice. El’s eyes flick up to him, bright with focused suspicion despite the early hour. “Hey, no shame from me. We’ve all stared at things and tried to bend the universe to our will.”

“Dustin said to watch those movies,” she shares, gaze tracking like a predator as Richie moves to fill the coffee pot with water, emptying it into the reservoir. He pulls over the tub of grounds and loads up a filter. It’s hard to tell if the eyes on his back are more interested in him or the impending coffee.

Once the machine is set, he turns to lean back against the near counter. “May I?”

El slowly nods, so Richie braces his hands on either side of his waist, sliding his weight up and back to take a seat. He crosses his ankles, legs swinging lightly against the cabinets below. They watch each other like two solitary animals of the same species that have stumbled onto each other in the wild - except Richie’s still waking up. His common sense is drowsy, and he forgets that they aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

“Honest review?”

“Not enough romance,” she critiques.

Richie overacts his betrayal. “Jesus, were you even paying attention? Leia and Han are the pinnacle of love.”

“Pin-knuckle?”

“Best of the best. They’re the blueprint,” he says, the more familiar word processing behind El’s eyes.

“He didn’t say he loved her too.”

“Who says you have to say it?”

This stumps her. They sit in silence for a while as the coffee starts to percolate, the dull smell tickling Richie’s nose. The familiar scent makes some connections in his brain, waking him up and making him a useful human being. There’s no reason for their solitude to be wasted with small talk.

“Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m starting to think you like me,” he says, seeing the way his assumption draws her mouth tight. “Or you want to like me? You think it might make Will happy if you do.”

El looks down, a confirmation that Richie’s on the right track.

“And yet you refuse to be our chaperone. Color me surprised. I know that you were hesitant in the beginning because I look like your boyfriend, but-”

“It’s not about Mike,” she mutters. “Not just him.”

Getting somewhere now…

“Alright.” Richie laces his hands together, pushing them between his knees with a welcoming shrug. “Explain it to me, and maybe we can find a compromise that gets you back on Will’s good side.”

She considers the request, which is further than Richie thought he would get in this conversation.

“We can make Will halfway happy?”

“We can try,” Richie says, gaining El’s curiosity. She’s not a restless person, so it’s hard for Richie to read her emotional tics. Those intense eyes just bore into him while he hangs from the last fiber of hope until she decides to reel him in or cut him free. “Come on, I’m all ears.”

Puzzled, El scans him up and down, counting to make sure he isn’t sprouting ears.

“It’s not safe,” she decides to start.

“Okay. Is the danger from Will being with me or Will being away from home?”

“Both.” Her face says you asked, didn’t you.

“If that’s true, then isn’t it better for you to come with us? You can keep him safe.”

“No,” El says, merciless as ever. “I’m not strong anymore.”

“Why not?” He accepts her flat stare as a refusal to answer. “Why can’t Will look out for you this time?”

“He’s not strong enough.”

Richie snorts. “Are we talking about the same Will Byers? I don’t know what problems you’re imagining I can get him into, but he’s stronger than you think.”

This gives El pause. She peers at Richie. “What do you mean, ‘stronger than I think’?”

“You said it yourself, you don’t think he’s strong enough. Just because you think something doesn’t mean it’s true.” Richie finds that the words have little traction in El’s mind, trying again. “Imagine that a stranger saw you and me, standing side by side. They look at us on the outside and see that I’m taller and older and a guy, and they might say that I’m the stronger one.”

“You’re not,” El says, firm as fact.

“No shit,” Richie sighs. “That’s my point though. If they think I’m stronger, it doesn’t make it true. Maybe they just don’t have all the facts.”

The cogs of her mind begin to turn. “What are the facts I don’t have?”

“Will is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, you included.”

At El’s doubtful silence, Richie continues, laying it all on the table.

“He’s different. I don’t know if you realize how rare it is to meet someone that doesn’t flinch at their own vulnerability, but Will is one in a million. He doesn’t change himself or play a part to make other people happy. Not being accepted by the vast majority must piss him off or make him upset, but he remains Will through it all. He stays sensitive, even though it gets him hurt. He still cares, even if he’s hated - for actually giving a fuck about other people - by assholes who wouldn’t know love if it socked them in the nose.”

The coffee starts to drip, its soft plink against the glass yanking Richie out of his rant. He watches a dark stain gather at the bottom of the pot, taking a deep breath before he looks at El again. She’s patiently waiting for more.

“Look, I don’t know what your dynamics used to be, but Will fights every day. It may not seem that way to you, but that’s only because he’s been doing it for so long on his own that it hardly shows.” Richie’s hands clench against each other, skin running ashen. “It’s not right. It sucks that we’re left feeling helpless when he has to face the bullshit alone. I hate thinking that one day, his inner strength won’t be enough and he’ll get hurt so badly that he won’t get up again.”

El looks away, words hitting like a physical blow.

“I hate it, but I can’t stop him from trying. I can only be there for him when he asks for help, hoping that he trusts me enough to reach out before it’s too late.”

When El’s chin wobbles, Richie backs down, hoping some of his words got through to her. He doesn’t know El. He hasn’t gotten the chance to know her, but from the subtext of this conversation, he’s beginning to suspect that while El’s burdens may come in a different form, they remain heavy and she carries them by herself.

“That being said, I think Will could take on the whole damn world alone, if he absolutely had to. That’s a fact,” Richie says, lifting his joined hands to point firmly at her. The kitchen is dense with contemplation for a few long seconds. “But you know what he’s been through better than I do. Can you honestly say that a weaker person would have survived any of it?”

El’s answer is to let her gaze sink to the counter, distant with memory. It's a clear end to whatever reprieve granted Richie the audience.

Not wanting to overstay his welcome, he hops off the counter and starts preparing a mug for his morning dose of caffeine, overdoing it on the cream and sugar in exactly the right way. He adds the coffee on top, sighing at the warmth of the curling steam that fogs his glasses.

El is back to staring at the empty soda can when Richie turns to go. He’s not sure what makes him stop, but he finds himself setting down the mug to pick up the can in question. He grabs the cylinder by the short sides and slowly twists until the metal warps, crackling loudly in the quiet room. He forces the ends together until it makes a deformed disc.

“Catch,” he warns.

El’s ready hands close around the crushed can, staring down at it in her cupped palms like Richie has performed a miracle. He lifts the mug in a slight toast, fingertips tapping against the ceramic handle.

“Sweet dreams, Jane.”

In the halo of light just off the kitchen, her response stops him.

“You were not wrong.” She isn’t smiling, but her voice isn’t as clinical as usual. “I do like you.”

Inside his head, Richie does a jumping heel-click, keeping his cool outside so she doesn't immediately change her mind.

“I know."

The polite thing to do would be letting Will wait until his guest has gone home so he can speak to his family alone, but Richie’s been involved thus far and doesn’t see a reason to be cut out now. He wants the catharsis for Will as much as Will wants it for himself.

With that in mind, Richie elbows Will’s arm so hard that he drops his fork. It clatters against the plate and the other Byers' twitch around the breakfast table, gazes fully prepared for an emotional confrontation.

Not the cleanest start, but Will seems appreciative for the final shove.

Determined to not distract Will while he speaks, Richie admires his friend's bravery without looking at him directly. The apology is given with crystal clarity, even though Will's not speaking as himself. Richie doesn’t think anything of the voice at first, but the wide, unblinking eyes of El suggest that she recognizes the person Will is channeling and knows them well.

He’s trying to figure out what it says about Will that he chose Mike’s voice for this particular conversation when Will presses their shoulders together, leaning on him for support. Richie looks up from the plate to see that Will has exhausted his prepared words, now waiting for his family’s response to the abundance of information.

Jonathan is plainly stunned. El is frowning. Joyce is-

Smiling? No, not quite. Her expression is attentive and clear of emotion, but for a second there, Richie could have sworn she was pleased. Something in her eyes…

“I’m sorry too,” she says, stretching a hand toward Jonathan on the table. “We are. You were trying to talk to us before now and we didn’t hear you.”

Called it, Richie thinks, even though a deeply nervous part of him finally relaxes at Joyce’s tender response. He checks on Will and finds him similarly soothed.

“We don’t want you to be unhappy,” she tells him. “We care about you so much.”

"I know you care about me. You wouldn't worry if you didn't care." Will's eyes fall to his plate, lifting his fork to restlessly stir a stagnant pool of syrup. Richie gets why he’s growing bashful. The easy part is over - now they actually have to do something about Will’s voiced frustration. Hopefully. "I just want you to be honest about it. If you don't want me to go because you don't think I can handle it, or you're worried about Richie's family being responsible for me, then I want you to tell me that."

Joyce hums with uncertainty. “There is a lot to consider, Will. You've never been on a plane. You've never been to Maine- or even east of Indiana. You've never taken an overnight trip without us. It's scary to think about you going so far away.”

Richie can understand that. He sips at his second coffee of the day with a sense of defeat, but it doesn’t sound like most of their issues with this trip have to do with Richie at all. Maybe he can plan a joint family beach party for Will’s birthday instead-

“I know. I still want to go.”

Richie chokes. Usually his spit takes are perfectly timed for effect, but he doesn’t even have to try this time, pain tightening his throat as he presses a napkin to his damp chin and coughs through the aftershocks.

This was not discussed last night. Richie opens his watering eyes to see them all staring at him in concern, Will most of all. He waves their attention away, but silently asks Will what the hell is going on. They were supposed to give up on getting him to Maine.

Will turns away from him, unswayed. “I want to go, and I’ll meet whatever terms you want to make it possible.” His gaze drifts to El and back. “Anything.”

This could go either way. None of the Byers look particularly moved, just processing Will’s request. Richie’s hands start to itch in the silence. Does he want Will to come to Maine? Yes. Has this family, in his limited experience, been capable of bending the supposed rules upon polite request? Sure. Does Richie, from extensive personal experience, know that the likelihood of a parent changing their mind about something as complicated as this is slim to none? Abso-fuckin’-lutely.

“Well, Jane has decided not to go, and we have to respect that choice,” Joyce says.

Looking at Will, he's become suspended in time, like not moving will prevent the present from being set in stone.

“So…I guess you’ll just have to go alone.”

Will responds in the most heartwrenching of voices, one that’s all his own. “Really?”

Now Joyce lets her smile show, and that’s what Richie saw before, purposely hidden behind her eyes. She laughs as Will knocks over his chair shooting out of it to reach her, crushing her in a hug while she’s still trapped in her seat. His thank yous run together until they’re a long, unbroken word that loses all meaning.

“I want the number of where you’re staying and I expect several calls,” Joyce insists.

“Yes, yeah, anything,” Will promises, beaming in disbelief. “I’ll call you all the time!”

Richie watches Jonathan get the same treatment, bearing it with far more grace than the standard older brother. When Will reaches El, there’s an awkward beat where she looks ready for the hug but Will doesn’t open his arms again. She deflates.

“Thank you,” Will says, hand fidgeting on the back of Jonathan’s chair.

El smiles, but everyone can see that it’s weak.

Will turns to Joyce and starts asking about luggage for the trip, leaving El to her breakfast. She shifts to face her plate again, eyes lifting across the table to meet Richie’s knowing gaze. He winks at her and her shoulders pull back, the small smile growing a bit more genuine.

It’s a start.

Richie’s blindsided by the hug he gets from Will, the frame of his glasses pressing into his face as Will’s arms make a good attempt at strangling him. He taps out against Will’s wrist, content to watch Will enjoy his moment of triumph as he retakes his seat, breakfast forgotten.

Which means Will didn’t learn the most important lesson of all: eat, then confront your family. Talk about amateur hour.

Will doesn't know what he expected, but returning from school with Richie to find his mother already on the phone and coordinating with Maggie felt about right. She had reeled Richie in immediately, since the ground rules are going to apply to him too, and he remains a witness to the unending conversation.

Of course, Richie is not thrilled to be their mothers' prisoner. He tries to creep away for the dozenth time, eyes rolling back in boredom as the inside of his elbow is caught by Joyce's hand, forcing him to return to his seat at the long dining table.

Will just grins at their antics. He shouldn’t get too happy, considering that the rundown on safety will be twice as long if his mother ever gets off the phone, but for now, he’s basking in his own good mood. Trading a few hours of concern for a full weekend away is the easiest deal he’s ever made.

But he’s not exactly the one that did the dealing. Will knows who deserves the credit for convincing his mother that this trip is a good idea, and two little words over breakfast don’t feel adequate enough.

El is sitting back on her heels at the coffee table in the living room, diligently writing one of the many letters she addresses to their friends in Hawkins. The television is turned to one of her show reruns, but the volume is low, allowing Joyce to coordinate in peace.

Now or never, he thinks, exaggerating a little to motivate himself into going through with it.

“El?”

She turns, ponytail swishing over her shoulder. Will is intimidated just looking at her – not from anything she’s doing exactly. In fact, her gaze is softer than usual, blinking widely as he approaches to take a seat on the closest couch cushion. Will’s knees rest together, covered by his hands.

“I want to thank you again, really. I don’t know what changed your mind, but it means a lot that you talked my mom into letting me go alone.”

“With Richie,” El amends.

“Yeah! With him, of course, but…alone,” he finishes awkwardly, not adding without you. It sounds too harsh. Eleven doesn’t seem to mind, nodding at him in that straightforward bob she likes to use to convey understanding. The staring contest continues.

They’ve clearly reached a nice resolution for now, but Will pushes his luck.

“I hope you get to know him,” Will says sincerely. “Richie, I mean. If you do, I think he’ll surprise you. He’s nothing like Mike, but you would probably get along. Richie can be pretty charming, when he wants to be.”

Will starts to sweat when Eleven looks down at her letters again. She’s probably aiming to end the conversation before they get into an argument again, and Will prepares to bow out clumsily. Maybe he should just accept it’s not going to happen between her and Richie. Some people don’t mix.

“They are more alike than you think,” she says, still writing.

Will is too thrown by her response to refute. It’s not often that El speaks without looking directly in people’s eyes. Will had asked about it once, and she simply replied Power.

“But Max says it’s easy to see the familiar in new people,” El continues. “You see Mike. I see my dad.”

A quiet sound escapes Will’s throat. “You do?”

“Yes.”

And that’s all she says, but maybe Will gets it anyway.

The lively sound of Joyce’s interrogation and Richie’s dry commentary provides a nice melody for the gentle scratch of El’s pencil against the page and Jonathan’s footsteps overhead. In the steady warmth of a place that could be home, Will takes a deep breath. In. Out.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his bolstered heart eager to remove just one more burden. Eleven’s head lifts, and Will could laugh with how being startled has bounced between them. “You didn’t ruin anything, El.”

Her steady eye contact comforts Will, who meets it properly. He wants to get this part right.

“I was angry, so I said it to hurt you,” he explains. “It was wrong. It felt easier to blame you than to be honest with you.”

The words sink between them like a lead weight, but better that than letting the truth hang overhead, threatening to fall in more painful circumstances. Eleven’s expression grows deeply thoughtful.

“You…lied?”

Then Will does laugh, the past two months of tension releasing its hold on his chest. She gives him a slow grin.

“I did,” he says, happily pushing off the couch to sit on the floor with her. His limbs are weak with relief. “I’ll do better. I’m still getting used to being your brother.”

Will, who’s known Jonathan since birth, didn’t realize it was a thing that required adjustment. From here on out, he’ll take Richie’s advice – no running from the new and the uncomfortable.

“We could become friends first,” El slowly proposes, like she’s been thinking about it for a while. “Then family.”

It occurs to Will that Hopper may have made the same deal, back when he was still luring her to safety. Worked for them, didn’t it?

“Friends,” Will agrees, shaking the hand that Eleven holds out. “I’d like that.”

Her hand grabs tight, trapping him for a moment longer. “I was wrong too. You have all the facts about Richie,” she says, speaking in that steady, rehearsed way. “If you say he is not bad, I will trust you.”

Will breathes through the lifting of the dam in his chest. He’s been feeling close to tears all morning, in the good way, but this is the closest he’s come to letting go. Will believes her. She wouldn’t say it to comfort him, so she can only mean it. Getting to speak his mind and having the complete support of his inner circle brings such intense feelings to life that it’s all Will can do to hold himself together and weather the flood.

“Why am I hearing laughter that wasn’t caused by me?"

Will turns in time to catch Richie clambering over the back of the couch, disrupting the cushions and pillows to such an extent that Joyce shouts some half-hearted complaint after Richie. She returns to the call as he settles on the proper side of the couch. Heedless to her wrath, Richie slips further down, taking a floor seat on Will’s right.

It puts Richie on the outside, and it’s only after the arm drapes lazily around Will’s shoulders that he realizes why it feels unfamiliar - Mike usually takes the middle.

“So, what’s the joke?” Richie asks, looking between them with increasing urgency the longer they stay silent. “Oh shit, is it about me? Please say yes, I want to hear this.”

“Does everything have to be about you?” Eleven asks. Along Will’s neck, he feels Richie’s arm tense.

Didn’t we just talk about this? Will thinks miserably, heart tugged around by the whiplash.

Richie’s laugh bursts to life right next to Will’s ear, forcing him to elbow his friend’s side until it quiets to a less head-splitting volume.

Suddenly El and Richie are chatting like good old frenemies, barbs traded lightly through their suppressed amusement. Will gets the sneaking suspicion that he’s missed out on something important.

But he’ll take what peace he can get, when it comes to these two.

Richie does his best to become one with the couch, fitting himself against the right arm as Will learns how to use Jonathan’s old camera. Apparently, it requires more training than point and click to take acceptable vacation photos. El is watching the proceedings too, sitting beside him with equally bad posture. The only reason Richie can figure is that she’s doing her best to apologize for not including him before, reaching out in her own peculiar way through silent company.

When Jonathan leads Will out back to explain taking pictures in natural lighting, El turns to Richie, pulling her legs onto the couch and sitting cross-legged.

“Can we make a promise?” she asks, voice low enough that Joyce can’t hear from the stove as she cooks dinner, still on the phone with Richie’s mom.

“Depends on the context.” Richie doesn’t like the idea of signing a blank check.

El nods, like she’s proud of him for being sensible. Her hands are together in her lap, fidgeting gently. She must have been really dedicated to holding up a wall between them before now - he’s suddenly able to see her nerves, eyes open and eager for reassurance.

“You are taking Will away from home. If there is any danger, I want you to keep him safe. Protect him.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about Maine, but it’s not that exciting,” Richie says. Seriously, what happened to make this family so cautious? “There are some grandmas that might pinch his cheek too hard, but other than that-”

“There are bad people everywhere.”

Ain’t that the truth. A muted shout passes through the open porch doors but neither of them turn to address it. Richie doesn’t understand the depth of the look on El’s face, but he can see her sincerity. She’s terrified at the idea of letting Will go off alone.

Richie does her the courtesy of lowering his own defenses.

“Whoever- or whatever comes after him will have to go through me first,” Richie says, feeling entirely too corny as El holds up a hand, pinky extended. She’s really like a kid sometimes. Richie wraps his smallest digit around her waiting finger. “I promise.”

There’s a buzzing click to their left, and Richie looks over to see Will in the doorway to the back porch, lowering the camera with a curious smile. Richie pulls his pinky free.

“Did you get my good side?”

Will shrugs one shoulder, aiming the next shot at El. She goes still to make it easier on him. “I don’t know. Do you have a bad side?”

Richie’s stomach flips and he pushes up his glasses, trying not to think about the response too hard. When he lifts his eyes, the lens is pointed at him again. Will zooms in and Richie flips him off.

“Let’s not use all my film before you even get where you’re going,” Jonathan says, hand raised into frame to cut off the photoshoot. He takes the camera back and starts packing a bag for it, showing Will how to store all the accessories he'll need. Richie knows from Will’s lengthy speeches of admiration that Jonathan is interested in photography, but he doesn’t connect the dots until he finds himself thinking back on Will’s absent compliment and his own resemblance to a certain friend from Hawkins.

“Is Jonathan the one who made you that album?”

El pushes to her feet and darts up the stairs without comment, leaving Richie at a loss for words until she comes back with the album in hand, calming his concern that asking somehow chased her off. She hands him the right side of the long book, pointing out various familiar names as he flips the pages at his own pace. Mike still looks like he could play Richie’s double in a parent trap movie.

On the last page, there’s an old black and white photograph framed like a school portrait, a confident smirk stretched across the face of a young man. The name printed beneath the rectangle reads James Hopper.

“Your dad,” he says, realizing there are no pictures of him earlier in the album. Richie looks up to see that Will and Jonathan are watching El carefully, matching sorrow in their eyes.

“Yes.” El stretches out her arm to rest across the book, tracing the edges of the low-quality image. “He was the Sheriff of Hawkins.”

Was.

El’s hand moves to her wrist, index finger twisting around a loose blue band. She unconsciously stretches it out, revealing small marks on her skin that he’s never noticed before, almost like a tattoo. It’s 011, etched in dark and slightly faded ink.

El could be short for Eleven, if Richie stretches his imagination a little, but what kind of name is a number? And what kind of 14-year-old girl has a tattoo of a number that matches her first name?

“He was a hero,” El says, interrupting Richie’s spiraling theories. “He saved a lot of people, including me.”

“Yeah?” When El nods, Richie gives the photo another long look. “What did he sound like?”

Her brows furrow in thought, understanding what Richie means much faster than Will had.

“Low,” she says finally. “When he wasn’t shouting, his voice was deep. He rumbled.”

Richie starts to hear him, mind working like an auditory sketch artist. Sheriff Hopper meant business. He was a bit gruff, a bit harsh.

“It felt warm,” El adds. “Especially when he sang the guitar parts in his music.”

He had a soft underbelly for the right people, rarely seen but often felt. He was tall and barrel-chested. Proud.

“It was hard for him to talk, like it is for me. He made promises he could not keep.”

He was protective. Full mustache and a head of hair. Strong. Flawed.

El untangles her finger from the band to partially cover the name beneath the portrait, leaving only Hopper behind. Not James then. Jim, maybe. Jim feels right. You don’t mess around with Jim.

“I miss hearing his smile.”

All at once, the image is complete. Richie sees him. The Sheriff. The father. The American.

“You'll hear it again soon, kid. Real soon,” Hopper says.

After a beat of silence, Richie breaks character with a deep breath, the Voice going up in smoke as he finds himself inside his own head again.

“How was that?” he asks, looking up. Three sets of eyes are staring at him, their open mouths speechless. El draws the album out of his hands, closing it and cradling the book to her chest - all without breaking eye contact.

“Good,” she says, so soft that it’s barely a whisper.

Richie mentally pats himself on the back. He feels like he can start to understand El now, seeing one of the people who shaped her. Hopper was a hero. He protected people while he was alive, and now that he’s not, El has decided that someone has to fill his shoes.

But no one’s really strong enough. No one can keep them safe.

“Maggie, let me call you back,” Joyce says, startling Richie into turning on the couch to watch her slip into the back hallway. Her face is pinched. Feeling like the asshole he tries not to be, Richie realizes he acted recklessly, bringing up Hopper out of the blue when it’s clearly a sore spot. El isn’t the only one here who lost someone important.

The couch shifts as El retreats next, heading upstairs with light feet. Will is quick to take her place beside Richie.

“How’d you do that?”

“What, chasing El off or upsetting your mom?” Will isn't distracted by the joke about Richie's misstep, forcing him deeper into self-evaluation. “I don’t know. She told me about him. I just listened.”

“But it was so…real.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Richie says. “Like I said, putting on a Voice feels like borrowing someone else’s skin. A lot of practice and you can get really good at it.”

“Not that good,” Will says. Richie lifts his hands innocently, not sure what answer his friend wants to hear.

Once again, El reappears to assuage Richie's guilt, this time with a record in hand. She circles the coffee table to address him.

“You can make tapes,” she says, accurate as ever. “Can you put this in a tape?”

Richie leans forward, accepting the paper sleeve and scanning the small circle opening in the center that reveals the title of the album. He laughs under his breath. Definitely Jim.

“Sure can. This stuff is kind of ancient, you know. Not bad, but definitely not modern.”

“This is music,” El says seriously. Richie’s not about to argue with her - he has a feeling he wouldn’t get very far anyway.

Chapter Text

March 1st, 1986

“Okay, turns out my mom can’t remember for shit. She has no idea what pier I’m talking about, so that plan is a bust.” Richie sits on the edge of the desk, putting his weight on one arm as he leans back to see Will’s progress in outlining their itinerary. “We can still go to the coast on Saturday, but it’s going to be a long, cold stretch of ocean without anything fun to do.”

Will leaves it on the list, more concerned about the glaring omission from Richie’s drafted ideas.

“Aren’t we going to your hometown?”

“No, the reunion’s in Bangor,” Richie says. “I thought I told you that.”

“You did, but I asked your mom about it. She said we’ll only be about 100 miles from Derry. Why don’t we hang out there for the day? You can give me a tour.”

“No,” Richie says, pulling the paper from under the pencil when Will tries to write it down. “We can’t go back to Derry.” His lost gaze is looking right through the page before he blinks, attention sharp again. “Come to think of it, there’s this antique theater in Bangor, only a few blocks down from the park they’re using for the meet-up. You want to catch a movie?”

“Wait, why can’t we go to Derry?”

Richie’s frown hunkers down to stay. His eyes are vaguely lost, like they’re acting out a scene and he's missed his cue.

Will presses. “You don’t want to see your old friends?”

“What friends, Byers?” His voice is casual as ever, but Will can tell that he's annoyed and failing to hide it. Richie doesn’t like to be pursued when he’s retreating into himself. “Do you see any weekly letters sitting around? Have I mentioned any long-distance calls? I didn’t have friends as a kid. You know I was alone.”

“What about Eddie?”

Richie rolls his eyes back so far it looks painful. “Jesus, Eddie again. Does this guy owe you money or something? I don’t know him now, if I ever did.”

Will narrows his eyes. “You knew him, Richie. He’s in your yearbook.”

“Yeah, well, so is half of Derry's juvenile population.” Richie presses a hand to his forehead, frustration turning to distress. “Maybe we were partners on a school project once upon a time, and I just convinced myself that it meant we were friends because I was fucking lonely. I’m telling you, it doesn't matter. They don’t mean anything to me.” Richie fixes his glasses, eyes low. “Hell, they probably never did.”

Will wants to believe him. He would stop asking questions just to end the pain that mentioning this has brought up - if only certain parts of Richie’s story didn’t feel so wrong. Will doesn't think that this is a simple case of drifting apart. Richie is not the type to let his friends go so easily. He does his best to take care of the people in his life.

“What are you doing?” Richie sighs, unhappily watching him retrieve the yearbook. “Put it back.”

“I’m not crazy,” Will says firmly, even though Richie hasn’t called him that. Yet.

He opens to the front page of signatures, turning it in his hands to show the proof. The people Richie marked, they aren’t names hastily scribbled in a classmate’s book like the rest. Ben wrote two whole paragraphs about how Richie could make him laugh even when he felt too scared to breathe. Bill wrote that he loved Richie, even when he hated him. Especially when he hated him.

“If no one was your friend, who were these guys? You meant something to them. Something real.”

“I. Don’t. Remember.” Richie isn’t even looking at the page, like he can’t bear the sight of it. “This is from the end of ninth grade, you know. I don’t have the faintest idea of what I had for breakfast two days ago, and you’re asking about two years. You can’t expect me to recognize any name you draw out of a hat.”

“What about faces?” Will flips the pages forward, showing Richie the marked portraits again. For each one, Richie gives it the briefest glance before denying any association. When they reach Uris, he tries to grab the book out of Will’s hands.

“Look, just tell me what you want me to say! Because I’ll say it and we can move on,” Richie pleads, reaching the end of his patience. “I don’t know why these people are perfect strangers to me, but let’s be honest here, okay? If they were ever really my friends, they would have stayed my friends, like your Party.”

Richie fights disappointment with a rough swallow. To him, No Friends Now has to mean No Friends Ever. The alternative is much worse - that he had a good thing and it ended. Will knows how much that hurts to consider.

“I moved away, man. I never saw them again and they forgot about me. I must have forgotten them too.”

Richie could be right. Most of Will’s friends have been good at keeping in touch. There’s effort being made on both sides, and Will knows that twenty years on, he won’t have lost their names to time. He’ll remember growing up with great people as his friends.

Will wants that for Richie, and he suspects that Richie already has it. Or had.

It’s possible that Richie is telling the truth, as far as he knows it. Will almost forgot his mom when the Mind Flayer sunk its teeth deep enough, so it’s not a stretch to think this particular amnesia could erase specific people from Richie’s memory. As far as the cause, it’s definitely unnatural. Will just can’t accept that two years is long enough to forget people like Stan that wrote I’m proud to be a loser with you.

But if Richie’s a dead end for information, who should Will be asking?

He sets the yearbook beside Richie on the desk, flipping to the signatures again. Only one message includes a phone number. It’s different from the others, tinged with worry about its own words, like there’s a reason to be afraid.

“You don’t remember Mike Hanlon?”

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times-”

“Fine,” Will allows. Richie doesn’t trust his apparent surrender, gaze skeptical. “Maybe he remembers you.”

Will hastily copies the number onto a scrap of paper and heads for the stairs, Richie’s shout echoing after him.

“Wait, you’re serious?!”

Will greets Mrs. Tozier, who’s reading at the kitchen table. When she notices him dialing on the kitchen phone, she gets to her feet, trying to offer him the privacy of the room. Richie slides into Will’s side, almost toppling them both in a delayed attempt to stop him.

“Richie, leave him be,” Maggie orders, pointing threateningly as she passes by.

“But he-”

“I’m not asking!”

Richie waits until she’s walked out the back door to make another grab at the phone, far too slow for Will’s dodge. He shoos Richie like his mother had as the line rings.

Resigning himself to this lost cause, Richie darts across the hall and picks up the office line, waggling the handset at Will in partial triumph. The call picks up as Will is sticking out his tongue in reply. Someone speaks shortly on the other end.

“Hanlon Farms, Phillip Hanlon speaking.”

Will’s hand clenches around the phone at the confirmation that they haven’t hit another situational roadblock. “Hi, Mr. Hanlon. I was wondering if…Mike is available?”

There’s a long pause. Will holds his breath through it.

“Who’s calling?”

“Um- Richie, sir. Richie Tozier.”

Richie covers the receiver, mouthing his complaint at Will. What the fuck?

Relax, Will replies. Mr. Hanlon mutters for him to hold on, shouting Mike’s name and getting a few faded sheep bleats in return. Richie’s lips part to sync with the noise and Will snorts. Their amusement dies a quick death as a new voice emerges from the background.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tozier boy is on the phone. Wants to talk to you.” There’s a rustle of the phone changing hands and quiet breathing as footsteps recede, calling out tag numbers.

“Richie?” Mike prompts, voice deeply confused and concerned, but full of recognition. When Will waves a hand to urge a response, Richie shrugs back at him like you started it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mike.” Will’s brain is twisted up by the name, but he carefully untangles the crossed wires - this is Hanlon, not Wheeler.

“You don’t sound like Richie,” the voice says, losing interest fast.

“That’s because I’m not, but I know him,” Will assures. “I found your number in his yearbook and I just wanted to talk to you about a few things.”

“For example?”

Will takes a beat, glancing over to see Richie holding the receiver up against his ear, intense focus carving deep lines on his forehead. He looks like a person trying to capture a dream as it floats away.

“From what you wrote, it seems like you really cared about him. Were you close?”

“Close?” Mike chuckles. “Yeah, you could say that. What’s your name?”

“Will.”

“Will. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time to talk and I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Richie is one of my best friends. If you’re calling to get some dirt on him, you won’t get any from me.”

“No, nothing like that.” Will switches the handset to his other ear, heart slowing as he approaches the real purpose of the call. He needs to know if Richie forgot or…forgot. “He just doesn’t talk about Derry or anyone he knew as a kid. I thought you might know why.”

“I do. What says I should tell you?”

Will lets his free hand slide off his goosepimpled neck, putting his back to the wall like it might be safer that way. Across the hall, Richie stays silent. Somewhere further in the house, water starts to run – pipes rattle and the stench of sewage festers in the air.

“I think he’s in danger,” Will says softly, looking away when Richie’s gaze darts to him. Voicing the dread that’s plagued Will since they met leaves them both far too exposed for direct eye contact. “And I want to help.”

After a considering pause that reminds Will of the older Hanlon, Mike hums his approval.

“Then maybe you can. In Richie’s state, I’m sure he’s hardly in a position to defend himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t fight back when you’re in the dark,” Mike explains, somber with some unknown burden. “Richie doesn’t talk about Derry because he can’t remember that there’s anything to talk about. It’s a side effect of leaving town after what happened. Just like Bill, Bev, even Stanley. He forgot about that summer and the friends he had here.”

There are a lot of questions burning on the tip of Will’s tongue, but only one comes out as he takes a breath and pushes out the words.

“He wasn’t alone?”

“Never,” Mike says, more certain than a heartbeat in a living body. “Richie’s always been one of us - one of the losers.”

Will’s smile blooms, knowing well that words slung as insults can be reclaimed. Being a freak is the best. Crazy together. He looks into the other room to see the phone left off its cradle on the side table. His joy withers.

“Mike, can I call you back? It’s urgent.”

“Uh- anytime, Will. If you-”

Will hangs up on him, moving to the space made vacant by Richie’s departure and closing that line as well, cutting off the flat disconnect tone. A thud overhead and a warning call from Maggie to keep it down upstairs tells Will where to go next, tugging himself quickly up the stairs with both hands on the rails and heavy strides connecting every third step.

“Light feet,” Maggie shouts. Her voice booms as she reenters the house to make sure they’re hearing her.

“Sorry, Mrs. Tozier!” Will calls back, rounding the low wall on the second floor and trying to balance his weight on his toes.

The cracked door of Richie’s room lies ahead. Will approaches it with the reluctance that he might reserve for a gate to the Upside Down. His shaking hand grazes the doorknob before it's yanked from his grasp–

run

-but it’s only Richie bolting out from the other side, skin ashen. Their shoulders collide hard enough that Richie staggers into the wall before stumbling onward.

Maggie’s temper boils over. “RICHIE!”

“Really sorry,” Will yells, wincing as Richie throws himself into the bathroom.

Pausing to make sure that Mrs. Tozier doesn’t intend to make good on her ignored warnings, Will walks delicately after his friend. He gingerly closes the door behind him, trying not to gag when Richie retches up his lunch. Creating a distraction for his ears, Will empties the mug that serves as a toothbrush holder onto the counter, filling it with tap water.

“Fuck,” Richie groans, stomach surging up for round two as Will turns on the wall vent to keep the sour smell from seeping into the hall and alerting any sharp noses. “It’s worse than a hangover.”

Will shushes him, shutting the water off to listen for the light creaking of the stairs. “If your mom heard you say that, you’d be dead.”

“I’d be grateful,” Richie mutters, grabbing the end of the toilet paper roll and scrubbing it over his mouth. Will holds the mug close to his face and Richie tips against it, fingers layered until Will is sure that Richie has a hold. Between two pairs of trembling hands, he’s surprised that none of the water spills.

When Richie sits back from the porcelain throne, the yearbook he must have retrieved slides off his lap, hardback clicking to the tile. Richie shoves his glasses into his hairline, thumb scrubbing between his eyes.

“Felt like a bomb went off in my head when I picked it up,” he says, taking in more water to gargle and spit. He tosses in the soiled toilet paper and closes the lid, flushing the bile down. Will wishes he could expel the tart curl in his own stomach that easily. “It’s been sitting on my completely accessible bookshelf for a month - but now that I know it’s there, I can’t look inside. Bullshit.”

Will nods, lifting the yearbook delicately. It remains bound paper with a dark brown cover, ordinary and non-threatening. He’s not afraid of a book, obviously. He’s just not sure he enjoys seeing Richie’s reaction to being around it, or the confirmation from Mike that Richie’s lapses in memory are not innocent by design.

“Richie?”

There’s a grunt of acknowledgement, so Will proceeds.

“If I asked you to do something kind of weird…”

Richie grimaces, arms wrapped uncomfortably tight around his own bare chest.

“You’re serious?” He’s asking for the eighth time, but he wants to give Will plenty of time to say sike. The thick steam is fogging his glasses and the bathroom mirror. As for his hair, it's utterly limp in the humidity, clinging to his skin as he tries to push it out of the way.

“Just trust me,” Will says, turning off the spigot and tugging his long sleeves up to his elbows. His nape is damp with perspiration as he tests the water temperature with his fingers. Satisfied, he shakes his hand dry, looking back when Richie doesn’t enter the makeshift hot tub. “What’s wrong?”

This is definitely Something Weird, Richie decides. With only his shorts to keep him decent and a sneaking suspicion that Will knows more than he’s letting on, Richie is deeply in uncomfortable territory. Is this meant to be a bonding experience? Maybe a delayed hazing ritual?

Went Tozier would say his son’s indignity knows no bounds, but Richie has his pride when it counts. He likes to prove people wrong - or at least steal their satisfaction about being right. So, when Will’s waiting stare starts to feel like a challenge, Richie sets aside his grievances, stepping into the tub.

“Jesus,” he hisses at the immediate sting. He withdraws his seared foot, planting it on the tub’s rim so he doesn’t tip forward. “Are you trying to melt the meat off my bones? I’m mostly sinew, you know. Doesn’t make for a good soup.”

“Go slow,” Will says, leaving him to acclimate on his own.

The water is hellishly hot, even compared to the relative heat of the air. Richie is forced to retreat and try again twice more, his skin glowing pink when he grits his teeth and keeps himself submerged. He attempts to call it quits once the water reaches his upper thighs, but his deathgrip on the side of the bath slips, sending him down into the pooled lava with a squawk.

Richie does his best to keep breathing as his friend returns to the room with the same evaluation happening behind his eyes. Whatever Will is thinking, he’s wrong. Richie will follow through and prove it.

“You couldn’t have added some bubbles or flower petals to make this enjoyable?”

Will is stubbornly unamused. “How do you feel?”

“Bad,” Richie admits. Even with his head and shoulders out of the water, the brutal heat is tormenting him. His legs are practically molten. “If I’m going to die of heat exhaustion, can I at least know what I did to piss you off?”

“I’ll explain when we’re done,” Will says, turning to do what Richie feared he would. The two standing heaters they had set up on the floor buzz to life, coils flooded with orange light.

Richie peels his arms from the tub’s edge, leaning away in the confines of the water to escape the additional sources of excruciating warmth. His head starts to feel heavy, so he sacrifices another inch of height, sinking in the water enough for his damp neck to be supported by the sloped back of the tub. Not willing to dip fully below the water’s surface in case it melts his eyeballs out of his skull, Richie drags both hands over his face to make the skin less clammy. He's unsure what’s sweat and what’s water when he’s done.

Of all things, Will reveals a hair dryer next. Richie has to lift his fogged lenses and squint just to make sure he’s not imagining it.

“Do not drop that,” he warns, ready to leap out if Will’s elaborate designs to kill him by electrocution are being realized. Only now that he’s highly vulnerable does Richie accept the true absurdity of letting the situation reach this point. In hindsight, he really should have asked more questions before putting his life in Will’s hands.

“I won’t. Sit still.”

Will kneels on the shower mat, aiming the small machine so the steadily warm air is now being driven directly at Richie’s face. As Richie blinks away the salty sting of sweat in his eyes, he imagines that the way Will watches him is probably similar to the way a scientist studies their guinea pig.

If all this is preparation for next year’s science fair, Richie needs to make himself scarce when the real experiments begin.

Discomfort has become complete misery. Blink, Richie reminds himself. Everything from his breathing to his senses has stopped running on autopilot, his waterlogged brain refusing to carry its own weight. The majority of his innards have become mush. Richie finds himself slumping as the blurry numbness spreads, going through extreme effort to push against the far wall with his legs and lift his upper chest out of the water again. His efforts are useless against the firm hand on his shoulder that keeps him immersed.

“Bastard,” Richie says, the muggy air making it hard to inhale.

The incredible heat is settling on his body like concrete being poured to pave over him, dull panic in the back of his brain insisting that each next second will be the one where his body stops listening altogether. It wants him to escape while he still has the strength to stand, but Richie can’t run - not until Will stops looking at him like that. Like he’s…scared of Richie.

He's far beyond the point of feeling relief when the hair dryer’s motor slows, air going still and horrible again. Will reaches out, thumb pulling up on the outer corner of Richie’s eye before shining a flashlight at his pupils. Richie suffers the assessment, too drowsy to lift his arms and bat Will away.

“You don’t feel angry? You’re not in pain?”

Pain? Richie considers the idea, view swimming as his glasses slip down his nose.

“Head hurts like a bitch.”

“Yeah?” Will sits up and up and up. Or Richie’s sinking.

“Yeah,” he says, the word interrupted by water rushing into his mouth.

Richie wakes from a blank, grey space behind his eyes. His vision is blurry, but it’s the standard lack of sight he has when he wakes up without his glasses on, recognizing Will by his wide and relieved eyes. It reminds Richie of Joyce bringing Will back after he heard that tape.

Richie turns his head on the bathroom tile, staring at the base of the bathtub as the glug of water swirling down the drain reaches his clogged ears. “What the fuck?”

“You passed out,” Will says, voice warbled. Richie flexes his jaw and his ears pop. “Are you okay?”

There’s no good answer for that. They both hold their questions until Richie is back in his room and dressed, sitting at his desk by the open window. Will fans the cool air into his face with an old school binder.

“How did you get me out of the water exactly?”

“I don’t know. You were lighter than I thought,” Will says, shrugging at Richie’s offended incredulity.

“Okay, moving on - what were we trying to prove?”

Will sets the binder aside, his hangdog expression fully expected. Richie is starting to accept that ninety percent of Will’s responses have undertones of shame or guilt.

“It was a test. What you've forgotten sounds like it was really special, but I think the reason why those memories were taken is just as important.” Will leans closer to him, gaze searching for an answer that Richie doesn’t have. “The names that Mike said on the phone, they match the ones marked in your yearbook. You don’t remember anything about them?”

Richie tries to think, infuriated by the gaps in his own head. There are no walls blocking off his memories. They’re just gone.

“This isn’t normal.” Richie looks up at Will, expecting a trite reassurance from a friend to assure him that there’s a perfectly average explanation for this selective amnesia.

“I have some experience in that area,” Will says instead. His eyes are feverishly bright. “There’s a place – like our world but different - and there are things in this place that can mess with your head.”

Richie takes a beat, then exhales, expression wavering between upset and bemused. He’s not supposed to take that seriously, is he? First the phone call and the nausea, then a boiling bath where he practically drowns, and now this? Rabbit holes only go down as far as you let yourself dig.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I was,” Will says, unbothered. He’s too certain of this idea to be shaken, and too casual about his clear intention to overcome Richie’s disbelief. Will is staring him down and saying alternate dimension with eyes as honest as Richie has ever seen them. He believes in his own explanation.

Richie believes that this entire situation is unbelievable.

“You were able to handle extreme heat, which is a good sign. That place is cold, so the fastest way to tell if you’re possessed is to-”

“Possessed?” Richie pushes up from the chair, still woozy. He imagines Will holding up a cross instead of a hair dryer and snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” Will says. He might as well say Didn’t ya know, Rich? Up is down and left is right and possession is real. “I think you’re safe as far as that goes, but your memories were still taken. We need to find more evidence.”

“To prove that we’ve finally cracked?” Richie runs a hand down his own cheek, the sting of his blunt nails made sharper by overheated skin. “I mean, I can’t- it’s amazing to me that you’re this committed to such a flimsy joke.”

“This is real, Richie. This is happening to you, like it or not.”

“Oh, it’s happening? Okay, I get it now. My mistake.”

“There have been signs!”

“What, an old yearbook and one weird dude on the phone? Call the papers, I’m convinced.”

“There’s more than that,” Will persists. “Don’t you remember the first day back after winter break? The light above your desk was flickering, and only that light.”

“The bulb was going bad,” Richie says. He does remember. He caught Will staring right after that.

Discomfort ripples down Richie’s spine like he’s taken a knife to the back. Will's had this suspicion for a while - from the beginning, by the sounds of it. Why is Richie only now deemed worthy of being informed about this “evidence”?

An even quieter, younger part of Richie wonders how much of their friendship was built on nonsense. Will had been honest with them - Richie’s appearance has nothing to do with Will’s desire to get closer to him. It’s this. This is why Will is still his friend, when no one else has wanted to be Richie’s friend for this long before. He thinks Richie is part of this grand conspiracy.

You too? Will had asked from the start. Are you going insane too?

Richie could get sick all over again.

"It was faulty wiring, not a sign of the apocalypse."

“Are you hearing yourself?” Will gestures to Richie like his point has been made, like this isn't the product of a bored, lonely mind trying to make Richie seem more interesting than he actually is. Like Richie's the problem for not playing along. “You sound like every character that’s ultimately proven wrong and dies because they wouldn’t listen to the truth!”

“Hold on, which is it? A horror movie or a different world?”

“We’re not in either right now,” Will says, frustrated by Richie’s flippancy. “-but things can go downhill fast. You’d be surprised.”

“Way ahead of you, Byers.” Richie has had enough surprises for one day.

Neither of them storm out in a blind rage, so when the argument ends, they remain at odds despite standing less than five feet from each other. The awkward silence stretches out and settles in. At a loss, Richie offers to drive Will home - because being stuck together in an even more confined space is exactly what they need right now.

Will’s hands lift like he’s prepared to argue, then fall back to his side in defeat. There’s too much and not enough to say.

“I’ll walk," Will says, just done trying.

Richie doesn’t stop him.

Ten minutes later - after talking himself out of it a dozen times - Richie calls the Byers house, glad that El is there to pick up. He relays that Will is on his way home and she should keep an eye out for him.

“Thank you,” El says quietly. “For keeping your promise.”

Don’t thank me, Richie thinks, hanging up the phone before guilt can eat him alive. Christ, please don't thank me. I’m the one who let him go.

Chapter Text

March 3rd, 1986

"Tardy, Mr. Tozier. You know we keep track of that these days."

"Yeah, my punch card is around here somewhere." Richie pulls at his jacket pockets, pretending to search himself. "Four more and I get a free detention."

The teacher sighs at the giggles that anticipate discipline, waving Richie off instead of giving him more opportunities to act up. Order maintained, his lesson continues.

There are two open seats in the classroom. Richie doesn't blink before taking one near the back right, leaving the desk in front of Will wide open. Unfortunately, he gets to watch El's face fall as he goes. She had been enjoying his minor rebellion, now quickly confused by his clear avoidance. When Richie sits down, he drops his bag on his desk, pretending it’s not a shield to protect him from her piercing attention.

Deflected, El bothers Will for answers. He brushes off her concern, Richie’s appearance not breaking his focus on the teacher.

Richie isn't late by accident. He's been sitting in his car the last twenty minutes to make absolutely sure there was no chance that he and Will would have time to talk before the bell. He can't imagine they'd have much to say to each other if they did talk, so this is better for everyone.

In the same vein, Richie is the first person out of his seat when the bell rings, blending into the crowd, head ducked to further conceal his height. It's embarrassing and a little childish and Richie prefers being both if it means he doesn't have to discuss what happened on Saturday. He dedicates himself to avoiding Will, right down to the slightest chance of eye contact in the hallways. Since he has Will’s schedule memorized, it's not difficult, but he still tries very hard - making it all the more impressive that El manages to corner him at lunch.

Richie's nerves are on a hair trigger, so he reacts with a full-body flinch when he looks up from his tuna sandwich to find her in the seat across from him. He pries his fingers from the cavities they’ve made in the bread.

"Don't you have math right now?"

"I'm using the bathroom," she explains, getting a wary glance from the people one table down who don’t have the context. "Why were you weird this morning?"

Resistance is truly futile. There is no situation in which he would win a staring contest against her.

"Will and I had a small disagreement," Richie says, seeing El's brows furrow, "-but we are handling it. Don't get involved."

Richie always imagined that El would be pleased to see some distance put between him and Will, even post-kitchen conversation. She’s always felt territorial to Richie. He’s glad to say that he’s wrong - she's not happy about this separation, not in the slightest. It seems like El wants to shake them both by the shoulders, or lock them in a room together until the problem is solved. She’s seen one too many romance movies.

"You are supposed to go to Maine together on Friday," El says, as though he might be unaware. "It’s Monday.”

"I…know," Richie mutters. "I'll fix it, okay?"

You better, her face suggests. Richie doesn't want to know what El's or else looks like.

It's not that Richie’s trying to hold a grudge or intends to never make up with Will. It's just that there's no good place to start. Fighting with friends isn't like fighting with family. Nothing forces you to eat breakfast together the next morning, once everyone's cooled down. It's just you, sitting with your shame until someone apologizes first.

But if Richie doesn't bring it up, and Will doesn't bring it up, then what? They forget each other and move on? Game over, better luck next time?

Richie doesn’t want that. He shudders to think of what it would be like to see Will around Lenora and not be allowed to talk to him. This morning was one of the worst he's ever had. He might have reached out already, if it wasn’t for the little detail that might be of interest to Will when Richie does get around to apologizing.

He’s not sure what he’s sorry for.

Yeah, Richie was making light of everything they were saying, but that’s typical. Why Will had such a problem with it is the issue. He got defensive over this memory business, and Richie doubts that Will can give up on it to keep things nice between them. In fact, Richie is the one who encourages him to risk anarchy rather than suffer in silence.

Will believes one thing. Richie believes another. Somehow he doesn’t think Agree to Disagree is going to serve them well in this situation.

When Richie spots Will camped out beside his car in the parking lot after school, he kicks himself for thinking he was in the clear. If El found Richie, then Will obviously could - and he would work smart, not hard. Will notices Richie’s deer-in-headlights act before he can go find a bathroom to hide in. Outplayed, Richie hangs his head to approach.

Will wastes no time with pleasantries and doesn’t demand that Richie explain himself like El had. Either he already knows or doesn't think it matters.

“These belong to you,” Will says, covertly holding out a manila envelope like they’re spies trading government secrets. “Jonathan tried to clear them up, but he said they were pretty distorted, even before he started processing the negatives.”

Right, the photos, Richie recalls. He had forgotten that old camera, with all the fuss made about his yearbook in the same box.

“No hard feelings,” he says, taking what’s on offer. “It was always a long shot.”

Richie taps the edge of the envelope against his palm, wondering which of them is supposed to bring it up now. The amnesia talk is still nonsense in Richie’s opinion, but it was a big deal to Will. Richie can admit that he should have heard him out.

A honking horn startles Richie from their tense little world. He checks over Will’s shoulder to see Argyle leaning out the window of his van, waving at them. Richie waves back, confused.

“I asked Argyle for a ride today,” Will explains. “I wasn’t sure if…”

Oh. Yeah, that one hurts. They had a bigger fight than Richie thought, if Will suddenly can’t rely on him for the simplest of routine tasks. With the way Richie's been acting today, he doesn't blame Will for doubting him, but getting a taste of his own medicine is deeply unpleasant. It’s been over a month since Richie has had to leave school without Will in the passenger seat.

Pushing up his glasses, Richie offers a hasty smile. “That’s smart, hedging your bets. Can’t be too careful.”

Will nods like he’s only trying to be polite. God, playing nice sucks.

The van honks again and Will goes. Richie forces himself to watch Will’s retreating back, humbled by remorse and twisting the knife in his own chest as punishment. El holds the door of the van open, waiting for Will and climbing in after him. She deigns to look back at Richie on her way, expression stony. Fix this faster, her stare says, words punctuated by the door sliding sharply back into place.

Forget hating this morning - this whole day is the worst Richie can remember.

He traces the tucked flap of the manila envelope, feeling some deep resistance at the thought of peeking inside, even though Will claims there isn’t anything to see. He dismisses the feeling easily by pretending it doesn’t exist, throwing the envelope in the passenger’s seat and climbing in after it. Tried-and-true methods of evasion usually work best.

It doesn’t occur to Richie until he’s setting the table for dinner that he used a qualifier on that sentiment earlier, like he's had a worse day and just can’t remember.

“Be careful there, Rich,” his dad warns, a framed picture balanced between his hands. Richie presses himself between two chairs to let his father waddle past. Went sets the burden down below a set of nails in the wall that once held up a rustic landscape view of Cape Elizabeth, which Richie is just realizing has been removed from the room - this Will situation has him stuck inside his head.

Went takes a moment to stretch and shake out his arms. As far as pep talks go, he’s probably the best bet. Richie hasn’t had to ask him for serious advice in years, but he doesn’t doubt his father will have a good answer for his troubles.

“Dad?”

“Son,” Went says, matching Richie’s tone. His hands grab the frame by the sides, fingers finding the small hooks before he lifts it from the ground with a hup of effort.

“Can we speak in the hypothetical for a second?”

“Once I’ve finished here,” his dad promises, distracted by getting the picture to stay on its hooks. He leans back to survey his work before letting go, making an adjustment so the top is level against the wall.

Richie doesn’t notice if it's crooked, entranced by the painting being revealed in pieces as his father moves in and out of the way to fuss with the alignment. It’s sunflowers, painted in dry grass, all growing in front of a rusted wrought-iron fence. There are seven in total, one with a snapped stem on the far right. Four are wilted and a bit dull, the remaining two standing tall and bright in the mild sunshine. Richie gets the feeling that if he stares long enough, they would start to sway in the breeze.

“Where did that come from?” Richie hears himself ask.

Went frowns, puzzled until he realizes that Richie got distracted from his original request to talk.

“This was a gift from Will. Made it himself, just for Mags. She custom-ordered this frame and it finally came in.” Taking one last scan, Went sighs at a job well done, stepping back and dusting his hands. “I swear, she adores that boy. It’s like the Kaspbrak kid all over again.”

“Kaspbrak?”

“Sure,” Went hums. “You remember how she used to dote on Eddie.”

No, Richie thinks, feeling faint. No, I don’t.

“Anyway, what’s your hypothetical?” his dad asks, hands settling on his hips as he turns.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Went’s eyes narrow. Richie may have made more trouble for himself. He’s saved from a full interrogation by Maggie, who shouts for Went from the kitchen, demanding assistance.

“If you say so,” his father accepts, nodding at the stacked dishes still in Richie’s hands. “Finish that up before the food’s ready, boyo. Your mom will have your hide if the chicken gets cold waiting on you."

“Aye aye,” Richie says absently, laying out the plates and silverware like he’s dealing cards. The sunflowers don’t move.

While his parents prevent a complete dinner catastrophe in the kitchen, Richie creeps upstairs to his room, careful to walk lightly. He locks the bedroom door behind him.

The photos spill from the upended envelope in a glossy heap, sunlight bouncing off in all directions. It might be beautiful, if Richie stopped to care, but he spreads them out across the rug with tasteless urgency, eyes darting to each one, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything familiar.

If just one memory stayed behind, even one…

As Will said, there’s very little to see. All the enlarged images are badly distorted, some overrun with splashes of white and others tinted so red that only the darkest of shapes are visible. Richie can tell that some of the photos once contained people - a tube sock covered ankle here, an outstretched hand there, but nothing distinctive. Nothing important.

Richie sits back on his heels before the mess of broken memories, hands scrubbing his face until his glasses fall to the carpet between his knees. His stomach is ripe with a cocktail of relief and disappointment. He can’t decide if he wants Will to be right or wrong about all this. If Will is right, what does that mean for Richie? Is anything else going to be taken from him - anyone? If people like Eddie were so easily ripped out of Richie’s past like paper from a notebook, what’s to stop this curse from taking more?

This terrible Thing that Will talked about, it scares Richie the most. You get tangled up in crazy sci-fi shit like this and you shouldn’t be able to forget it. It should scar you, haunt you, keep you awake at…night. Pulling his hands away from his eyes, Richie finds himself trembling. He remembers his reflection in the bathroom mirror, stuck in that mask of unnameable dread after yet another nightmare. He is scarred. He's haunted by a ghost he can't even see.

For a second, just a second, the veil lifts. Spread across the images on the floor, his ghost resolves and springs to life. The random scarlet tints and patches of white blend and bleed until it becomes the thin, grinning expression of a clown. The make-up of his smile drips up into the vacancies where there should be eyes-

yellow, hungry

-until it reaches a bulging forehead, scalp wrinkling back to three pointed tufts of hair. It’s visage wavers, flickering like an old movie played slow, frames split and motion jittering. Somewhere in the back of Richie's head, he hears a gurgling giggle spill from the shadows.

Richie’s eyes start to burn, too afraid to blink and give the monstrous illusion opportunity. He watches with an unbeating heart as the clown's features dance, realizing that he can see it all in perfect clarity despite his glasses not being on. Richie lifts his flexed hands to the level of his eyes to double check, but his limbs are blurry, as they should be. The image grows choppier, Richie witnessing It play on through the gaps between his indistinct fingers.

Richie succumbs to the instinct to close his watering eyes, killing two birds with one stone by lunging for his glasses at the same time. His nails claw at the carpet, a gasp of triumph escaping him when his dragnet closes over a plastic leg. The lenses jab him in the cornea and pain mists his view, but he blinks through it, capable of seeing once more.

The photos show only the distortion of time and improper storage of negatives. Richie’s homemade Rorschach is gone, melting back into color and light. Because It wasn’t real. It’s never been real.

All one big hallucination, he decides. My imagination got the best of me.

Richie pushes back from the reminder, risking carpet burn on his palms to get some distance. Socked feet provide little friction, but Richie gets there eventually, his back hitting the side of his bed frame and preventing further escape. Not that there’s anything to run from.

“Richie, dinner!”

“In a minute!”

“NOW!”

Richie gathers himself with a few deep breaths, the air suppressing his nausea. He doesn’t look at the photos as he sweeps them back into the envelope as fast as he can. Richie stuffs the evidence into the same desk drawer that now holds his yearbook, unopened since Will touched it last. He closes the drawer firmly, wishing it had a lock he could secure.

Richie realizes with a start that he doesn’t want to remember. Whatever happened, whatever that was, Richie wants to forget, then get so far away he can never go back to it. He’s hiding. He wants to stay hidden, and Will-

You too?

Will has known it all along.

On Tuesday mornings, Will Byers can be found at his locker, storing his art club work for the meeting after school. He rarely uses it otherwise, so Richie is pretty lucky it's a Tuesday, and he doesn't have to do this song and dance while surrounded by randos at their desks.

He approaches with all the confidence of the insincere douchebags that strut around this school like they own the place, feeling the Voice rise in his throat to match. He's cool, he's composed, he's calm. It's time to kick this apology’s ass.

Richie props his forearm on the edge of Will's open locker door, leaning against it with a lazy smile. Before he can announce himself, Richie gets a glimpse of Will’s eyes, a cloudy chill sitting behind them. The skin above his cheekbones is dark, lower lids bruised pink. He looks bad. Selfishly, Richie hopes it’s not entirely his fault.

A pencil bag topples from the locker when Will tries to retrieve a book from the back. He stares down at it unmoved, only sighing before he stoops to retrieve the scattering utensils. Richie stomps on a capless pen that’s trying to roll into the advancing river of students. Will recognizes him by his shoes, picking up a stick of charcoal and putting it back in the bag without acknowledgement.

Richie crouches, the noise of passing conversations dulled at this height. “You alright?”

“What do you care?” Will asks, lacking any bite. He remains indifferent as Richie hands over the pen pulled from beneath his stopgap, tucking it with the rest.

Promising start.

Belongings secured, Will pushes unsteadily back to his feet, shoving the supplies deep in the locker. He rubs his fingers together to clear the chalky grey dust. Richie stands to meet Will, waiting for him to walk away. He doesn't.

“I screwed up,” Richie says. Will’s shoulders relax, just a little, but it's as good a green light as Richie is gonna get. “I wasn’t ready to hear what you were saying, so I tried to shut you down. Humor is one of my coping mechanisms, if you haven’t noticed.” Richie clears his throat, almost derailed by his known vice. “It was stupid. I was stupid. Still am, I guess, but I won’t make that your problem next time.”

Will closes the locker. It removes a physical barrier between them, but Richie doesn’t get his hopes up, feeling the divide widen. If he’s lucky, Will might walk away without tearing him a new one. Richie is starting to see that he’d deserve it, Will’s gaze staring straight through the closed locker door and into the middle distance. His shirt isn’t tucked in - a strange detail to notice, but it implies a carelessness to Will’s attitude that makes Richie feel like absolute dogshit. He knows vaguely about Will’s faltering relationship with Mike and he still-

Will turns in place, leaning against the lockers with a slow inhale. His skin regains its natural color.

Richie decides to finish the fumbling apology. “If you don’t completely despise me yet, I want to hear about this place you mentioned. I haven’t found answers on my own, not any that I liked.”

Will looks away from him, toward the Spring Break countdown banner hung over the hallway intersection. “What says you’ll like mine?”

“Habit,” Richie explains, moving to lean beside him. Feeling bold, he dares to let their shoulders brush in a peace offering, and Will closes the inch-wide rift. It’s far too generous.

Fighting the lump in his throat, Richie works a hand into his backpack, rooting around the bigger pocket. “Also, my mom wanted me to bring you a muffin. This is blatant bribery, so you don't have to accept the limited time offer, but it's some of her best work. I suggest not missing out." He reveals a paper bag, shaking the lure enticingly.

Will does end up reaching for the reward. Richie holds it out of range - because there's always a catch. The speech isn't over.

"I’m sorry, Byers. I should have taken you seriously.”

Will allows the repentance to sink in, tired eyes surveying Richie like he’s found a new side to his Rubik's cube of a personality. Then he snatches the muffin bag from Richie's inferior reflexes, his profile offering a brief smile.

“I’m sorry too,” Will says, paper crinkling under his fidgeting hands. Charcoal stains the rolled opening. “You weren’t- aren’t stupid. I pushed you too fast and probably freaked you out. If anyone should understand, it’s me.” His gaze goes distant in that unfamiliar way. Richie’s really starting to hate that detachment - or at least, whatever puts it there. It makes Will hollow, like a part of him has fallen out and been left behind.

“You want to hold hands?” Richie coyly asks. He hopes to tether Will with a laugh, so the rest of him doesn’t slip away. “Might make it less scary.”

Will seems to consider it, which makes Richie go warm, aware of his comically lifted arm. Big brown eyes check out the crowd before Will pushes off the lockers alone.

“Maybe later,” he says, tipping his head in the direction of first period. “Do you plan on earning that punch card detention or are you coming to class?"

“Maybe later," Richie replies, poking fun at Will's cool response. He leans into the elbow Will nudges against his side as they start down the hall.

Will and El put the muffin up for review to keep themselves occupied before the bell rings. While they're trying to decide if the crumble contains cinnamon or nutmeg, Richie flattens the paper bag against his desk, trailing through the smear of charcoal with his pinky and turning the stray marks into a small smiley face. He angles the drawing toward them for judgment. Will's expression brightens, reminding Richie why he enjoys making his friend happy.

“Not bad.”

“Yeah? Good enough for the art club?”

“...Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Chapter Text

March 8th, 1986

It should turn heads, showing up at a family reunion with an unrelated person in tow. There should be questions and strange looks. Even a cold shoulder or two would be better than this semi-acknowledgement stunt.

Will watches Richie interact with a small group of the closer relatives, his friend’s face bearing a practiced and bored smile. Maggie is talking about a comedy show they’ve all been watching. Each person is enraptured by whatever she’s telling them, right until she leaves a verbal opening. Richie cuts in with a timely joke, as he does.

They all laugh. They throw back their heads, guffawing in unison to say Isn’t that the funniest dang thing you’ve ever heard?

Will’s focus narrows, waiting now for the laughter to die down. One by one, Richie's relatives take one last amused breath before their attention cuts back to Maggie, and she’s telling her story again. Their faces are once again caught in that half-trapped, half-indulgent look of one talking to a blood relative that they don’t know very well. They aren’t even smiling.

That has been happening all morning. Richie is practically a ghost in his own family, and his transparency extends to Will, since no one asks who this strange boy being towed along with them is. When Maggie does feel the need to introduce Will, he gets the faintest nod of a greeting before their interest moves right along. He doesn’t exist, as far as they’re concerned.

It doesn’t feel intentional. No one seems to hate Richie. They just can’t keep their eyes on him, like he’s an optical illusion that's only visible when he’s making them laugh - and they really laugh.

“Will, did you hear me?”

“Of course, Mom,” he says, standing up from his lean against the payphone and abandoning his study of the Richie phenomenon. “I can’t call you while we’re on the road, but if I see a phone, we’ll stop and update you, I swear.”

“And be careful. If anything happens to the car- what? Oh, I’ll tell him. El said she wants a shell from the beach.”

Will grimaces, reminded that he hasn’t exactly updated them on the Derry plan. “I don’t know if it’s that kind of beach.”

“There’s always some kind of shell,” his mom replies, not convinced of her own accuracy. “She said anything’s fine, but a conch would be nice.”

“People don’t stumble over conches,” Will insists. “I’ll look, okay? No promises. I have to go, Richie’s calling me.”

Richie is not calling him, but Will takes the easy way out, his mother speeding through the rest of her tidings of safe travels as Jonathan shouts a goodbye in the background, the line crowded with noise as El joins in.

It’s not that Will doesn’t trust his family with the truth. The simple explanation would be that he's decided to visit Richie’s hometown instead of the beach, no questions necessary. Will just doesn’t want them anywhere near whatever this situation will turn out to be. Knowing that Richie’s involved is bad enough. After the incident at Starcourt, Will has to hesitate before putting them at risk. His family can't lose anyone else.

When Will returns to Richie’s side and they make their escape from the reunion, no one pays them any mind. They don’t ask why Richie’s skipping out early, or why his parents are letting him borrow the family car. Will realizes that even Went and Maggie hardly blink at allowing Richie to go off on his own. Except for a request to be back at Richie’s aunt’s house by sundown, he walks off with no strings attached.

His parting joke has the surrounding family busting a gut, and then they’re free. Richie selects their road trip music by popping in one of his tapes, putting the rest back in the bag at Will's feet. He starts the car as Will straightens his seatbelt.

“Have you ever thought about becoming a comedian?”

Richie doesn't answer, arm stretched across their seats to look through the rear windshield and reverse. He glances at Will, arm falling to the gear shift. "I'm waiting for the sarcastic follow-up."

"No, I mean it," Will says, encouraging. "Everyone thinks you're funny."

Richie chuckles lowly, steering out of the parking lot. “Ah, I understand the confusion. Those people are laughing at me, Byers, not with me.”

Will begs to differ. He’s distracted from arguing as Richie pushes his fingertips against his temple, working in small circles. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…antsy. Did you get a chance to set up a meeting with Mike?”

“We’re supposed to find him at the library this afternoon.”

Richie’s one-handed grip on the steering wheel twists back and forth. “Did he tell you anything new?”

“Not at all. He said he didn’t want to discuss specifics over the phone.” Will gets it, knowing how the Hawkins Lab monitored calls for information, but Richie exhales unsteadily.

“In case I haven’t said it enough, I really don’t like going in blind. I don’t enjoy this whole Derry plan at all.”

“You think I do?” Will asks, getting a shrug. “We’re going for answers about your memories. If what Mike has to say isn't worth the trouble, we can leave. Why do you think I’m here, if it’s not for your sake?”

“I don’t know, you have an attraction to weird shit,” Richie says, noticing Will’s clenched fists. “Not that this is your fault. I know you’re here for moral support or whatever, but you get fanatical when this stuff comes up. Most people try to ignore their worst fears, not act on them. They definitely don’t chase the first sign of trouble across the country.”

“If we want to help you, we don’t have much choice,” Will says.

“It's starting to feel like the only help I'm going to need after this particular Great Muppet Caper is psychiatric in nature."

Will doesn’t laugh, but he’s pretty certain that the crowd back at the reunion would. That feels important, somehow.

The Derry City Center is bright with the bustle of life on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. There are plenty of families spread out over the grassy manicured space. Nearby shoppers pass and loiter for the chance to rest their cramping hands from carrying too many bags. On an outdoor stage, a gaggle of elementary schoolers are performing a musical number that’s mostly an overload of noise.

“I think they were building a mall when we moved away, if you want to-”

“No,” Will says, clenching down his hold on his own upper arms. “Thanks.”

Richie’s pointing hand falls, and he pushes up his glasses to peer closer at Will. "You’re bugging out. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He turns away from Richie, looking out over the loosely gathered crowd. “Does this place feel off to you?”

“Feels like Derry,” Richie says, which doesn’t answer the question. “What does off mean?”

Will doesn’t know how to answer. He looks up at the sky, light clouds floating by on occasion. A gentle wind keeps the temperature pleasant. The weather is nice, for being so far north at the tail end of Winter. This scenery makes people want to go outside and have a picnic. Embrace the day. Stay out later than they would dare if this was the kind of town where things go bump in the night.

“In Hawkins”—Will explains quietly—“there were always signs when it was starting again. People would change, plants would start to rot, animals would go berserk. The power went in and out, even when there wasn’t a storm. There are always signs.”

“Signs of what?” Richie asks, oblivious to Will's tone. Will never got around to explaining everything that happened before the Byers moved to California, not after that first attempt went so poorly. He’d said enough about his concerns surrounding Richie to get him here without bringing his personal experience into it.

“Bad things in general,” Will says, ducking the real question. “I don’t see any signs here, but-”

A pair of toddlers screech with joy as their mother blows another round of bubbles. All across the open area, people are sitting on blankets or stretched out over towels, chatting happily. There's a tiny old radio on a bench across the way, its music echoing off the buildings surrounding the square. Everywhere Will looks, there's action and movement, but no soul. The citizens of Derry are cheerful, but the energy of their excitement is all wrong, some missing human piece in their act. They’re puppets on strings.

“Being here in Derry, it’s like…standing in sunlight without feeling the warmth on your skin.” Will checks the back of his neck, finding it completely relaxed. Either he’s lost his early warning system or this empty feeling has nothing to do with the Upside Down.

“I think you need to get out more,” Richie says, pulling up his sleeve and turning his arm to check the quality of the sun's rays. “Feels fine to me.”

“Forget it,” Will says. He notices with growing suspicion that no one is looking directly at them, even when gazes pass this way. Might as well be invisible here too.

“You sure? If you’re cold, you can borrow my jacket.”

“Let’s focus on you.”

“My favorite subject.” Richie follows him to the closest sidewalk, heading down the street. His shoulders slump as he notices Will surveying the shops up ahead. “Shit, you mean the amnesia part, don’t you.”

“Based on what happened with the yearbook, I think we should go for places that you subconsciously avoid,” Will says, ignoring the guttural sound of suffering that Richie makes in the back of his throat. They stop at the street corner. “Which way?”

Richie covers his eyes, spinning around in a few tight circles before pointing a finger down the street on their right. He peeks above his hand in time to watch Will turn in the absolute opposite direction, marching away.

“Okay- you're screwing with me, right? That was perfectly random!”

“Nothing’s random, Richie. Not when it comes to this.”

Will’s logic should be flawless, considering the track record of his unusual life, but after they end up at the same intersection four times, he wonders if any of this trip will go as planned. Richie is already putting a hand over his eyes when Will stops him.

“This isn’t working.”

“No,” Richie gasps, voice scandalized with false surprise. “How could that be?”

Will scans the area surrounding the Capitol Theatre with stubborn hope. Maybe there’s a reason they keep ending up here. This memory gap isn’t always about repelling magnets. It’s more of a blind spot. Richie remembers these buildings, but he doesn’t have any context to apply. They’re searching for something that isn’t there.

If only El were here, Will thinks, surprising himself. He’s never had to need her before. She’s just been there. It’s a genuine wish now - if Eleven were here, she would put on a blindfold and have the answer for them.

“Close your eyes,” Will says, turning back to his friend. Richie does, tired but trusting. “What do you hear?”

“Cars,” Richie says, engines rumbling down the road behind him. Tires crunch lightly over dust and dirt on the asphalt as the drivers make their turns at the intersection. “People talking to each other.” Will catches a few conversations, others too distant to distinguish near the City Center. “Your stomach’s growling. I told you we should have stopped for lunch.”

“Don’t focus too hard,” Will suggests, trying to recall exactly how Eleven described her search process. “Take a step back and let your instincts do the work.”

Richie takes a step back off the curb to mess with him, forcing Will to snatch up Richie's arms to pull him back to safety. The dry laughter that rises in Richie harmonizes with a bell, softly ringing. The hair on Will’s neck stands up as both echo into silence.

Gotcha.

Will checks the avenue of buildings across the way. There’s a butcher’s meat market and a barber shop, but the barber’s door is propped open, and Will sees customers leave the butcher’s place without the door making a sound. There are enough storefronts along this road alone that searching would be a heavy task. Will is prepared to convince himself that he imagined the sound and his own averse reaction when he hears it again, able to track the fading noise as a corner store’s red double doors swing shut.

"Will?"

“There,” he says, blinking from his daze with static buzzing down his spine.

Richie squints at the building with the striped awning. “Are you sure? I know my memory is shot, but I can say that I used to avoid Creepy Keene at all costs.”

“Then we’re headed in the right direction,” Will points out, looking both ways before heading across the road. When he turns back on the far side, Richie is staring off in the distance, toward an alley down the way. A car horn blares and Richie shivers, catching up.

From the outside, the pharmacy appears harmless and typical. There are signs in the window advertising sales and the front entrance smells of antiseptic. Will takes the lead, letting Richie remain a step behind as the bell chimes as it did before. With one step inside, Will is changing his mind. The door closing behind them feels like the door of a prison cell, the sterile air and drab rows of product making Will’s throat tight, reminded of the Hawkins Lab. A customer with the energy of a rotting zombie shuffles past them to leave, stumbling over a wrinkle in the carpet and narrowly escaping a busted chin.

“Is your evil radar happy now?” Richie hisses. He leans away from a haunting display of kitschy souvenirs, tongue lolling out in disgust.

“It’s just a store,” Will mutters back, forcing his feet to carry him into the closest aisle. Just a store. Just a song.

“What exactly are you hoping to find in this hellhole?”

“We’ll know when we find it,” Will says.

He leaves Richie to his tentative perusal of a rotating rack of postcards, discreetly evaluating the other patrons. There’s a woman wearing dark purple lipstick and a spiky necklace in the next aisle over. Near the front window, an older man is viewing the rear of a window display for leather shoe polish. His lips are pursed to an accordion of wrinkles. In the far aisle, a head of short brown hair faces the wall. The boy's questing hand reaches up to a high shelf, but his balance falters and he tips forward, a clatter of boxes following the slip. He curses and ducks out of view to gather the fallen merchandise.

At the counter, Will sees a balding older man in a lab coat handing over a prescription with a crooked smile, probably the infamous Creepy Keene. Will leans into Richie's side, voice low.

“Maybe we need to talk to him.”

“Pull the other one,” Richie says, unmoved by Will’s determination. “You want to give yourself the heebie-jeebies, go right ahead. I’ll wait here.”

So much for doing this together.

Will sets off down the aisle, pretending to search the top rack of hygiene items while keeping one eye on Mr. Keene. It should be Doctor, given his profession, but the title doesn’t fit his unsettling aura. It’s too trustworthy a word to use on Keene, whose reptilian eyes are magnified behind his coke bottle glasses.

A few feet away and closing fast, Will debates the likelihood that talking to Keene is the right move. Maybe this has nothing to do with Richie’s problem at all, and the bell is a coincidentally spooky sound. Will hates that leaving now would be close enough to running away, but he loses the nerve to call out as Keene retreats to the room beyond the front counter.

The sound of gum popping startles Will into noticing a girl on his left, empty plastic baskets in her careless hands. Her eyes slide to Will, looking him up and down. It’s a familiar stare, disinterested as ever and dismissing Will for what he is – nobody important. She struts past him, ducking beneath the liftable counter and following the same path as Keene to the back room.

Before he can return to Richie and order a full retreat, a chill sweeps up Will’s arms. He turns to the alcove where the girl appeared, seeing a door left open in her wake. Green neon light seeps out from the opening. As Will stares with the uneasy stillness of a rabbit alerted to the threat of a looming predator, the glow begins to flicker. He takes a step forward.

“Do you need an inhaler?”

Will tears himself off the baited hook, finding a stranger at his side. He quickly diverts his watering eyes at the floor, blinking rapidly to clear the heat from his face. Fear saturates his throat, making it impossible to give the verbal response required. Will shakes his head.

“Are you sure? That’s what I sound like when I can’t breathe and I don’t see you pulling out your own.”

“I don’t have asthma,” Will chokes out, seeing the stranger’s slim hand pull free of their bulging pocket. A pair of sneakers shift awkwardly near his own.

It’s the same feeling, Will thinks. He runs a hand up to the start of his short sleeve, but the skin is free of bumps. Even if this isn’t the work of the Mind Flayer, this sensation spills fear around until you’re full of it. Pandora’s Box opens in the back of your head. All the shadows spring to life and you can’t put them in the dark again.

“You probably shouldn’t go down there,” the good Samaritan overstaying their welcome says.

“Down where?”

“The basement.” There’s a careful pause. “You were staring, but don’t bother. It’s dark and gross. Nothing’s down there.”

An odd choice of words. They disturb Will’s concentration enough for him to lift his head, surveying the open door again. The putrid lime light is steady and dull.

“I’m serious,” the guy repeats. “There’s like, pickled frogs in these old jars and more cobwebs than a haunted house. If this place got health inspections, it would be shut down by now. I’d make the call myself, but they threatened to blacklist my name if I made another complaint, so…”

The stranger trails off as Will turns to him. It takes a moment for the resemblance to sink in with Will still on edge, but his mouth works faster than his brain to supply the answer.

“Eddie?”

The guy blinks. His yearbook picture could have been taken yesterday, for all he hasn’t changed. His hair and face are so exact, Will would believe that Eddie has been cryogenically frozen for the last two years. Will is fairly sure he’s even wearing the same shirt. Eddie’s pinched features twitch into a confused, polite smile that confirms Will’s assumption.

“Yeah, that’s me.” His eyes cautiously survey Will. “How’d you know my name?”

Lucky guess? Will takes a deep breath to stall for time, not sure whether he should tell Eddie the truth or make up an elaborate lie on the spot.

“Hey, Will, we should get these,” Richie says, walking up behind him with a package of adult diapers in hand. “They're on sale and we'll have one less problem if Mike scares the shit out of us with his ghost stories.”

The mortified silence is Will response, his eyes wide as they snap back to Eddie, who looks equally disturbed and twice as shocked. Noticing his audience, Richie’s arm falls back to his side, hand flicking out to toss the diapers into a bin of travel-size bottles. Richie isn’t showing any shame, but he has withdrawn into himself, stepping closer to Will’s side.

“Who’s this?” he asks. Will’s eyes close in defeat as Eddie splutters.

“I should be asking you! He knew who I was by looking at me.”

Richie’s shoulder sways into Will, demanding explanation. Will is cut off by further interrogation.

“What are you even doing in Derry? I thought you-” Eddie falters. “You moved to California, last I checked. We haven’t talked in months and you show up, here of all places, without even calling first. Are you an idiot?”

“No, I’m Richie.” The juvenile response gets a scoff from Eddie. “And I wasn’t asking you, motor mouth.”

Will watches Eddie process offense and confusion, emotions moving through the revolving door of his face. He’s incredibly easy to read, like Will. Their similarities are growing fast.

“This is Eddie,” he murmurs to Richie. Understanding sweeps across Richie’s gaze before it returns to Eddie. He starts to look vaguely ill.

“Yeah, he knows,” Eddie says, frowning at Will like he’s lost his mind. “Who are you?”

"Will. I'm a friend from California."

Eddie’s chin juts out, sudden anger directed at Richie. “Right. I get it. Because who needs old friends when you get shiny new ones." When Richie doesn’t leap to his own defense in the shocked silence, Eddie takes it a step further. "What, no response? That's rare. Guess I should appreciate the quiet while it lasts."

Will winces vicariously on that one. It makes sense that Eddie knows where to hit - good friends know your real weak spots - but the last thing Will wants is this confrontation going south out of misapplied anger. There are things people say that they can’t take back. He’s prepared to separate them like a boxing referee and mark this whole trip a net failure when he catches a good look at Eddie’s eyes. He knows those eyes, maybe better than his own at this point.

Doubt can only be relieved by others.

“Can we talk?” he blurts, drawing Eddie’s ire by stepping between them. “Outside.”

Eddie tries to peek over Will’s shoulder, eyes narrowing when Will sways to block his view. “Fine. I need to get my prescription first.”

“Are they digestives to help you pass that stick up your ass?”

Will’s head swings around to warn Richie off him, beaten to the punch by Eddie’s response.

“Digestives aren’t even pills, dickwad, they’re cookies. You’re thinking of laxatives.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Will says, realizing they won’t slow down unless they’re held back, verbally snarling like rabid dogs. He grabs Richie’s arm tight to keep him from responding.

“Whatever works,” Richie says anyway, getting the last word as Eddie fumes in flustered silence and Will gets Richie to the door.

They tumble out to the sidewalk, clean air rushing in to replace the suffocating atmosphere of the pharmacy. Will releases his steering hold, turning back to find Richie staring at the front window. In this direct sunlight, he can’t see beyond his own riled reflection.

“So?” Will optimistically nods toward the storefront. “Did it bring anything back?”

Richie reaches up to scratch at the side of his own head. “Nada. You’re sure that was the Eddie?”

“Uh, yeah. Why else would he react like that to seeing you?”

It’s not hard to tell that Richie is troubled – at least, not for Will. Richie is good at hiding behind indifference or humor on the average day, but his lingering silence says plenty. He’s disappointed. Same as Will, he thought that seeing his prior friends in person would produce a missing piece from his Swiss cheesed memories.

It’s Will’s job to ensure that disappointed doesn’t become discouraged. “Maybe it’ll be different with Mike.”

“I doubt it,” Richie says, shaking off the slump. He moves to the curb of the sidewalk, balancing the tip of his shoes off the slight ledge. “Then again, when have you ever steered me wrong, Byers? Besides the bath incident. And the yearbook. And the photographs.”

Will is mid-eyeroll when Richie’s words register. “Wait, the photos from your camera? I thought they were ruined.”

The bell above the door quiets them, delaying Richie’s answer. Eddie steps out of the doorway and wavers. His attitude suggests he thought they’d be gone by the time he came out. Maybe he had started to believe he imagined them all along. Now that they’re definitively here, he’s ready to run in the opposite direction.

“We have to meet Mike at the library in half an hour,” Will says, aiming to reassure. “If you want, I can try to explain on the way.”

Eddie fails to react, managing a stilted question. “You…talked to Mike?”

“A little. He-”

“You called Mike and made plans,” Eddie realizes, breathing hitched. “He knew you were coming all the way back to Derry and he didn’t tell me.” The silence is sharp and scathing as he zeroes in on Richie. “You didn’t tell me.”

“We only had Mike’s number,” Richie says defensively.

“That's bullshit! You’ve had mine memorized since first grade,” he accuses.

Ouch. They must have been friends for a lot longer than Mike’s vague speech had implied. Will’s imagination doesn’t have to stretch far to know how Eddie must feel, hearing Richie offer such a ridiculous counterargument to the voiced concern. If Mike ever thought to give Will a reason for not calling last summer, and it had been forgetting Will’s phone number...well, they would have a problem.

Faced with their chastened stares, Eddie’s hand fumbles into the right pocket of his shorts, struggling to pull out an inhaler and get it uncapped. Cupped in his palm and pressed to his mouth, the device hisses hollowly, his fervent shaking providing no relief.

“Help him,” Will whispers urgently.

Richie lifts his shoulders helplessly, gesturing to the problem. “What do you expect me to do?”

Eddie wheezes impatiently, abandoning the used cartridge to pry at his prescription bag, tearing open the sealed paper at the top so roughly that he almost loses the contents. A refill for the inhaler is withdrawn and loaded, charged as Eddie’s chest heaves and shudders through each hard-won breath.

I knew a guy who got worked up like that, Richie had said, meeting Will that first day. Even though Richie can’t remember Eddie, he knows him, somewhere deep.

Soothed by his own efforts, Eddie holds his medicine to his chest, catching fresh air in slowing gulps.

“Come with us,” Will says, not too proud to plead. He can feel Richie tense beside him, clearly against the idea, but that tells Will they’re on the right track. “I think you can help.”

Eddie isn’t so easy to convince. He leaves the safety of the pharmacy doorstep to approach, eyeing others on the street as invaders to a private space. When Eddie reaches them, he looks up at Richie, expression complex for once.

“Mike was right then. You’re like the others.” He says it as though he wants to be wrong. “You don’t remember that summer. You don’t remember any of us.”

Richie is uncomfortable answering, wary of accidentally sending Eddie into another fit. For once, he doesn’t try to beat around the bush with a joke. “Not at all.”

Eddie struggles to accept the news. He takes a few deep breaths, turning away from their small huddle. Lost as he is, Eddie mirrors his portrait more than ever before, childish sadness gathering around him in a storm, whole and consuming.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs finally, gathering himself and starting the journey without them, library bound. “Mike will know what to do.”

Richie holds out his arm for Will to go ahead. "After you, Byers."

"Age before beauty," Will corrects. Richie grins, accepting the performative bow as he leaves Will to bring up the rear.

On the way, Will looks over his shoulder only once. He could swear he hears a voice calling, impossibly, for Zombie Boy. When Will turns, all he finds is an empty sidewalk, quickly catching up to Richie before the next street corner.

Just a nickname.

Chapter Text

They enter the library in single file, Eddie leading the way to one of the tables on the main floor.

“Mike’s bag,” he says, pulling it up from a chair and setting it next to a mountain of reference books. They have titles like A History of Old Derry and Atlas of Maine, suggesting that Mike has gotten a head start on the research. Will checks his watch, finding it’s three minutes past two.

“What’s the point of this meeting?” Eddie asks, surveying the dusty books from a distance. “Are you trying to remember?”

When Richie stays quiet, Will covers for him.

“We want to know why it happened,” he says. “Getting the past back would be nice, but we want to make sure Richie’s safe first. If his memories could be taken without him knowing once, it could happen again.”

“We?” Eddie lifts his eyebrows. “This is Richie’s problem. I don’t see how you’re involved.”

Will struggles for a fitting answer. He’s doing this for Richie - and maybe for his own peace of mind too, but that feels selfish at the moment.

“We’re friends,” Will says. “I want to help him like he’s helped me.”

“You flew to Nowhere, Maine for a weekend because he’s your friend?” Eddie asks, bringing Will’s sanity into question. “How long have you even known each other?”

Will is quiet again. Confrontation has never been his strength, and he’s not here to argue about his relationship with Richie. It’s theirs alone.

“Two months,” Richie supplies, not having the same restraint. “Which is two months longer than I’ve known you, what with my selective amnesia and all.”

The bite in his words is noticed and absorbed, Eddie returning to the bristled anger of their first interaction. Richie and Eddie seem to be direct opposites about meeting new people. Richie had been skeptical when he caught Will looking at him, then he became all smiles and goofing off. Eddie had tried cautious kindness first, and now it’s snark and aggression. Will is getting dizzy from the whiplash.

“Richie!”

Coming up behind them, they find a guy that can only be Mike Hanlon getting shushed by the spectacled librarian, his head ducking in apology as he makes his way over with full hands. He drops a short stack of books on the table, taking Richie in with a wondering smile.

“Wow. It’s really you,” he says at an appropriate volume. His brown eyes gleam with delight, the only warning before he’s gathered Richie in a brutal hug, hand patting hard. It looks a little painful, given Mike’s build. “It’s so good to see you again, man.”

“Oh,” Richie says hoarsely, arms trapped at his side and constricting his rib cage. “That’s a warm welcome.”

“Of course. What did you expect?” Mike asks, backing up and dusting off Richie’s sleeves. When Richie’s gaze slides past Mike, he turns, startled to find Eddie. He doesn’t lose his enthusiasm, but his voice stays under the quiet buzz of a busy library this time. “Eddie!”

“You didn’t tell me Richie was coming to Derry,” Eddie says, stonefaced.

Mike’s hand scrubs at the nape of his own neck. “I left a message asking you to call. You never got back to me, so I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I didn’t get any message.”

“I swear I called. Maybe your mom-” Mike stops, seeing the flash of distress on Eddie’s face. He leaves the statement open-ended, returning to the matter at hand. “Well. Richie is here now, and they found you. That’s all that matters. Have you forgotten anything since we spoke on the phone?”

“Not like I would know,” Richie says. “It’s Mikey, right?”

"Sure. If Mike makes you feel more comfortable, that's okay too. This all must be strange for you."

“Strange isn’t the word,” Richie says, hands tucking into his pockets.

“Give it time,” Mike says, his smile gentle. Mike’s nature seems sturdy and consistent, providing a rare resting place in the chaos. Will is starting to enjoy his company immensely. “I have a theory that your memories may return, the longer you’re in town.”

“Because they were taken when he left Derry?” Will asks, getting a long look. Mike glances at Eddie, who becomes invested in the floor between his shoes.

“In a way. I can explain once you’ve heard more.”

Will agrees to hear him out. Richie pulls out a chair to settle in for the long haul, but doesn’t sit down yet, because Eddie takes a seat directly opposite him, already giving Richie the evil eye. Not wanting to hear them spar again, Will takes the chair meant for his friend, using his foot to push out the one beside him for Richie.

The new arrangement calms Richie a fraction, so Will knows he made the right move, even if Eddie can easily glare daggers into his profile this way. Mike takes the remaining fourth chair, across from Richie and next to Eddie.

“Where should we start?” Mike asks, buzzing with enthusiasm.

“It’s dead,” Eddie says firmly. “Let’s start by saying It is dead, which means that bringing all of this up won’t change anything. Richie’s memories will come back or they won’t, not that it matters to him either way.”

The quiet noise of an active library is suddenly loud.

“What’s dead?” Will asks, glossing over all that. He doesn’t think Eddie would be willing to explain his hostility, if pressed.

Eddie glowers at him for being underinformed. “The thing that took the memories. The clown. It.”

Will wants to laugh. A clown? A clown can terrorize an entire town while going completely unnoticed? Then Will thinks about Mr. Baldo from Bob's story, and it's not so funny anymore. A killer clown is no crazier than a man without a face or a living storm.

But if It's really dead, then they wouldn't have ended up here. No coincidences. Will sits forward and Eddie crosses his arms, unintimidated.

“Are you sure?” Will asks.

There, he thinks, seeing the doubt creep back into Eddie’s eyes.

“One-hundred percent? If you’re not sure that It's dead, then we have to do something. We have to try anything we can until It’s definitely gone– because if It isn’t, It will come back. It will take more than memories. It will take more than one summer or one weekend. It’ll take everything, and the longer we wait for It to prove us wrong, the harder it’ll be to kill for good.”

The silence is much longer, this time.

Richie whistles low. “Hell of a speech, Byers. I would have told him to stop being a wuss, but your way works too.”

“I am not a wuss,” Eddie barks, wrath reignited. “You have no idea what we’re dealing with here, Richie, literally no idea, so I don’t want your two cents. Him either.”

With his serious request ruined by levity, Will tries to not give up. “We’ll never have any idea if you don’t let Mike tell us what’s going on.”

“Some things are better left alone,” Eddie replies.

"Not in this case.”

“What would you know about it?” Eddie doesn't wait for an answer. He looks to Mike. “You have no clue who this guy is and you trust him with this?”

“He’s with Richie,” Mike says, trying to cool down a nuclear reactor with an ice cube. “I trust Richie.”

“This Richie doesn’t even know your last name,” Eddie reminds. “He wouldn’t know your first if he had it his way. He leaves us, then forgets to feel bad about it and you want to forgive him? Just like that?”

Mike’s mouth tightens, but he’s not distracted by the easy lure of a grudge. “It's not his fault, Eddie.”

“Then whose is it?” Eddie demands. “Is it the clown’s fault for scaring us so badly that Richie’s brain ran the memories out of his head? Is it ours, for letting Richie go when we knew what happened to the others?"

Will is an expert in misplaced guilt. "You couldn't have known-"

"Am I talking to you, bowlcut?” Eddie’s eyebrows furrow deeper when Will is struck silent. “Didn’t think so. This is between us.”

"Lay off," Richie warns, eyes narrow behind his lenses. "Will's just trying to help me."

"Help you what - dig up the shit that almost got us killed and ruined your friendship with Bill?"

Eddie seethes like an open wound, hatred turned on the witnesses of his pain. Will is far and away his greatest point of aggravation right now, so Eddie aims the rest of the rant at him.

"I don’t know what kind of fairytale you have in your head about the way this visit was supposed to go, but you don’t get to show up late and play hero. If a big, dumb speech that inspires people to put themselves in danger is all you can offer, then you shouldn't have bothered showing up. It IS dead. Derry doesn’t need you or Richie, and neither do we, so you can take your help and shove it up your-"

Richie shoots to his feet and plants his hands on the table with a bang, severing the verbal attack. Will swallows the hot mixture of shame and anger, staring past Richie’s locked arms to see Eddie in shock, staring at the stranger he once called a friend with shining eyes that Will could paint in his sleep.

"I'm having some memory trouble,” Richie says, dangerously monotone. “You’ll have to remind me: if you're such an asshole, why did I bother keeping your company before I left for good?”

His words drip with malice so dense that Will can feel the sting from being present as Richie speaks. Eddie’s mouth trembles before his jaw clenches hard, taking the worst of it.

“From where I'm standing, this amnesia did me a real favor-"

"Richie," Will hisses, grabbing his wrist. It’s too far.

"-so if you want to go, I will help you find the goddamn door. I'll even hold it open, for old times' sake."

Richie watches in clear satisfaction as Eddie remains quiet. Neither of them look away when Eddie shoves to his feet, chair clattering back. His eyes threaten to water.

“Fuck you, Richie.”

The commotion has drawn attention - irritated stares follow Eddie while he storms out, sneakers squeaking on the vinyl. Richie’s blank gaze swivels to Mike.

“You got a problem with Will too?”

“No.” Mike folds his arms over his bag protectively. The inner circle of Losers that Richie once called home has temporarily struck him from its roster, as Eddie had requested. “Eddie might have been out of line, but he didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn't ask him to be here."

"No, but he came anyway,” Mike says, surrendering to end the bloodshed. “That's what friends do, man. That's what we do."

"Used to do," Richie corrects, pushing away from the table and getting more dirty looks from the disturbed library patrons. “Start without me.”

Down the side hallway, the bathroom door swings shut behind Richie, and Will is free to check the front entrance. It’s not his place to apologize on Richie’s behalf, but he does feel responsible. There was some truth to Eddie’s rant. Maybe it’s not Will’s job to get involved to this extent. With everything that happened here, there’s no guarantee he’ll come to understand it all.

If Richie and his old friends had to keep going to a place beyond an outsider’s comprehension, would Will have enough grace to step back and know his limits?

A problem for another time, Will decides. No one can know for sure unless that moment comes, not even Eddie. Until then, Will has to keep trying. They all do.

“Eddie might come back, right?”

Mike unwinds his binding hold on the bag and the secrets contained within it, flipping open the front cover of a notebook and running his hand down a page of names. They’re all scribbled in different handwriting and sizes, mimicking signatures.

“It’s hard to say. They’ve never fought that way before.”

“No arguments at all?”

“Oh, they argued,” Mike sighs. “Just not like that. I told you before, there were seven of us at one point. Now, Eddie and I are the only ones left. He took it personally, everyone forgetting.”

Mike’s pause is one of mourning, eyes cloudy with unknown joy and loss.

“I saw the process as inevitable, after the first time, but Eddie’s sensitive when it comes to his friends.”

Will nods, staring at the entrance doors hard enough that he thinks he could force Eddie to come back through them, if he had Eleven’s gifts.

Shaking off the weight of loneliness, Mike checks in with him. “Are you sure you want to hear more about that summer? It’s not a pleasant story.”

“I’m sure. Maybe it’ll force my nightmares to become more original.”

Mike chuckles, and the bond of kindred spirits makes Will vacate his side of the table, slipping into Eddie’s chair. He sets aside the stack of Derry historical texts and non-fiction that Mike pushes his way. Shuffling to a new page in the notebook, Mike writes out Will’s first and last name.

“Let’s start at the beginning: Our friend Bill Denbrough had a brother named George.”

Richie scrubs his wet hands over his face, turning off the tap and watching the water that drips from his chin swirl down the drain. His headache pounds louder, each tiny sound echoing off the bathroom tile.

Convincing himself that Eddie deserved what was said to him is complicated by Richie’s ashamed reflection staring out of the mirror. He shouldn’t feel so bad about this. He didn’t even start this fight - in fact, he tried to defuse it. Eddie crossed the line back there, going after Will for no reason. He didn’t make Eddie leave. Didn’t make him tear up-

Richie slams the faucet back on, lifting water to his mouth to wash out the sting of bile in his throat. The coppery taste of old water that coats his tongue reminds him of warped metal and too many hours of jamming buttons at the arcade.

Enough with the one-man pity party. Richie dries his face and throws his guilt out with the damp paper towel, exiting the bathroom to find Will and Mike deep in conversation. They’re buried to their elbows in Mike’s collection of eerie fascinations.

Rather than suffocate in the cramped, quiet air of the library, Richie follows the urge toward wide, open spaces, heading for the library’s entrance. He makes it two steps down the front stoop before he sees a figure moving beyond an obelisk on his left, pacing in and out of sight.

Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie thinks to himself. See? I do know their last names. Still, it’s a quiet and unsure claim, like most of Richie’s thoughts surrounding Derry. He doesn’t know what’s real and what he needs to believe to stay sane.

Eddie stops and mutters to himself, hands clasping together. Then he starts pacing again, face scrunched and unhappy. He’s been out here for ten minutes, at least. Richie should go back inside and pretend he didn’t see this. Should.

“You couldn’t bother running farther away?” Richie calls.

Eddie startles so bad that he drops something from his hand, crying out as it hits the ground. He crouches to scoop it up, leaving his back exposed to Richie’s approach. He arrives just as Eddie stands, fervently scrubbing at an inhaler with the hem of his shirt.

“What do you want?”

“A lot of things, but I’m not the one mowing the grass with my feet,” Richie replies. Eddie looks down, noticing the valley of crushed blades beneath him. He side-steps. “So, are you loitering outside the library for fun or hoping to hitch a ride by looking pitiful enough to garner sympathy?”

Richie is expecting an eyeroll. Will might even throw in a smile, to let Richie know he’s in on the joke.

“You’re one to talk. You look like you spent the last year inside a basement,” Eddie says, not giving an inch in the face of Richie’s blunt attempts at conversation.

Words rise on their own. “Yeah, your mom’s basement.”

“Our house has a storm cellar, not a basement.” Eddie’s frown twitches, his hand aiming suspicion at Richie with the inhaler. “How’d you know to say that if your memory’s shot?”

“Educated guess,” Richie says, glancing over Eddie’s appearance obviously.

“As opposed to the way you usually pull everything out of your ass?” When Richie doesn’t comment, Eddie gathers himself, tucking the inhaler into his jacket with a puffed-out chest, proud of winning the standoff.

Just as Richie had after fucking up with Will, he gets the urge to apologize. He hates knowing when he’s gone overboard, especially because he doesn’t see boundaries until it’s too late.

Eddie had been awful to Will, but he had a better excuse, being the one left behind. Richie doesn’t have to study Eddie to read him. He’s been scared, mad, and second-guessing everything since the moment he saw Richie again. He had started to panic in the library, confronted with reality, and instead of talking him down, Richie had ripped his perfectly-styled head off. Out here, alone and restless, Eddie looks a lot more fragile.

Richie decides to give that apology, interrupted as his mouth opens.

“Jesus, what are we doing?” Eddie asks, quiet and ashamed.

Thrown off by the emotional pivot, Richie blinks at Eddie until he starts marching away. “Wait a second. Hey-”

Eddie reaches a set of stone stairs on the other side of the monument that Richie didn’t see before. The human volcano takes a hard seat, putting his elbows between his bent knees and ducking his head to scrub through his hair.

Unsure if he’s welcome, Richie is slow to sit down on the narrow steps. Eddie’s voice echoes out from the cave he’s made of his own curled torso.

“You know what’s really sad? I think I pissed you off in there because I was testing Mike’s theory. I wanted you to be able to hurt me.” Eddie’s fingers clench and unclench in his hair, grabbing the strands so hard that Richie can see his scalp.

An exhale leaks out of him, like a bus hissing as it releases the brakes. Richie’s announcer voice chimes in. Now departing Bargaining Station. Next stop on Eddie’s grief trip, Depression Central.

“But you can’t hurt me,” Eddie continues, far too predictable considering they’re virtually strangers. “You don’t know how anymore.”

Richie replays the fight in his mind. “Saying I wished I never met you wasn’t harsh enough?”

Eddie’s sigh is gritty and defeated. “Not even close. You said dumb shit every other day when you lived here.”

“I was an asshole all the time then?”

“Pretty much.” Eddie lifts his head, staring vacantly across the street as someone on rollerblades cruises past, rubber wheels clicking over the cracks in the sidewalk. “All the insults in the world don’t hurt when they’re pressing on the wrong bruise.”

Richie doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t say that. “You want to run it again? If you give me some trauma to use, I don’t mind doing another take.”

Eddie turns to stare at him flatly, but it’s his stop-being-funny-when-I’m-trying-to-be-upset face. Richie can’t fathom why his broken brain is helping him interpret Eddie (of all things), but it eases communication enormously. He senses the shift in emotion before Eddie speaks.

“I…Richie, I can’t shake this feeling that you’re not supposed to be here.” Eddie’s hands start to tremble and he presses them together, the same motion Richie does when he's struggling. He wonders who learned it from who. “I sound like I'm trying to be a dick, I know. This won’t make any sense, but it’s like you’re-”

“-early,” Richie finishes, interrupting on instinct. That’s exactly how he feels too.

When Eddie nods at him in silent agreement, his eyes are heavy and dark. They’re beyond familiar, even without Richie’s memories of Derry intact. He recognizes them from Will’s painting. He's looking at a friend.

“I didn’t want to come to Derry,” he confesses. As Eddie sits up, Richie finds it hard to make eye contact, gaze drifting away to zone out on the library’s entrance. “Will and I fought about it, actually. He has this idea that my screwed-up memory is dangerous, and enough freaky shit happened that I started to believe him. So we came.”

Richie tugs on the overgrown weeds in the grass around them, fingers tinted green by dew. For some reason, Eddie lets him think aloud.

“But I’m glad he talked me into it. I feel…good, here.” With you. Surprise, surprise. “It’s nice to be back, even though I don’t know that this little reunion is going to end well.”

Eddie nods. “If the clown’s involved, the good stuff won’t last long.”

Clown. The word makes Richie’s spine itch. He remembers how his limbs had grown heavy and numb at the illusion from the photographs. He could live the rest of his life happily if he never felt that doomed again. It’s easier not to think about that right now, so there’s only one thing to say.

“You mom used to say the same thing about me,” Richie replies wistfully. There’s three seconds of dead silence, not even birdsong in the trees.

“How do you remember that, out of everything?” Eddie demands to know, jerking to his feet in a huff. “I swear to God, if you’re messing with us- you know what? I’m telling Mike.”

Richie jumps up to follow Eddie, hands in his pockets. “Fine by me. When Mike laughs and you storm off again, make sure you go farther this time.”

A warning finger jabs at him as Eddie takes the steps two at a time, Richie going up three to beat him to the door. Eddie warns not to test his patience with a look, eyes rolling when Richie only holds the entrance open for him, the picture of politeness.

Richie feels an obsession coming on. Vastly different to what he heard upon catching Will’s eye in class, Eddie’s face doesn’t whisper You too? like Will’s had, no sir.

Written in bright lights on a flashing marquee, Eddie’s face bellows in an exasperated rage: Why ME?

Chapter Text

“Right, so this monster-”

“I don’t think monster is the right word,” Mike interjects politely. “It’s an alien.”

“What, like…outer space and flying saucers?” Will imagines little green men on Mars, feeling silly as he directs a pointed finger skyward.

“As far as I can tell, yes.”

Yeah, why not. Will can believe that, even though it’s the kind of revelation you would expect to find on the cover of The Weekly Watcher: Killer Space Clown Touches Down in Tranquil Maine Town! Luckily, this alien doesn’t seem to be working on behalf of the Mind Flayer, but it’s still hurting people - children, especially. It is dangerous.

“Why did this alien take Richie’s memories?”

Mike’s brow wrinkles in thought. “That’s still a mystery to me. It may be the most baffling part of everything that followed Neibolt. It separated those who left from the past so gradually. The memory loss isn’t activated like a light switch. It’s more like their encounters with It are washed away, just sandcastles in a rising tide. Eventually, all that’s left is a flat beach, but it takes time.”

Mike flips through his book again, showing Will the outline he took down for all the Losers that were pulled from home by their parents. Will has to flip to the back of the page to see Richie’s drop off – a full five months after he left Derry.

What made his memories stay for so long?

“That’s what makes your arrival really fascinating,” Mike says, face clearing into the delight of a researcher discovering a pattern. “I had some questions about the memories - once they were gone, would they ever return? How, when, in what circumstances? I didn’t consider the possibility of one of us returning so soon. Seeing Richie’s response to Derry in real time is valuable, even if it’s not particularly promising in the area of recovery.”

Over Will’s shoulder there’s a loud throat clear. Will turns from the conversation, sheepish at Richie’s unfortunate timing. He’s pleasantly surprised to find Eddie has returned, some resolution reached between them. Will’s biggest concern is now the grim smile on Richie’s face.

“Wet blanket alert, fellas,” he says. “Speaking of which, Eddie has an announcement to make.”

Eddie grits his teeth at the unfortunate segue. “He made a joke about my mother.”

Richie holds up a Boy Scout salute, swearing innocence. “Accidentally.”

“Intentionally,” Eddie corrects sharply. “But it was a coincidence, since he claims he doesn’t remember making them before.”

Will winces, but Mike grows even more enthusiastic, standing from his chair.

“Really? That’s great!” At Eddie’s darkened stare, Mike stammers. “I mean it’s- in terms of overall progress…uh, what prompted the joke?”

Richie looks patiently at Eddie like he’s waiting for the set-up line. Eddie flips him off for his trouble and Richie clicks his tongue, playing disappointed.

“That’s a negative, Mikey. You want our full double act, you have to pay standard admission.”

“No discount for friends and family?” Will asks. They all turn to look at him in surprise before Richie bursts out laughing, leaving Eddie’s side to lean back against the table next to Will, arm slinging around his shoulders as they’re firmly hushed by the librarian.

“That’s two strikes,” Mike whispers. “We should head out before it’s three.”

“You’re no fun,” Richie says, ducking to unsubtly mutter in Will’s ear. “First chance we get, let’s ditch these losers - whadda ya say?”

Eddie and Mike both blink like they’ve been slapped. Though it’s unintentional on Richie’s part, the carelessly used word is a direct insult to everything they used to be. Mike’s posture shrinks and Eddie’s features harden as they both remember that this Richie isn’t their Richie. He’s just some asshole with their friend’s face.

Will stands up, getting out from underneath Richie’s possessive grasp. He’s not sure he likes how Richie’s acting either, flaunting his closeness to Will in front of people who used to share the same relationship with him.

“I say we’re here to figure out how to save you, which means finding out what’s wrong with Derry,” Will says. Richie does his best to look bored, picking at his nails. “Mike, do you still have those sewer plans you talked about?”

Mike nods, curiosity piqued. “They should be at the Clubhouse. Why?”

“Let’s start there.”

Richie snorts. “You want to launch a full investigation right now?”

“We have to look into this clown situation eventually,” Will says. “I think sooner is better.”

“Don’t let me rain on your parade, but I doubt we’re going to crack the case in a single weekend, Byers.” Richie doesn’t sound like Richie anymore. To Will’s utter dismay, he realizes Richie is using a Voice, and not just for a joke or to deflect. He’s using it on Will, for no obvious reason other than trying to retaliate after Will brushed him off.

“I hate to agree with Richie, but he’s right,” Eddie says, lowering his voice when the librarian gives him a sharp look. “It took us the whole summer to figure this shit out last time.”

Will shakes his head. “That's too long.”

“I'm sorry we aren't meeting your standards for monster hunting,” Richie drawls. “How long did it take you to beat the devil?”

“A week and change,” Will replies, matching the shitty attitude thrown his way.

Eddie’s worried eyes dart up. Is he for real?

Fuck if I know, Richie's eyebrows say back.

Great. Will has to contend with their united reluctance and a homicidal E.T. running amok.

Mike raises a careful hand. “I don’t think it’ll hurt to keep looking. A fresh pair of eyes can see something we’ve missed before.” The sullen reactions he gets from Richie and Eddie suggest they couldn't care less. They're agreed on their apathy.

“Look, we’ll do as much as we can tonight, and worry about the rest once we have more information about what It wants,” Will says, trying to find the middle ground.

“We don’t even know if this thing is still alive,” Richie points out, tone dismissive. “Maybe the amnesia is just an aftereffect.”

“Do you really believe that? Or do you just want to believe it?”

Richie stares for long enough that Will loses the ability to read him, doubting for a moment that their trust is still intact. Then Richie throws up his hands, leading the way to the door.

“Fuck it,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder with a dry grin. “No pun intended.”

The divide between the Derry and not-Derry group has never been wider, but Will is grateful for the privacy of a few feet as they start walking down to the Barrens, heading for the promised clubhouse.

Richie is talking obnoxiously loud about the slight chill in the air, weaving in a few inside jokes that purposely exclude any listening ears.

“What’s going on with you?” Will ends up asking. He doesn’t mean it to come out as strongly as it does, and he may not be a fighter in the typical sense of the word, but he can’t stand by and watch Richie spiral. At this point, the Voice that Richie is using has become a full Wizard of Oz performance. Will isn’t allowed to see the guy behind the curtain.

This is what they do now, right? Confront their problems? After Will has asked, he feels sharply afraid that Richie will brush him off and pretend that everything’s perfectly normal, so stuck in this character that he can’t even acknowledge the obvious.

Except Richie buckles like wet paper. The sudden end to his loud chatter is jarring enough that Mike checks on them. He keeps going when he’s certain they haven't vanished like It’s other victims.

“Jesus, I don’t know,” Richie says weakly, the hands that scrub over his neck pulling down his shoulders. “Being around these guys is so fucking weird. I keep becoming this person that exists to irritate them. I’m frustrating myself. I know I get annoying and loud sometimes - and I tend toward being a dick - but this is extreme, even for me.”

“Do you think…” Will pauses, not wanting to alarm Richie. “Is it possible that this is who you are with all your memories? The forgotten stuff might be a bigger part of you than we assumed.”

Richie moans, hands beating shallowly at his forehead until Will pulls at his wrists. “Please tell me that’s not a possibility. I don’t even like the guy I’m being, so how could I have been him?”

“People change,” Will says, genuinely believing it. “Maybe he’s just the guy you used to be.”

“Well, if getting my memories means becoming him again, I’ll have to pass, thanks.” Richie’s arms fall limply to his side when Will lets him go. “In the meantime, I’m locking him where he belongs – in the dark pits of hell that I call A Brain.”

Will looks at their shoes, feet falling into step. “Don’t force yourself one way or the other. If those moments are part of you, then you shouldn't work against them. Hopefully, figuring this situation out will help you decide what belongs in the past and what you want to keep.”

The wind lets up, allowing the warmth of stagnant air to keep their noses from going numb. Will relaxes, pretending it’s just him and Richie walking the hallways at school, talking about nothing at all. It's a nice break from the stress.

“You’re too good to me, Byers.” Richie brushes their arms together and Will brushes back. “Is it bad for you, too?”

“It’s humiliating,” Will says honestly, even though it pushes Richie further into torment. “You’re treating me like I’m a prop that’s not doing its job.” Like a rabbit that keeps escaping the hat and ruining the prestige of his trick.

“Don’t let me get away with it. That other guy needs a kick in the ass sometimes,” Richie says, making a demonstration kick at a small rock. It skitters ahead, bouncing off the valley of Eddie’s knee. He scowls at Richie, but Mike lightly catches his sleeve and gets him moving again.

“They hate me, don’t they? I can feel it.”

“Not real hate. They’re just as new to this situation as we are.” Will thinks back on Eddie’s long-suffering reply to Richie’s wet blanket riff. “But I don’t think the suggestive jokes are helping.”

“What is that?” Richie hisses. “It’s like I’m a fucking horndog all of a sudden. People are going to think I’m compensating for something.”

“You do drive an expensive car,” Will points out, getting his hair ruffled into his eyes for the jab. Richie’s been cursing more too, but Will attributes that to his overwhelmed emotions. “Maybe lighten up on Eddie, while you’re at it. You two can get kind of intense.”

“Oh good, you’ve noticed,” Richie mutters. “Believe me, I’ve tried to stop antagonizing him, but there’s nothing for it. He gets under my skin.”

“Big time,” Will agrees, wondering about that as they reach a break in the trees for the upcoming intersection. Mike said Eddie was the most sensitive of the group - but as his friend, Richie would know that and account for it, not push Eddie’s buttons like he’s going for the high score on Whack-a-Mole. It’s like he wants Eddie to get mad at him. When Mike mentioned they had arguments, Will was imagining debates over the best superhero introduction, not rapid-fire insults flung like they’re in a middle school food fight on Mashed Potato Monday.

“This way,” Mike says, pointing left before he follows his own directions. The asphalt splits off on a narrow road, Will slowing to a stunned stop at what he sees around the bend. He grabs at the back of Richie’s zipped jacket, almost taking him down.

“Whoa there, Byers! Watch the choking hazard.” Richie tracks Will's horrified stare to the road ahead, fences leading into a narrow covered bridge. The view clicks. “Holy shit.”

Will can’t even process it. His eyes can’t accept the sight confronting them.

“That’s your drawing,” Richie says for him, facing the reality that makes Will’s neck clench, fear stippling the skin. “The one I…liked so much that I took it home. Wow, that's embarrassing in hindsight.”

“How?” Will rasps. How did I see this before seeing it?

“You two alright?” Mike asks, waiting below the archway that leads to the other end of the bridge.

“Let’s take five,” Richie says. He gestures to their surroundings. “What is all this?”

Will is wondering the same himself. His eyes drift over the railing, an assortment of scratched names and initials with a scattering of crude hearts etched into the bars. It's rare to see affection bared to the world so plainly. Some of the graffiti isn't pleasant, but Will prefers to ignore those patches.

“It’s the Kissing Bridge,” Mike says, moving to one side and patting the old wooden beams. “I thought you said you remembered the parts of Derry that didn’t involve us.”

“I don’t know,” Richie says. “Sounds like the clown took away any and all the fast times. Why would he leave me with make-out memories?”

Eddie snorts. “We’d know if you ever really got lucky, Richie. You would have never shut up about it.”

“Why do you think I was always bringing up your mom?”

With a comment like that, Will can’t tell if Richie is taking his advice or failing completely. There’s a scuffle of shoes scraping against the dirt before Will tunes them out, turning in a slow circle and letting his eyes track over the foliage. He remembers dreaming up those brittle green buds before he drew them. He had imagined the precise shade of brown for those branches, despite never following through to paint his sketch.

Will hesitates to touch anything, like a ripple would spill out into the real world, smearing the view. He takes another look at the vandalized rails that he didn’t give much detail in the artwork, face warm when he sees MIKE surrounded by a pointed heart.

“What are they for?” he asks Mike (Hanlon, not Wheeler), getting a thoughtful head tilt.

“Hope, I guess. It’s a local superstition that couples who carve their names stay together forever. Other people use it as a wishing well, if they like someone and want their feelings to become known.”

“Maybe that’s it. Was Richie dating anyone?”

“Don’t set him up like that,” Eddie says flatly, speaking over Richie’s obvious reply. “It’s probably because Bowers got to Ben here.”

Mike perks up. “Could be. If that’s the case though, then shouldn’t It have taken most of Derry? Richie witnessed that incident second-hand, once the damage was done.”

Richie reacts to this information by lifting himself to take a seat on the top rail of the bridge. He loses his footing, legs kicking out to keep his body from tumbling into the brush. He recovers in a flail of limbs, getting his balance upon the narrow ledge. Gingerly, Richie lifts his hasty grip on the wooden beam at his sides, blowing air over his scratched palms.

“Splinter?” Will asks, going to help Richie descend without further injury. He’s stopped short by Eddie appearing in front of Richie, grabbing his forearm to survey the damage.

“This is what you get for being a dumbass,” Eddie says, squinting at the torn skin.

“Because trying to sit down is suddenly a crime.”

“On rotting wood? It’s a great way to get lockjaw, Richie.”

“I can think of a few better ways to get-”

“Beep-beep,” Mike says firmly. Will files the interruption away when Richie goes silent, apparently by instinct. “We should keep going. Once the sun sets out here, you can’t see more than five feet in front of you.”

“There’s a med kit in the Clubhouse,” Eddie agrees, leading the way into the tree line. He kicks into the tall grass and gnarled bushes along the road to make a path, snapping at Richie when he starts picking at his impaled palm.

Scolded, Richie leans on Will to get back to his feet. “Mike, does this look infected to you?”

“Let me see.”

Left behind for a moment, Will stares at the stretch of wood where Richie had been sitting, sharply imbedded initials standing out among the crowd of letters and pining souls. They’re joined by a simple set of perpendicular lines, short and endless.

He gets under my skin, Richie had said. Or he got under there a long time ago and never left.

“Will!”

Blood thundering like a frightened stampede, Will turns with a sharp jerk. Richie is looking back at him from the edge of the road. He fixes his glasses, unaware of the connection.

“You coming?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

Richie enters the subterranean crawl space with the awe of a child, dropping from the ladder and hitting the ground with both shoes flat. It's a bit gloomy and damp, but it feels appropriately like a secret clubhouse.

“Anything like Castle Byers?” he murmurs. Will slowly shakes his head, eyes wide.

“You guys made this?”

"Ben built the framework," Mike says, scooting past Richie and crouching before a rough wooden box covered in dust. He brushes a careful hand over the lid, pulling his shirt collar to his nose as the dust kicks up. His voice turns nasally. "Ben did most of the decorating too. We would hold boards or bring stuff from home for him to arrange."

Will gingerly leans on a nearby post. It holds steady. "Did you spend a lot of time down here?"

Richie turns away as Mike recounts their days in the underbelly of the forest. Not that anyone's asking, but he doesn't like hearing the stories of his youth without a scrap of mental context. It feels like someone is trying to plant a lie in his head. He doesn't remember telling the jokes they claimed to hear, or pulling the stunts that turned the adults in town against him.

There are a few sharp clicks as Eddie fusses with a lantern switch. He grows disgruntled when it doesn't turn on.

Richie walks deeper into the earthen keep, letting his eyes adjust. A few colorful comics catch his attention and he scoops up the stack, returning closer to the open hatch so they can catch the light. The covers are a bit torn-up, but the interiors are pretty good. Richie remembers reading some of them for the first time, alone in his room. Others are completely new, forgotten by association with the things that were torn from his mind, leaving a vacancy for cobwebs.

As Mike clears a circle on the leaf-strewn floor to lay out the maps, Richie figures they might be here a while, dropping into a hammock stretched between two support columns and pushing his feet along the floor to start the sway.

Richie lets his head fall back over the bowed side of the hammock, scanning a shelf nailed into the wall behind his head. There's a small box about the size of his palm, its colors faded with time and concealed by dust. Richie stretches his arm toward the buried treasure, plucking it from the mess without dragging dirt into his face.

“Time’s up, Rich.”

Richie forces his head upright again, blood rushing out of his face. As the vertigo clears, he sees Eddie standing before him, head tilted in the expectant silence.

See, this is what Richie’s talking about - Eddie is clearly waiting for the words to click. All this routine does is make Richie feel like an imposter, as though he’s stolen an identity that doesn’t belong to him.

Richie sighs, fussing with his discovery instead of bothering to reply. He’s pretty sure it would be a joke about Eddie’s mom anyway. His thumb brushes over the box’s front, finding the familiar design of Nerds candy smiling at him, their round little faces worn with age. Richie shakes the box and it rattles.

“Don’t even think about it,” Eddie says, sneering at Richie’s find like it’s offended him gravely.

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you to forget it. Those are at least two years old, probably older, considering that Ben’s the only one who even liked those flavors. Put it back so it can decompose with the rest of the trash.”

Richie shakes the little box again, suppressing a smile when Eddie’s nose wrinkles. He doesn't know what makes this so entertaining.

“Pretty sure it was mine. I like grape.”

“You like deadly microbes too?”

“Candy doesn’t expire.”

Eddie, beaten in wit, goes for the physical approach, leaning out to snatch the box. Richie swiftly dodges.

“Give it.”

“Take it,” Richie challenges, watching a flush of anger brighten Eddie’s cheeks. It’s kind of-

Eddie lunges, forcing Richie to angle his body back, arms much longer than Eddie’s with the height and position advantage. His hand grazes the shelf, but he keeps his hold on the box.

“I’m not playing this game,” Eddie says. He’s lying through his teeth. A hand braced on the near edge of the hammock, Eddie stretches farther to swipe at Richie’s grasp for the second time. Richie evades by ducking into a tight curl, fingers tearing at the corner of the cardboard box. Eddie yanks on his sleeve and Richie switches hands, once again holding it far behind him. The candy rattles to taunt Eddie.

"Just- would you grow up?!"

"Would you grow up?" Richie echoes, mocking Eddie's bitter demand.

Muttering a curse, Eddie shoves at the side of Richie’s face to get around him. Richie drives a pointed hand into Eddie’s ribs and he yelps, efforts redoubled as he decides the gloves are off. He knees Richie in the kidney, clambering onto the hammock to have a better chance of reaching the withheld prize. His vice-like grip closes around Richie’s wrist, trying to drag the arm closer. Richie headbutts his shoulder.

“They’re old, Richie! They’re going to taste like shit, even if they don’t kill you.”

“Yeah? How do I know you don’t just want them for yourself?”

“Because I’m not a fucking idiot that’s trying to die from a bad box of Nerds,” Eddie growls, elbowing Richie’s cheek and squirming closer. His trimmed nails scrape down Richie’s palm, the box caught between Richie’s fingers to keep it out of reach.

“Sugar isn’t going to kill me, wiseass.”

“You really want to risk your life finding out?”

“I’ll try anything once,” Richie says sweetly, his free arm going around the back of Eddie’s neck to slap a hand over his eyes. Eddie gives up his support arm to pry off the makeshift blindfold, his full weight dropping into the hammock along Richie’s side. He looks ready to start biting his way out.

“Um, guys-”

“Motherfucker!”

“You said it, not me.”

There’s a sharp pop of frayed thread that shuts them up, both going still in the swinging Twister they’ve devised. The hammock snaps anyway, rope giving out on the end closer to Eddie. Richie loses the candy in an attempt to catch his own weight as the fabric drops out from beneath them. The packed soil floor rushes eagerly upward.

Richie hisses as the wave of pain sweeps out from his right side, eyes prickling hot. Definitely going to leave bruises. He pushes up on his right elbow at the sound of protest before him, finding that Eddie landed flat on his ass, the wrinkled remains of the hammock trapped beneath him.

He’s warm, Richie thinks, dazed. Eddie blinks out of a grimace. Misty brown eyes focus on Richie, a soft furrow twitching into place between Eddie’s brows.

Looking for a distraction, Richie’s limbs start checking in with his brain to report injuries from the rough jolt. Richie hesitantly withdraws the aching hand that had cradled the back of Eddie’s head on instinct, bracing it in the space above his shoulder instead. His pinky nudges the abandoned box of candy, stale sugar clumps rattling out of the torn opening and into the dirt. Richie’s mouth twitches.

“Five-second rule?”

The joke lands slow, but a shy smile fights its way onto Eddie’s face. His features are so bright with amusement that Richie couldn't miss it, even through Eddie's best resistance and worst frown. Richie knows this smile, and yet he’s seeing it for the first time too. It feels like the unforgiving universe has cut Richie a break, giving him the chance to remake a memory so old that even his unwhammied brain lost track of it.

Richie's smile is small and wondering in return.

Sometime between now and never (Richie’s not keeping track), Eddie breaks eye contact to survey the mess. His pupils shrink.

“That’s mold,” he hisses, face paling. He shoves at Richie, catching him off guard and toppling him to successfully escape. Richie notices the soft gray dots near the end of the hammock’s bunched fabric as Eddie clambers to his feet, frantically dusting his clothes. His breathing gets harsh and uneven.

“Do you have any idea how fast you get sick from breathing that in?” He looks around, tripping over Richie’s ankles and stumbling to stay upright as he backs away from the threat. “The spores are probably in the fucking air! I can’t be down here.”

“We’ll be done in a minute,” Mike says. “Go up and get-”

Eddie’s rapid stomps ascending the ladder drown out Mike’s assurance, the dry rasp of a charged inhaler echoing down in the silence.

Richie sits up into a slump, eyes drifting down from the indistinct shadow passing through the square shaft of sunlight. Mike is shaking his head as he rolls out a semi-transparent map.

Richie avoids looking at Will for a moment, giving in to the inevitable when he decides that his imagination is likely worse than the truth. There’s a curious tilt to Will’s head as he returns the stare, but it doesn’t seem related to Richie’s biggest concern. Richie bobs his head in a shoulder-free shrug.

“Is he…okay?” Will asks. Up above, Eddie paces into the distance and the sound of his gasps grows faint. Mike nods, hardly looking up from the papers.

“Eddie’s cautious about his health. You get used to it. Richie used to call him Doctor K, when he was being particularly fussy.” Mike looks back at them when they don’t chuckle. “His last name is Kaspbrak, so. Anyway.” He shuffles aside, letting Will look over the plans. “Bill left these here for safekeeping. I haven’t needed them much, since that summer. You’ll have to forgive the smell.”

Will isn’t looking at the plans. He’s looking at Richie, and Richie knows they’re thinking about the same thing. At home, in Richie’s music collection, there’s one tape that’s worn to hell and back. It’s Richie’s favorite, for a reason he couldn’t explain when Jonathan plucked it from the rest and asked if it was another mix like Will’s. Written across the faded label is a nickname.

Doctor fucking K, Richie thinks. Nice to meet you.

Richie untangles himself from the mess of the hammock while Mike gives Will the rundown of Derry’s sewer system. He dusts off his palms only to be reminded of their state, holding them out awkwardly until Mike notices his discomfort. He draws a water bottle from his bag and pours it out in small splashes to clean Richie’s hands.

“Don't tell Eddie. This is only tap water,” Mike whispers, winking at Richie like a co-conspirator when a knowing stomp lands above them, shaking the root-riddled roof.

And finally, finally, it feels like Richie’s been let in on the fun. He grins back.

Chapter Text

In the end, Will’s investigation is limited by time. When Eddie calls down into the Clubhouse saying he has to get home for dinner or his mom will put him on an IV drip, Mike calls it quits too.

“You’re welcome to stay, but we’re losing light fast. You might get lost for a while out here.”

“We’ll follow you,” Will says, rolling the maps up. “Do you mind if I take these?”

Mike allows it, even letting them go in his own bag after he reveals it’s a mild hike back to town. On the way, Mike tells him more about the aftermath of Neibolt Street. According to the notes Mike combined with Ben's research, the massacre that should’ve gone on for two years ended less than ten months after Georgie disappeared, without explanation.

“So you assume It’s dead, even without seeing the body.”

“Exactly,” Mike says, giving Will an apologetic glance. “I know, it’s a flimsy assumption, but it’s the only one we’ve got to go on. If we tell ourselves enough, it might become true.”

That is the rule. Will accepts the hand up over a fallen tree trunk, turning with Mike to grab Richie’s elbows as he hops down, to keep his palms safe.

Up ahead, there’s a break in the dense forest - a small rise lined at the top with the wrong side of a guardrail means they’ve returned to civilization. Richie starts up the hill first, proposing a race that Eddie feigns having no interest in before trying to get a head start.

“Does Derry seem…off to you?” Will asks, getting a full stop from Mike. He peers at Will closely, mouth stern.

“I’m surprised you can feel it,” he says under his breath. “Most of the people in town don’t even notice.”

Will takes a step closer, voice low. “Richie’s one of them.”

“He wasn’t always.” Mike starts walking again, waiting for Will to catch up so they can climb together. “I want to know that It’s dead. For sure. What you said at the library, that’s how I feel.”

“But?”

“We’re not all here yet,” he says. “Call me crazy, but I think it’s just as dangerous to go now as it would be to wait for a sign that it’s time to finish this.”

Will hefts his weight over the metal barrier, feet landing on the crumbling asphalt edge of the road.

“What do you plan to do, sit and watch the news for twenty-four more years?” he asks, brushing away bits of stone and grass on his pants. Mike replies with the loneliest shrug.

They join Richie and Eddie on the sidewalk across from the woods, the Capitol theatre in sight up the street. Hearing that Mike intends for them all to keep walking back to the library, Richie offers to drive instead. Eddie catches on that Mike is hitching a ride, deciding that he deserves one too, for putting up with Richie all day.

Will falls to the back as Richie leads the way. What are we really doing in Derry?

It’s possible that Will’s third eye for trouble brought them here to show what happens when there isn’t a happy ending. Sometimes the best end is a draw. People drift apart. Not every kid gets to come home like Will Byers.

Even though Mike and Eddie have implied that it’s hopeless to go down this road, Will wishes they could follow it to the end. He wants to see this trip through, for the sake of freeing Derry and its residents - Losers Club included - from this evil, so they can go to sleep at night without wondering if they’re next. After all they’ve suffered, these people deserve that much. Will feels responsible for helping them.

He’s not saying it would be easy, but come on, they shouldn't avoid it for so long, right? This stuff has a way of catching up.

Distracted as he is, Will doesn’t notice that he and Eddie are both headed for the front passenger seat until they’re reaching for the same handle. They both go still, not sure who takes precedent or how to explain the thought process behind that answer. Mike is trying very hard not to laugh at them.

Richie leans over from the driver's seat, head ducked to peer up at their accidental standoff. "Get in, Steamboat. Eddie isn’t tall enough for the front seat anyway."

"My height is perfectly average for my age!”

“Take it easy, you can sit behind me. It's a better angle for strangling anyway," Richie says, hands squeezing the air in a murderous pantomime. Will quickly climbs in, not wanting to be the cause of more arguments.

“Fantastic,” Eddie mutters, circling the hood. He yelps when Richie honks the horn, then glares through the windshield as Mike's laughter bubbles out of the car. "Asshole!"

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I'm not falling for that,” Eddie snaps, throwing the rear door open and dropping into an angry hunch in his seat. Richie adjusts his rearview mirror until he can grin at Eddie in the reflection. Eddie kicks the back of Richie's chair as a response.

"Hey, you're damaging borrowed goods," Richie says warningly. "You break it, you buy it."

Eddie proceeds to backseat drive all the way to the library. Will glances at Mike from time to time to find him smiling faintly at their bickering. The smile stays, turning bittersweet as Richie parks along the sidewalk and they all climb out for their goodbyes. With Mike and Eddie going home, there’s not enough time to meet up again after dinner. Will and Richie have to go home.

“We’ll miss you, man.” Mike holds Richie extra-long. It must be cutting off circulation, but Richie just pats his back, gently reassuring. “So much.”

They separate and Mike walks to Will, pulling his bag over his shoulder to retrieve the plans he offered to carry. As he gathers them, Will watches the situation over Mike's shoulder. He gets second-hand embarrassment as Eddie's arms start to go up for a hug, chest almost jabbed by the hand that Richie raises for a shake before realizing what Eddie was trying to do. The awkwardness is compounded when Richie tries to go for the hug and Eddie leans away, scorned and uncooperative.

“Your hands are dirty, Richie, why would I try to touch them?”

“Pot calling the kettle dirty. Never heard that one before,” Richie mutters, wincing against his own retort. Eddie looks quickly at his own hands, dirt caked under his nails from the perils of their trek. His face is similarly smudged with dirt, but Will doesn’t think that right now is a good time to bring it up.

“Shit, I have to wash up. I can’t-” Eddie swallows hard. He starts marching toward the library, arms held away from his side. At the edge of the sidewalk, he turns back, eyes down. “Bye, Richie.”

Then Eddie’s gone. The absolute silence speaks to Richie’s state of mind.

“He’ll be alright,” Mike says softly. He looks at each of them with understanding as he hands over the maps, delivering them safely to Will's possession. Bill trusted them to Mike, now Mike's trusted them to him. “Get home safe for us.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “See you later, Mike.”

“Looking forward to it,” he replies, heading for his bike with one last wave. Will has a hard time pulling his gaze from the library doors.

Richie taps his back. “Come on. We’ll be late as it is.”

Will returns to the car, at a loss. Mike is prepared as he can be, if It ever returns. Eddie’s biggest problems aren’t going to be solved by proof that It’s alive – really, they might get worse. Whatever Richie could do for Derry by being here, he’s done it. As for the other losers, far from home, they may find their own way back. Eventually. When It comes back to kill again and they need to make good on their promise.

Richie looks up from rifling through his bag, revealing the Steamboat tape with a grin. He pops it in, the Clash blaring out of the speakers. It doesn't bother Will at all when Richie turns it up, hand drumming on the gear shift.

This isn’t about the kids we couldn’t save, Will realizes. It’s about not giving up on the ones we still can.

The car is already merging back onto the road when Will throws the door open and jumps out, ditching the precious maps in his seat. Richie shouts after him, alarm increasing as he's ignored.

“Mike,” Will calls, jogging up to him. He turns from tucking his bag into the package carrier of his bike, his face falling when Will stops in front of him, breathing fast.

“You didn’t come to Derry just for information, did you," he says, not asking.

“I did,” Will promises. “At first. But this is bigger than a few missing memories. This is bigger than your club drifting apart. We have to do something.”

Mike’s hands flex around the metal basket. “It’s not time, Will. I can’t explain any better.”

“I know you think that, but something terrible is going to happen if you wait to do this on It’s schedule,” Will insists, desperately. He just knows. “Don’t you feel that?”

“No,” Mike says, kind eyes pitying him. “Not like you do.”

“Byers!”

Will turns back to see Richie staring at him over the roof of the car, hands thrown up in a very concise demand to know what the hell is going on.

“What do you think happens to Richie, once we leave here today?” Will asks, pressing Mike’s clear reluctance to confront the reality of what they have to go through right now, versus twenty-odd years in the future. He’s so obsessed with this timeline that he’s ignoring the damage being done while they sit on their hands.

“Do you think It’s going to let him keep any of this? If It took Derry from your friends without a problem, what’s to stop It from taking this weekend out of my head too?” Will latches onto Mike’s clear surprise, like he didn’t consider the amnesia to be catching. “There won’t be anyone to remind us of what we’re missing this time. What if It makes our forgetting permanent because we broke the rules by coming here?”

“It wouldn’t,” Mike says suddenly, eyes nervous. “It can’t.”

“Mike, you know It can and probably would. This amnesia isn’t normal. We don’t have any idea how it works, not really.”

Please, listen to me. You have to listen.

Mike chews on his lip, looking Will head-on. He’s taking Will seriously, which is a good sign. It’s not like Will can force him into helping. If Mike’s not on board, Will’s not about to lead him and Richie down there alone to hope for the best. This has to be Mike’s choice, as the one who has to stay and deal with the consequences of turning Will down.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” Richie says, walking up to frown at their stand-off with keys in hand. “Meter’s running, guys.”

Will looks up at his friend, not sure he’ll be able to watch parts of him just…slip away. He can’t imagine the effect it’ll have on Richie, who’s finally grabbed on to some semblance of a happy childhood. The squeak of a kickstand being put back down interrupts his thoughts. Mike releases his hold on the bike, hands clenching around the bottom of his shirt instead. Will’s heart goes out to him.

“I know you’re scared, okay? I am too. We would be insane if we weren’t scared, but we have to stop It. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

Mike's shoulders slump, and he lets out a soft sigh that sounds close to a laugh.

“What?”

“You remind me of Bill,” Mike says. Based on the stories he’s been told, Will assumes that’s a compliment. “You should be careful, wanting things too much. It makes you reckless.”

Or not.

Mike tips his head back to the sky for a moment, making up his mind. Will doesn’t look at Richie in the meantime, worried that he won’t like what he finds.

“Brave too." Mike looks at him with genuine admiration. “I’m in.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Mike nods rapidly, psyching himself up. “We’re doing this. Should we meet at Neibolt?”

“I think that’s best,” Will says. He’s amazed that his argument worked. Happy, but amazed. “The house is where this all went down before, right? Can you be there by seven?”

"Sure. I've been getting some supplies together, just in case. I can bring them with me."

“Supplies for what?”

They all jump guiltily, turning to find Eddie has returned. His frown deepens when they don’t answer right away.

“Supplies for what?”

“Eddie.” Mike steps past Will, one hand raising in front of him like a shield. “We have to do something.”

“About what?” Eddie’s hand clutches inside his pocket. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“We can’t let It live and risk more people getting hurt.” Will doesn’t say it in anger or judgment. He’s just stating the situation as it stands. “Problems like this don’t fix themselves if we ignore them.”

“No kids have been taken since we fought it last time. It has to be dead,” Eddie says petulantly. Will is surprised his foot doesn’t stomp like a child. When they remain silent, looking upon Eddie with pity, his denial only increases. “The top of It’s head came apart!”

“We scared It off,” Mike says. It’s his first time admitting it out loud, but he only doubles down in fear, mind made up. “Will’s right. We have to handle this before it’s too late.”

“You can’t be serious,” Eddie says, looking at each of them with dismay. “If It’s alive, It is a homicidal monster. We’re lucky we didn’t die last time we were down there, and you want us to stand up to that thing again?”

“Someone has to,” Mike confirms.

“Fine, someone that isn’t us. We’re teenagers and that’s four people total, in case you hadn’t noticed. We got our asses kicked when it was seven against one.” Eddie goes to pace, then thinks better of it, scowling at them head on. “Let this be someone else’s problem if they care so much! By the time the next cycle comes around, there will probably be another set of kids to handle this. We don’t have to do anything. There’s no way on Earth that I’m going back in that disgusting house anytime soon.”

“Then don’t.” Will can’t argue in circles for the next hour. They’re running out of time. “I get it, Eddie. I’m not going to fight you on this if you’re not ready, but we can’t wait either. This is happening tonight, with or without you there.”

Eddie looks ready to have an aneurysm, but Will doesn’t try to take back his ultimatum. They all have a choice to make.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” Eddie challenges, not accepting Will’s unilateral decision. His narrow, pursed gaze looks to his friends, waiting for support.

Mike stares back, agreeing with Will through his silence. The wholehearted shock and disbelief written in the lines of Eddie's face are gut-wrenching to see. Will never wanted it to come to this. Eddie checks Richie’s vote with far less faith, wondering if it’s two or three knives that have stabbed him in the back. For a moment, Will isn’t sure which way Richie’s judgment will fall. He didn’t stop to ask before pitching this plan to Mike. They were all comfortable enough to leave before now.

Richie puts on a mask of surprise, as though waiting for his answer is a ridiculous notion. “Well, it’s short notice, but I think I can squeeze it in. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” Will confirms. Mike repeats it, nodding to let them know he’s still on board.

Eddie’s jaw clenches, eyes damp as he slowly shakes his head with increasing certainty. He turns away from them in defeated silence, walking quickly up the road back to town alone.

Somehow, Will doesn’t think Eddie wants that ride home anymore.

Richie’s eyes follow Eddie’s departure like they had in the Clubhouse, inwardly struggling. This time though, his posture is loose with a kind of relief that Eddie is sitting this one out. It makes sense, wanting him safe. Richie notices the attention on him, shifting to return Will’s gaze. He speaks lightly.

“Three versus one. I like those odds.”

Will is reminded of a small rickety table in the Wheeler basement that shook as the Demogorgon was introduced to their campaign. They were three against a very big one then too.

Seven, he remembers, mustering a tight smile in the face of Richie’s false confidence. It has to be seven.

"It'll get dark on the road back anyway. You know, we had just too much fun today and we are all tuckered out. That's why we thought about staying at a friend's house, here in Derry," Richie explains, making it all sound very reasonable. "Which friend?" Richie glances at Will, who shrugs. "Which friend… why, it's Eddie! Eddie Kaspbrak, that old chestnut."

Will waits until Richie gives the thumbs up to walk away, leaving him to his unique methods of persuasion.

“His mom? Uh- she’s really mellow these days, if you can believe it. Total sweetheart."

Will sticks to the same side of the street and keeps Richie in sight, absently checking the storefronts. With the day winding down, the shops have begun to close, their windows dim and signs turned in.

Near the corner, there’s one store with the lights still on, a secondhand recycling thrift with all kinds of knick-knacks in the window. Will looks with half a mind. They’re supposed to fight this clown tonight. Kill It. When Will’s not faced with convincing another person, he finds his own willingness to feel fear creeping in.

There is Not Easy, and then there’s whatever this is going to be.

Will is suddenly aware that none of his family or friends know where he is right now. It could wipe him - all of them - off the face of the map, and his mother wouldn’t even have a body for the funeral. Again.

This situation is scary. Being alone (despite Richie) is scary. On some level, Will wants to do this without his family’s help. They’ve been protecting and sheltering him for so long that it feels good to work alone for once, to stand on his own two feet and face his fears. It's just hard to break a habit. He's used to leaning on their help because it's been near constant. The last time he had to fight without the others, he almost died in the Upside Down.

But I can’t be that kid forever, Will thinks, looking at all the old, forgotten trinkets from someone else’s childhood. I can’t hide in Castle Byers for the rest of my life.

Maybe doing this - defeating the monster and getting out alive - is hope, for Will. One evil could be equal to another. If It can die, the Mind Flayer can be defeated too. For good this time. No more dying. No more nightmares.

No more monsters.

“Cool bike,” Richie says, popping up beside him. Will looks at the center of the display, where an old Schwinn sits rusting. Despite being far too tall for any kid, there’s a word branding the side of the bike, like a child laying claim to their toy. Silver.

“My mom’s on board with the sleepover plan, so we’re in the clear,” Richie says, rooting around in his pocket. “I think I have some change left, if you want to make a call.”

“No. Your mom is probably telling my mom about our new fake plans. If I call now, she’ll tell me to go back.” Will folds his arms over his stomach. Joyce would be able to convince him with hardly a word, considering Will’s determination is shaky as is. Calling home would be giving himself permission to run away.

“Really? No one?”

“No one would lie to my mom for me,” Will says. Not after everything.

“They worry about you that much?”

Will’s nausea ebbs away. It’s nice that Richie is still so surprised by other people thinking Will can’t handle his problems without assistance.

“They have their reasons.”

When they approach the hardware counter with a crowbar and baseball bat, the old cashier - Ann, according to her nametag - types out the prices on the register. Richie leans over to a refrigerator beside the check-out, pulling out two sodas and adding them to the purchases, like that’ll do anything to make this less suspicious.

Ann adjusts her glasses, peering at them. Will's gulp is silent.

“Cash or check?” she asks, nodding as Will pushes his emergency money toward her. Derry is even weirder than Hawkins, on occasion.

They wait out the eleventh hour in the Derry City Center. It’s practically a ghost town with everyone going home for dinner or bedtime - the things normal people get up to on Saturdays that doesn’t involve confronting old demons from their past. Sitting on a bench before a disturbingly large statue of Paul Bunyan, Will leaves the solitude of his complex mind, letting Richie get a read on his mood.

“How’s the migraine?”

"Comes and goes," Richie says. Will presses one of the soda cans to his head and Richie holds it in place. “It’s better when I'm talking to the guys.”

“Oh. You think it would be the opposite, based on the way all the other clues worked.” Will pops his own drink, but only plays with the tab.

“You are jealous,” Richie says smugly.

“I am,” Will replies, glancing at Richie as he sets the soda aside. “It’s not so bad though. Mostly, I’m relieved you have really good friends. You don’t remember them, but they still came along with us this far. They want to keep you in their lives.”

Richie squints, dropping the can to his lap. “I think Mike is doing this to save the whole world, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Will hums. Richie can joke all he likes, but it’s been good for him, being back here. He can believe that he had friends, real friends. There's more than one Will-like being in the world! They had loved the old Richie and spent time with him, even though he’s loud and talks too much and says dumb stuff all the time. Impossible as it should be, there were seven of them - four more people Richie hasn’t even met yet - and they were one happy little Losers Club.

Richie pushes a hand under his glasses, fingers scrubbing at his eyes. He needs to change the subject before the waterworks really start.

“Are we going to talk about it?” he asks, sniffing sharply. At Will’s puzzled stare, Richie clarifies. “How you drew those things without ever seeing them? How you picked me out of a school of hundreds like a trauma-sniffing dog?”

Richie fixes his lenses to see Will looking ahead again. If frowns were about being sad instead of mad, that would be a good way to describe his face.

“I don’t know.” His knee starts to bounce in a shallow rhythm, shaking the whole bench. “I really don’t know.”

Richie believes him. He can’t imagine what the explanation would be, if Will had one. It’s all freaky, which means it’s all connected back to It.

If Richie wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t supposed to be here, he’d think they were led. Will has been following this tightrope of logic from the beginning, even though he didn’t know exactly where it would end. The implications of that are tricky. On one hand, that should make Will more prepared for the atrocities that are thrown their way when a-hunting monsters they go. On the other, it means Will is bound to get into deep shit once the action starts. He’s guaranteed to be put in danger.

In Will’s unfortunate case, rather than eating danger for breakfast, danger eats him.

“I’m grateful that we came this far,” Richie says, taking a deep breath as he gets Will’s full attention. “I want you to know that. I’m not totally clear on the horrors you’ve been through, but based on the way your family acts, you have your own life to handle. You don’t have to fix mine on top of that.”

“Richie-”

“Is this really necessary? I mean, is it…” Richie’s throat closes and he has to clear it. “Is it so bad if we let this play out the way it was always meant to?” Richie tries looking at the statue and fails, head splitting before he looks at his hands instead, weaving his fingers tight. “You’re so willing to be here. You got on a plane because I asked nicely.”

“That’s what friends do, right? They show up.” Will ducks to see him better. “You’re here, so I’m here.”

Yeah, that’s the crux of the problem. Richie has sworn loyalty to Will, which rarely goes well in stories. If Richie goes down, he’s taking Will with him - and vice versa. Richie wants to say for sure that they’re protected that way, but it’s starting to feel like mutual destruction. When they arrived in Derry, Richie got this idea that he’s hopelessly trying to rewind a tragedy, and whenever he gets around to hitting play, he’ll only be able to watch as it ends in tears again.

So Richie is locked into this mess - has been, for years. He can feel It’s grip on his life even now, but maybe it’s not too late to get Will out.

“If I wanted to go home, back to California, without doing any of this, would you come with me?” Richie asks, making it a plea without the magic word. He knows how far Will’s gotten into this. He knows he’s asking Will to forget about the missing kids, and the catatonic citizens, and yes, the Losers Club. Mike and Eddie. Richie’s spliced brain and innate loneliness without them. “Could you really leave, knowing what you do?”

Will Byers wants to help people. Save them. Protect them. Love them.

Richie’s asking him to let it go.

“I’m with you,” Will repeats, unshaken. He looks Richie right in the eye and turns his back on himself to make an honest promise to a friend. “You hide, I hide. You fight, I fight.”

“You, Will. I, Richie.”

Will cracks a smile, sitting back on the bench. “Something like that.”

Richie stares at his friend for a long time, then puts an arm around Will’s shoulders, taking one terrified breath after another.

“Thanks for coming, Steamboat. Promise to give a nice eulogy at my funeral if Joyce kills me for all this.”

“Sure,” Will says, retrieving his soda can to toast to the promise. “If she doesn’t kill me first.”

Oy vey. Richie taps their drinks together, putting his own back on his forehead. What a pair they make.

Will had been the one who said No Coincidences, but it feels like overkill when Richie’s car refuses to start.

“Just one more try. It’ll take,” Richie assures, the engine grinding and squealing with the smell of burning popcorn.

“We have to walk,” Will says for the third time, packing a backpack on the edge of the trunk. He debates whether it’s better to go light or fully loaded in this scenario. Mike’s story had suggested a lot of climbing.

“We’ll be forty by the time we get there,” Richie complains.

“Call Mike,” Will suggests. “If he hasn’t left yet, let him know we’ll be late.”

Richie sulks all the way to the phone. He picks up the handset, holding it under his cheek and fishing out coins to push them into the slot. “I just want to point out that the car was working when we tried leaving town.”

“Maybe if you say it louder, the car will hear you,” Will replies, zipping the bag and sliding it up to his shoulder.

“Why are you only mean to me when there are no witnesses?” Richie asks, punching in numbers to dial. “Eddie thinks you’re a saint, by the way.”

“You talked about me?”

“All good things, all good things.”

“I have a hard time believing that.” Richie holds the handset to his ear, pretending to be occupied with the call when Will comes closer with his eyebrows raised, hearing only the ringing signal. “What did you say about me, Richie?”

“I told him you can recommend a great barber,” Richie whispers, a hand darting up to push Will’s bangs back into his hairline. Will bats him away as the ringing stops.

“Mikey, listen, the car is kaput-”

“Ri- what?”

Richie pulls the phone back, frowning at it while Will leans in, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Richie responds tentatively. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, it’s Eddie,” the line hisses, confusing them further. “What are you doing calling my house? My mom almost picked up.”

Richie covers the receiver, giving the payphone booth a long look. “What the fuck?”

“You must have dialed him instead of Mike.”

“I don’t know his number,” Richie says urgently, like he’s not holding the smoking gun. He exhales at Will’s useless shrug, returning the phone to his ear. “Sorry, Eddie. Wrong number, I guess.”

“Wait, what happened to the car? Are you still in Derry?”

“Just a little engine trouble. Looks like we’re hitching to Neibolt.” Richie rubs his thumb over his own forehead in long lines, headache returning with a vengeance. When they were in Lenora, he couldn’t stand the calls with Mike for long.

“I have bikes, if you come here,” Eddie offers, talking fast. “My house is on the way.”

“Oh, that’s a real nice offer, but-” Richie stops when Will elbows him in encouragement. Curled fingers drumming around the handset, Richie closes his eyes tight. Out of regret?

Eddie speaks up, worried about the delay. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, still here. I’m gonna need directions.”

Richie gets in one of his moods on the way there, but Will is used to waiting out the silences. They approach the house from the front and Eddie comes out to meet them, closing the door silently behind him. He creeps down the steps, then guides them back around the house and along the fence, keeping them out of view from the windows. There are two bikes leaning against the old boards, waiting for them.

“I thought you were an only child,” Will says, grazing the handles of the smaller bike.

“That’s mine. The other one belongs to Richie,” Eddie says, just as Richie makes the realization himself, going over to kick the tires appreciatively. “He left it here for when he...came back, so he’d have a way to ride with us.”

Richie cuts into the plummeting mood. “See, Byers? I told you I had it stored for safekeeping.”

“You can use mine,” Eddie offers to Will, bare arms folding over his chest when the wind kicks up. “Since I’m not going.”

“Better than walking. Thank you, Eddie." Will smiles, hoping he knows that making him choose not to fight It wasn't personal.

Eddie nods, glancing back at the house as Richie steers the bike out of its lean and into the road. Richie pulls on the seat until the front is aimed parallel to the curb, then calls Will’s name when he tries to do the same.

“Hop on. We can ride double,” Richie decides. “There’s no way to know if we’re coming back – wouldn’t want to strand Eddie’s bike out there.”

Eddie stares at him, his juvenile temper nowhere to be found. He’s afraid and horrified of the truth behind Richie’s dark humor.

“It’s not funny. I know you don’t remember, but this is serious. Even when Bill was here to lead us, it was really fucking hard to get out alive.” Eddie takes a step forward, then retracts, curling in on himself. “You might not come back this time.”

Will can’t imagine what they saw back then, but It’s scarred Eddie. Worse than Mike, because Eddie doesn’t buy into the magic as much. It’s not so simple as defeating a dragon to save a princess. This is just evil, doing evil things - and they're only a bunch of kids in over their heads.

“Then we definitely shouldn’t take your bike,” Richie says, blowing through all the drama.

Frustration plagues Eddie’s fear. “Do you even want your memories back?” Hardly waiting for an answer, Eddie continues. “You don’t. If I were you, I wouldn’t either.”

“I want to finish what we started,” Richie says, serious too late. He looks to Will, who nods his support. “This isn’t going to end if we just leave. I’ve had nightmares about It that I can’t remember. I’ve had them since the last time I left Derry.”

“At least you get to wake up,” Eddie argues, lowering his voice after he checks his house for movement again. “The monster doesn’t follow you out of your dreams. Getting to forget is a blessing that you don’t even realize you have - you should take it and run.”

Will hasn't thought of it that way before. Didn’t he used to lie awake at night, wishing he could forget what he’s seen and be normal? The amnesia could be merciful, in that light. If there's a right answer here, Will doesn't know it. He swore to follow Richie. If Richie decides to hear Eddie and change his mind, then they’ll go. Will won’t resent him for wanting peace.

Richie declines Eddie’s advice with mature calm, surprising them both. “Some good things are worth the bad that comes with them.”

Eddie shakes his head, stubborn to the end. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m willing to find out.” Richie swings a leg over the bike, debate over. Will leaves Eddie’s side, turning to slip sideways onto the seat. He goes to put his hands around Richie’s waist to hold on, but sees Eddie’s sincerely distressed eyes, grabbing the back of Richie’s shirt and the rear carrier instead. He can do this much.

Richie rolls his feet up onto the moving pedals, bike wobbling under their weight before he gets it going.

“Hi-oh, Steamboat, AWAY,” Richie cries, picking up speed. Eddie’s face softens in recognition before his features become indistinct, too far away to parse.

Will leans into Richie’s back. “What was that?”

“Don’t know,” Richie tells him, weaving back and forth on the street as they zoom past warmly-lit houses. “Just felt right to say.”

It’s a shame that their destination isn’t pleasant, given such a nice sunset as a backdrop. Will’s enjoying the bike ride too, the unique rumble of air resistance rushing against his ears as it cuts around Richie to find him. On the first turn, Will leans to counter the weight of the backpack. Richie gives the runoff grate on the side of the road a wide berth.

“We should have taken both bikes,” he says, out of nowhere.

Will’s grip tightens as Richie goes over a resilient stick, worried that it’s too much work. “You want to go back?”

Richie grimaces. “Too late now. He’s made up his mind.”

Who-

“It’ll take us a year and a half to reach Neibolt at this rate,” Eddie says, passing on his bike and pulling ahead until he matches their speed.

“Better late than never,” Richie replies, making a wide turn at the next corner. Eddie makes an identical, practiced curve to match him without their bikes colliding.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Will says. It’s an obvious thing to point out, but he’s interested in why Eddie has changed his mind when he was so stubbornly against having anything to do with It past this point. He also silently wonders how Richie knew that Eddie would catch up.

Richie answers. “He has a death wish.”

“Don’t joke about It, dickhead,” Eddie says automatically, standing up to pedal as they pick up speed coasting down a hill. “I’m not letting my friends die alone in a fucking sewer.” He glances both ways as they approach an intersection, then frowns at the road ahead. “Richie would probably haunt me if I did. That’s the last thing I need.”

“Just Eddie and me, and his mom makes three,” Richie sings, getting a kick out of his own efforts to keep the moment light-hearted.

“I told her I was going to the store,” Eddie reveals. “She’s going to have cops dredging the whole Penobscot River when I'm not back in an hour.”

‘And that’s if you’re lucky,” Richie says. Eddie's glare promises violence being done to him, once they dismount.

Mom and Hopper, Will thinks, realizing that’s who they remind him of when they bicker this way. Their traded words are highly combative or deeply reassuring, always at the extremes of the scale. They fight hard because they love hard. It's all or nothing. Life or death.

Will doesn’t know if that’s good news for Richie, considering the way the other situation ended, so he doesn’t make a comment.

The wind kicks up a sudden burst, pummeling them from the front. Will clutches Richie's shirt tighter, ducking into the protection provided by his shoulders as their bikes slow against the assault.

"What the fuck?" Richie shouts. "It was barbecue weather twenty minutes ago!"

"This is what It does!" Eddie struggles to keep his route straight as the wind whips around, hitting their left side through a lilting turn. “It doesn’t want us to go back."

"Yeah, well, It can kiss my ass." Richie buckles down as the sky becomes a solid mass of ugly storm clouds. A snapped branch spins down into their path and Will ducks, a leaf skimming across the back of his neck like a warning shot.

"Neibolt’s just ahead," Eddie tells them, almost drowned out by the clatter of trees crashing together and swinging apart in a haunting, brittle round of applause.

It's all a show, Will thinks. Just one big performance with Derry as the set dressing. A playground for It's entertainment.

The house on the corner is most staged of all. It's rotting exterior and collapsing construct providing the perfect place for a showdown of terror. The place is big and garish and performative. In the same sense, It kills kids right out in the open, even if no one notices. It’s not subtle or secretive in the slightest.

Will’s not sure he understands this kind of evil. With the Mind Flayer, they never knew exactly what He wanted, except to feed and conquer. He hunted in the dark and moved in shadows. He didn't wait for them to come back, He went to them. The Flayer hunted them down in their homes and ripped them out of their lives like they were merely ready for the harvest.

This clown, It, has lurked in a lair beneath Derry for the last three years. If Mike's right, It would wait much longer than that before ever bothering them again. What kind of hunter willingly waits 27 years to feast?

A very patient one, at least.

The wind falters as they make the last turn, allowing Will to look around Richie's side. He spots Mike by the chain link fence across the way from Neibolt, watching their friend hurry into the road to meet them. Their bikes fall at his feet, tires clicking.

"I thought you might have changed your minds," Mike says, surveying the ashen sky as his hands clench hard around the rope that circles his chest like a shoulder bag, right to left. Will wonders how many times Mike almost changed his own mind about coming.

"And miss all the fun?" Richie says, lifting the corner of his unbuttoned long sleeve to rub his glasses clear of the misty fog.

"That's not what I'd call it," Mike says, but he's smiling. He catches sight of Will climbing off after Richie, looking to the third arrival. His smile widens. "Eddie, you came."

Eddie doesn't hear him, staring at the house with his arms crossed over this stomach. He goes for his pocket, then starts to wheeze, fumbling at his shorts like they might have grown more hiding spots when he wasn't looking.

"My inhaler," he rasps, eyes wide as the frantic searching stops. "Oh shit. Shit, I- I left it at home. I got on the fucking bike and I left it behind!"

Will looks at Mike for a response and sees the weariness on his face, like he’s accepting the need to contain Eddie’s impending meltdown.

“SHIT!” Richie shouts, startling them all. He pats himself down in a hurry, turning his pants pockets out to show they’re empty. “I forgot mine too!”

Will presses his lips together, seeing Eddie’s crunched, panicked expression unfold into complete bafflement. In the end, Mike is the first to break, his belly laugh bursting like a water balloon. When Eddie glares at Mike in deeper betrayal than he had mustered for the disagreement at the library, Will has to clap a hand over his mouth.

“It’s not fucking funny!”

“Yeah, knock it off,” Richie says, elbowing Will’s shoulder so gravely that Will loses hold, collapsing into laughter so strong that his chest feels like it’s caving in. Mike grabs his arm for support, doubled over now and gasping for air. “Stop me if you guys know this one – four asthmatics walk into a house…”

Their slightly insane fit continues until Eddie is forced to join in, smacking Richie’s arm when he tries to start in on another joke.

“It’s not- not that funny,” Eddie wheezes, trying to sound stern.

The rain picks up like it's decided to give in too, drops distinct and heavy. The growing cold washes away their giddy nerves, leaving only the next thing to do. They have to enter the house now, fight It now, kill the evil now. No more distractions or delays.

Richie finds his voice first. “Do we have a plan here? I doubt the murder clown is going to take this lying down.”

“We’ll use this,” Mike says, tapping the bolt gun hanging at his hip.

“From a hundred feet away, or are you going to run up on him and hope for the best?”

Mike doesn’t respond, but the determined set of his eyes becomes troubled.

"You almost finished the job for good last time," Will reminds, trying to lift their spirits. "We'll work together to corner It, so there's no chance of running."

"For us or the clown?" Richie mutters.

"Beep-beep, Richie," Will says, getting a sigh of cooperation. He pulls the crowbar from his bag, handing it to Richie. Then he takes out the metal bat, trading Mike for a flashlight.

"Where did you get weapons? I didn't know we were supposed to have this shit ready," Eddie says, throat bobbing.

Will looks toward the house, seeing sunflowers lining the wrought-iron fence. He closes his mind from the memory of painting them for Maggie, stepping into the dry, dead weeds to grab hold of a broken fencepost. He tests the weight of it, turning back to Eddie.

"Try this."

Eddie reluctantly does, one hand swinging it in a jerky arc. When it almost catches Mike in the stomach, he grabs up the spire, gently pulling the weapon from Eddie's grasp. He gives him a flashlight instead.

"We'll trade back when it's time," he says, getting an uncertain nod as Eddie tests the flashlight's button.

There’s no trouble getting into the house, but staying in? That’s much harder. Will can’t decide if the acidic wrongness in his gut is a warning to run or It imposing the desire to leave onto him, but it’s so strong that Will almost turns around in the front hall. With Mike at his back, he pushes onward.

The front rooms are stale and chilly, despite being free of the rain and the wind. Eddie makes a sound like a choking frog, pressing his short sleeve up under his nose as they break formation, peering into all the rooms for any sign of movement.

“Smells the same,” he explains, voice muffled.

This is the part of the cartoon where they realize they’ve walked straight into the beast’s jaws instead of a warm, wet cave shaped like a mouth. Will turns back to the door in a flash, expecting it to snap shut before Neibolt swallows them whole, but the sole escape hangs open. Stormy dusk light unfurls on the front runner, inviting them to turn back. Will is tempted to accept.

“It’s asleep,” Mike says softly, an apt description for the way the room seems to be cradling them in an open, clawed hand. Will peers up the quiet stairs, then down the narrow hallway, both spaces breathing deeply, in hibernation with the rest of the house. “This could be our best chance.”

“Or the biggest mistake ever made in the history of mankind,” Eddie whispers, clutching his flashlight in a dual-fisted death grip. The resulting beam of light trembles on the rotting walls.

Or, Will agrees. He’s starting to feel the seesaw of likely endings skew in Eddie’s favor. Richie turns to face them, taking slow steps backward, further into the house.

“One way to find out,” he says, eyebrows bouncing like they’ve all chosen Dare and now they have to follow through - because picking Truth is for babies, and they’re not babies.

Will sees right through the brave face, but he’s inspired to follow anyway, giving Eddie a look as he passes like Hey, we’ve come this far, right?

Mike moves next, and then Eddie’s brain realizes that this makes him last in the line-up and he doesn’t like that one bit, quick legs carrying him past Will in the hall, almost speed walking into Richie’s back as they reach the kitchen.

Eddie mutely gags as they pass a broken table. When Richie glances over, Will nods toward the cracked door on the right, shadowy stairs revealed as Mike's flashlight swings that way.

"Seriously?" Richie asks.

"You wanted a horror movie," Will mutters. Richie curls his fists and approaches the dark alcove to descend.

The basement is humid, quite different compared to the dry, musty atmosphere of the rest of the house. Freshly stirred soil hits Will’s nose first, followed by the scent of old pool water. From windows set high in the wall, at ground level, water runoff drips down the uneven stonework, gathering in a shallow pool on the floor.

The water trails off on the far side of the decaying well, and Will stares down at a hint of his reflection in the puddle beneath his feet. For a moment, the 12-year-old kid that got stuck in the Upside Down stares back from the mirrored world. It's so dark. Dark and empty and cold.

Eddie brushes past, the edge of his shoe disturbing the water. The image distorts, and Will sees himself again. Just himself.

“Mike, are you sure about this?” Eddie asks, peeking into the abyss. Richie pushes on his upper back, just to spook him.

Except Eddie flails in his panic, and the push was a bit too rough. Richie is used to having the strength of a child around Eddie. In a body that’s gone through most of puberty, the push is on the wrong side of strong and Eddie is unprepared for it. He topples forward, into the crumbling stone, and it gives way. Too late, Richie and Mike reach for him. Will is frozen as Eddie falls through the side of the well.

There was a time when Will was nine (or ten?) years old, and his friends stopped their bikes along the road that passed the top of the quarry. Lucas pulled over first, even though their moms warned them a million times not to play on the cliffs. The steep drop could break every bone in your body, if it didn’t kill you on impact.

His friends approached the edge anyway, peering at the abyss and tossing pebbles over. The stones were so small you couldn’t see them splash, so Lucas proposed they go bigger. Will reminded them of the danger, in case they forgot - everyone needed reminding sometimes.

“It’s not playing,” Lucas stressed. “We’re experimenting.”

Dustin had loved this loophole and Mike was already striding toward a rock the size of his head near the woodline, so Will was there, scared out of his mind as they lined up at the edge least likely to crumble from underneath them. He felt a bit rebellious too, which was rare. It was a nice reward for enduring the fear.

Lucas and Dustin faced each other with the Chosen One of rocks cradled in their hands, Mike holding onto their sleeves as a countermeasure. They all timed the toss together, because Mike made them restart when Will (intentionally) missed the count for one.

Lucas and Dustin swung their arms in and out on One. In and out on Two. In and out on THREE-

With a combined heave, the rock was released to gravity’s hold, Lucas and Dustin scrambling to not follow as the weight threatened to carry them over. Mike yanked back hard, and all three of his friends fell on top of each other, yelping in pain and relief.

By the time they sorted their injuries and scrambled to their feet to look over the edge without pushing each other out, the rock’s tall splash had already fallen, like a tiny cluster of rain on the pooled water’s surface. The stone had sunk, leaving only wide ripples in its wake. They all groaned, blaming each other in frustration and hunting down another rock that would never be as good as the original.

Will had seen every second.

He could see it happening now, with Eddie. His body would drop out of sight, screams turning into echoes. They would all rush to the broken wall of the well, and their frantic flashlight beams might catch a final glimpse of his horrified thrashing before he fell beyond light’s reach. The shouts would stop when he hit whatever was at the bottom, sewage or concrete – or maybe even sooner, if Eddie twisted too far and hit his head, quietly plummeting deeper into the dark.

Will can picture it so clearly that he doesn’t trust his senses when Eddie’s alarmed yelp is cut short and becomes a pained groan, the plume of dust that rises around him steeping the whole basement in a gray haze.

Richie gets a quick hold on Eddie’s ankle, the only part of him they can see, but Mike goes further, reaching into the cloudy air to snatch up the back of Eddie’s shirt and haul him out of immediate danger.

“Shit,” Eddie coughs, pulling his collar up over his mouth and wheezing into it as he’s thrown back onto his ass.

Will shudders out of shock's hold, looking away from the huddle to see the complication. Beneath the crumbled chunks of stone that broke Eddie’s fall, the well is sealed over, level with the floor of the basement.

“I’m sorry, Jesus, I’m sorry,” Richie breathes, brushing debris from Eddie’s shoulders.

“It’s alright,” Mike soothes, calming them both. “It was an accident. No harm done.”

“He needs air,” Richie says, his own voice rasping in the clogged room.

“We can’t split up,” Mike says. “Hang on a minute, Eddie, can you?”

Eddie nods his acceptance, but he doesn’t try to talk, breathing already limited. He doesn’t fight the hands that check him over to make sure nothing’s broken, so he must be pretty freaked out. When Richie prods Eddie’s right arm, he jerks away at first, going through the motions to flex his elbow and make sure it’s in working order.

“Just a bad bruise,” Richie murmurs, letting the arm fold up and rest against Eddie’s abdomen.

Will crouches before the break in the stone, tentatively pushing down on the damp, icy concrete at the center of the well, where it should be open to the vast pit below. It stays solid. He looks up at Mike, who chews on the inside of his mouth.

“We’re too early,” he mutters. “It doesn’t want us here, not this soon.”

Will sits back, thinking about falling stones and water and loopholes. He looks around the expiring basement as the dust settles, only their own harsh breathing letting him know that anything in this house is awake and fighting to survive.

“You said It travels through the sewers, right?”

Mike lifts his head, private contemplation paused. “Yes. Almost all of Derry feeds back to the Well House.”

Will pushes to his feet, flashlight lifting from the sealed entrance to point back at the staircase. “What if we took a shortcut?”

Chapter Text

Thunder rolls on, the rain holding nothing back now. If Richie didn’t know better, he’d say it feels personal. The punishing sheets strike skin like acupuncture, and his muscles go numb in the chill. Eddie complained about pneumonia only once when they had to bike two blocks back the way they came. He shivers now.

“I hate this plan,” Richie says, staring down at the storm drain. He can almost imagine the clown’s face peeking out at them, and the visual is so viscerally upsetting that Richie holds a hand to his stomach. He would vomit, but he hasn’t eaten since this morning. There’s no food to go sour in his gut.

“This is the closest place where It attacked,” Mike says, sounding reluctant too.

Richie looks to the silent Will for a call to surrender or regroup to do this sometime when the heavens aren’t so open. Will’s brow furrows, creating a little trough for the rain pelting his face. He’s sizing up the place where Georgie was last seen. A current has formed along the sides of the road, a rushing river feeding into the holes in the drain’s metalwork. Water splashes deeper inside, echoing in a way that could be a sign the system working properly.

Could be, Richie assures himself, thinking it sounds more like something wading upstream, coming closer in rubber shoes with slow, labored steps.

Mike crouches, gently resting a hand on the curb over the opening. To Richie, that seems like taunting a cobra.

“Alright, we’ll work our way back to the Well House, then go from there.”

“Is that really our best option?” Will asks. “If It could block off part of the route you know, why not all of it?”

“It might, but we don't have a choice,” Mike admits. “These tunnels are a maze, even without Its active tampering. Entering through a place chosen at random would risk us missing the lair completely.”

Either the logic is sound enough or Will is too sick of waiting in the storm to care, lowering himself to peer inside the drain like Mike. Richie gets a nervous grasp on Will’s shoulder when one foot slips into the dark, keeping his hold even though the limb isn’t ripped off by gnashing teeth. When Will is in up to his chest, Richie has to let go. He’s quick to follow when Will says that he’s clear, the top of his head barely visible from above.

Dropping into the sewer reminds Richie that mud exists and he loathes it, shoes landing on unidentified mush and sticking as he tries to step aside. Will helps pull him free, wearing much more reasonable sneakers. He looks around the narrow tunnel.

“This is a terrible place to die. Arguably the worst,” he informs Will, getting a vague sound of agreement as Will checks that both ways are endless and dark.

Once they’re all down together, they start following the water. Between freezing rain and now the underground water hiking, they’re just begging for hypothermia. Richie can’t feel his toes.

At the first fork in the metaphorical road, Will and Mike draw out the soggy map and attempt navigating. Will’s circulation is so poor that his fingers are a ghostly white, and Mike's shuddering jaw chops up his sentences, replicating Bill's stutter.

Another thing I shouldn’t remember, Richie thinks warily. The thought slipped in from nowhere, but he knows it’s correct.

"We t-turned left here," Mike says, pointing out the map. "So to get b-back to the Well House, we n-n-need to go right."

Will looks unhappy about this, pushing the wet hair out of his face yet again. Richie would offer his thin jacket, but it's soaked through and not even doing Richie any favors to have on.

There's a splash to Richie’s left that has his heart falling out of his ass before he turns to find Eddie staring down the wider tunnel on their left, flashlight fading into black about twenty feet down.

"What is it, Lassie?"

Eddie' throat bobs, apparently numb to Richie's jest with the situation so bleak. His voice is quiet, words between them alone. "I think It's that way.”

"Okay,” Richie says, doubting the reliability of this Immaculate Direction. “Is that the clown in your brain trying to throw us off or-"

"No," Eddie says, head shaking shortly. He looks up at Richie, eyes dark and determined. "I just know."

Richie lifts his flashlight to the left tunnel, squinting at complete darkness like there’s anything to see.

"Well. Good enough for me."

They start plodding forward, departure noticed by Will. "Richie?"

"It’s this way, trust me," he calls back. "I've got a hunch."

Eddie trudges on beside him. "My hunch."

"Whatever you say, Inspector Kaspbrak."

It should be odd, how quickly Mike and Will surrender to Eddie's unexplainable orienteering - especially because Mike just warned them that getting lost is incredibly easy and will lead to their certain doom without the clown having to lift a finger. Eddie could be accidentally taking them right into It’s loving gullet, but they all line up behind him anyway, like ducks in a row.

When they’ve been walking for a solid twenty minutes, Richie remembers that storm drains aren’t even connected to sewers. They’re supposed to catch overflow and lead straight to creeks and rivers that can handle the flooding better than a road. The sensible part of his brain tells him not to share this fun fact, so he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes forward.

The road less travelled by is not a pleasant jaunt, by any means. Richie almost yacks when they crawl through a tube so narrow that the gunk soaks into his clothes on all sides, making them reek even once they've made it to the other side.

Eddie makes for a nice distraction from the general miserableness. Eddie, who should be curling into the fetal position and begging for his mother, is bizarrely focused now that he’s been given some responsibility. Faced with unparalleled germy horrors, he grits his teeth and stomps along until they reach the next fork in the road. When he's using his newfound sense of direction to make a decision about which route to take, his lips tuck under his teeth, his cheeks puff out and his head tips to the side. It’s really…something.

Richie wishes there was a good way to say You're cute when you're covered in sewage and leading us - probably to our deaths - through the tunnels of Derry without sounding like a major douche.

They stop sharply in the middle of a tunnel, and Eddie points to a secondary pipe that starts about waist height in the wall to their left.

"That's Neibolt," he says. Will pushes past Richie, eyes wide and amazed as Mike grabs Eddie by the shoulders, shaking him heartily.

"Way to go, Eddie," Mike applauds, a small, proud smile gracing Eddie's face. He glances at Richie, who bites his tongue so hard it goes numb.

"Really, thank you. Can you take us the rest of the way?" Will requests, getting a firm nod.

And Eddie does. Richie senses that they’re reaching the end of their trip when Eddie picks up the pace, running into a round room with a well at the center. He passes straight through to a tunnel on the far side, and they all have to jog to keep up. They make a right and Richie sees light up ahead, not made by their flashlights. Eddie charges ahead in the ankle-high water.

“This way,” he says, eyes feverish when he looks back. “We fought It right-”

Eddie takes a big step forward and stumbles, head jerking to face the front as his arms pinwheel, body sinking up to his knees before they buckle. The water splashes back in around his legs, tipping his balance forward. Eddie lets out a winded shriek, body projected to faceplant into the opaque, chunky sewer water.

His uselessly outstretched hands have just broken the surface when Richie grabs him up, stumbling in the deeper water. They must have stepped off a ledge.

Will and Mike stop at the lip of the tunnel, looking down before they take another step, sinking much slower in controlled drops. They wade forward as Eddie’s closing throat whistles into the damp sleeve of Richie’s shirt, confidence consumed by crippling uncertainty.

Richie removes the death-grip on Eddie’s upper arm once they’re steady, but Eddie continues to cling, eyes firmly shut.

“This is the room,” Mike says, looking at the high sloping ceiling that goes up into eternity and the massive collection of garbage that sits at a heap in the center of the circular room. There are several other tunnels all leading to this reservoir, spaced like the spokes on a wheel. “This is where we fought It last time, before It fell. We have to go deeper.”

Richie looks at the top of Eddie’s trembling head. “Maybe we take a break?”

“We don’t have time to waste,” Will says, somehow making it sympathetic. “It could wake up and block us from getting any closer. We have to keep moving.”

Taking a deep breath of reluctance, Richie nods.

“Eddie?” Mike asks. “Do you know which way to go?”

Eddie roughly shakes his head.

“Are you sure? If you look-”

“I don’t know,” Eddie chokes out, close to hyperventilating. He stares at Mike with dull eyes. His grip is straining the seams of Richie’s shirt. “I don’t care.”

Mike retracts the question, nodding in apology. “Alright. It’s alright. I’ll go look.”

He walks off to the left, Will offering Richie a long look before following.

“Guess this makes up for the whole pushing you into the well thing.”

“Not even close,” Eddie mutters, chest hitching through an exhale. Richie lets him recover in his own time, watching a stick-shaped lump float on the waves produced by their shifting legs. Despite the frozen chill clinging to Richie’s skin and clothes, Eddie is still warm.

Behind him, he hears a clatter of metal and wood, turning to find Mike attempting to scale the mountain of stolen toys.

“Be careful,” Will whisper-shouts at him.

“I just want to see where the hole leads,” Mike quietly calls back, gaze aimed at the center of the room, where the ceiling rises into an unknown source of light. Eddie’s fingers relax their hold, and they watch Mike climb, slipping every other step before digging his heels in and lurching higher.

One determined son of a bitch, isn’t he?

“You think your memories are worth all this trouble?” Eddie asks, so quietly that he could be talking to himself.

Richie is cold and tired and hungry. He’s mentally exhausted and physically never that spry in the first place. His head hurts, and his legs ache from forcing the bike to move with double the usual weight. They haven’t even seen this clown alien monster yet and he’s ready to go home and sleep the rest of his life.

Taking too long to answer makes Eddie lift his head up. Richie stares at Eddie’s dirty and damp looking-at-Richie face, which he didn’t think was a thing until he recognized it just now.

“Ask me when I have them back.”

Eddie’s eyes brighten, and he nods seriously. He’ll hold Richie to that. Then he stops breathing altogether, eyes so wide it looks painful.

“What?” Richie asks, repeating when Eddie only squeaks like a broken chew toy. “What, Eddie?”

“Leg,” he whispers, like one might whisper Help Me. “Touching- touching my leg.”

Richie tries to pull him out of whatever has him trapped, but Eddie grabs his wrists so hard his bones grind together. He swallows, forcing Richie still. Richie gets the picture: No sudden movements.

They both slowly crane their heads forward and down, peering into the sludge that’s stained their socks phlegmy green. Richie sees ripples just beneath the surface that don’t look good.

A little head breaches the muck. Eddie’s grip tightens.

“Richie, if you laugh, I will drown you.”

Richie doesn’t laugh, but he does grin from ear to ear, leaning down to prod at the tiny turtle shell. The animal tries to dart off, grazing Richie’s shin with a webbed foot before booking it away from them.

“Everyone’s afraid of something,” Richie says gleefully, intending to hold this over Eddie’s head for the rest of his natural-born life.

“I didn’t know it was a turtle. It didn’t feel like a fucking turtle.”

“Good thing, you would’ve really lost your shit.”

“Wouldn’t be so funny if it really was It, asshole. We’re lucky it was a turtle.”

“I owe him my life,” Richie replies, watching as Will overhears their argument. The reptile resurfaces at the edge of the toy heap and Will shuffles to follow it, catching sight of a raft of old brown wood. Will aims his flashlight down as he climbs up a pair of broken steps, crossing to the middle of the platform.

Richie doesn’t think he likes the look on his friend’s face.

“Mikey,” Richie calls, seeing his curious head pop out from behind a rusted yellow tricycle. “I think you want to get down here.”

Mike is quicker, clambering down. While they’re waiting for him, Eddie’s throat clicks, and based on the way he doesn’t approach Will’s unknown discovery, he’s still not ready to move.

“Hey, Byers?” Will turns, water sloshing weakly around his ankles on the lifted stage. “You want to take me up on that hand holding now?”

Will blinks, the question coming way out of left field. His eyes dart away to a very confused Eddie. Come on, put it together. Richie reaches up to adjust his glasses and it clicks for Will, his face relaxing into nonchalance.

“Definitely,” he says, arm lifting to extend a hand. He hops back into the deep water and wades within reach.

Richie locks his fingers around the wrinkled palm, letting Will pull him a step forward before he holds his free hand out. Eddie stares at it like it might poison him. His hesitant eyes fall to the refuse swamped around their legs, gaze jerking up as a green patch of muck bobs up, disturbing the silt. With his mouth in a rictus of disgust, he clutches at Richie’s hand like a lifeline.

“Attaboy, Eds.”

“Bite me,” Eddie says, voice shaking. Will steadily leads them to the raft. Mike notices their conga line and briefly joins on Eddie’s other side, palm squeezing for reassurance as he studies a round trap door built into the raft that was once a theatre stage. Mike releases the hold to crouch and pull the rope handle for the door. Richie’s hands are both crushed to a pulp as the hatch is opened, musty air spilling out and mingling with the stale sewage.

“Down there, huh?”

“Seems that way,” Mike replies. They stare into the dark stone well. This one is definitely still functional.

“Listen, gang, we tried - and that’s what matters,” he says, admitting defeat. Both of his hands are released as his three friends harmonize their unamused sighs.

Yeah, Richie doesn’t know why he thought that would work.

When Mike called It an alien, Richie can’t be the only one who imagined a silver flying saucer with technicolor lights along the rim. This is not that kind of secret base. The room they reach - after Richie’s shimmied down the well and rescraped his palms to shit - is old and worn. It’s not technical or advanced, like all the sci-fi movies like to show, but just plain prehistoric. It’s been here longer than Derry’s been here, and probably much longer before that.

At the center of the room, there’s what looks like black glass bursting from the floor, as though It crashed like a meteor, and the impact left it this way. The floor is hard dirt, dust, and stone. Richie looks at the ceiling and his heart sinks, thinking about the distance between them and the surface. One wrong move and gravity crushes this whole lair with them inside.

I don’t want to share a grave with It.

“Mike?”

Richie doesn’t turn, thinking that Will is certain to ask where the clown’s at, since It doesn’t seem to be here. Will speaks louder.

“Mike?”

“Right here,” Mike says, confused. Richie looks over now, getting a bad feeling about this. He sees Mike standing right next to Will, who’s staring at the wall to their right, flashlight darting over and around the glass spikes that drive out of the ground at random intervals.

When the light steadies, it’s focused on a wide tunnel so dark that the beam doesn’t begin to pick away the shadows. Richie leans carefully forward, seeing Will’s eyes glazed and profile growing quickly devastated.

“Mike!” he shouts, voice cracking this time.

“Will, I’m here,” Mike repeats, catching Will’s arm when he tries to take a step and trips over his own shoelaces.

"Wrong Mike," Richie says, stomach sinking. "Grab him."

Mike does, Eddie catching the other side just as Will really tries to bolt. He shouts for Mike again, this time panicked and loud, straining to be heard from whatever distance It has devised to torture him. Richie doesn't know exactly what he's hearing, but he starts to thrash in their grip, shouts losing their words and becoming anguished sounds of fear and fury.

Eddie ducks a flying elbow and it catches Richie across the chin. "Fuck!"

"Let me go," Will demands, straining so hard it lifts Eddie off the floor before Mike gets both arms around his waist, fingers locked in mirrored fists. "Let me go! MIKE!"

“Do something!"

Why is it always me? Richie cradles his own swelling jaw, trying to hear himself think over the relentless yelling.

“It’s not real,” he says firmly. “Listen to me, man, your Mike’s not here!” Richie has to move around Eddie to make eye contact, wincing at the sight of Will’s twisted face, splotchy with exertion and torment. “It’s not him, you gotta stay with us, Steamboat. Don’t go crazy just yet, alright? Hey, hey- WILL!”

The shouting lapses into panted exhales, Will's head turning with a wild fervor to find only Richie. When Richie’s certain he won’t get decked, he reaches out to push his fist against Will's chest, grounding him. His heartbeat reminds Richie of third grade, when the teacher brought in her pet rabbit for show and tell. After twenty pairs of sweaty hands grabbing at it, that poor thing's heart was leaping right through the skin and into Richie's lap.

Don't die on me, Mr. Whiskers.

“Will,” he repeats, with the exact inflection and tone as Mike Wheeler. Will stares at Richie’s mouth in disbelief, sinking back into his own body and out of the illusion. Some of the abnormal color in his face subsides. Will’s hands absently push down on Mike’s hold to get free, but Mike resists, not sure if they’re in the clear yet.

“How’d you-”

“I keep telling you, it’s easy,” Richie says, back to himself again. Talking hurts his jaw, but he keeps going. “Don’t fall for Its games, okay? Your Mike isn’t here and we have to stick together.”

There’s the quiet clatter of a rock in the darkness of the tunnel they restrained Will from entering, and that’s all the warning they get before a hand shoots out, opening to capture all four of them in one fell swoop. Mike sees a burned, blistering palm, fingers shriveled and blackened like coal. Eddie sees a lumpy hand wrapped in crusty bandages, skin rotting and diseased in the places where it shows through. What Will sees is hardly a hand at all - more of a claw, like the long pointed grasp of a demogorgon.

Richie sees It, and his insides try to become his outsides. The others duck and roll out of the way, scared too quickly to scream about it first, but Richie can only fall to his knees, clutching his head as it swells from within, pulling his skin tight. Its hand flies overhead so violently that a draft flutters Richie’s hair.

“No games,” It says, sounding scratchy and warbling, like the voice is playing through blown speakers. “No one wants to play with cheaters.”

Richie cries out in agony as his head threatens to explode. He can feel his memories gathering strength behind the blockade, the way that a tide recedes from the beach before it returns as a tsunami.

It’s going to kill me, he realizes, close to tears as his body hunches forward, glasses clattering to the ground. I’ll remember too fast and everything will bleed together until my brain stops trying to make it all fit.

Soft hands latch on the sides of Richie’s face with his glasses in hand, forcing his head up. He fights back, hand catching in cotton before his eyes open and he realizes he’s not about to be eaten by It. Eddie’s controlling grasp makes the ache in Richie’s pounding head worsen, but Richie stares up at his slightly blurry face, trying to catch what he’s saying.

Breathe, he realizes, sucking in a long, much-needed helping of air. Eddie nods rapidly, making a big show of taking another deep breath. Richie mimics him, thinking what a strange reversion of roles this is. Keep breathing.

In the distance, Richie hears the subtle crack of breaking stone, tipping his head up in Eddie’s hold to see a stalactite trembling on the ceiling. When it snaps free and falls, Richie shoves hard at Eddie’s shoulders, using the push to force them apart. They tumble back, a wedge driving into the solid earth where they just were like a hot knife through butter. A sharp point is alarmingly close to Richie’s nethers.

Hands slip under Richie’s armpits, making him wonder if he’s grown new limbs before he’s being hauled to his feet, practically dead weight. When Will lets him go, he stays gracefully upright, breathing harsh but constant. Mike appears from the far side of the rock, Eddie’s arm in hand. He shoves him into their huddle and Richie almost drops the glasses as they’re pushed back into his hands.

“Back to back,” Mike orders, slightly crazed. He tosses Richie the crowbar and hands Eddie his fencepost, leaving himself and Will responsible for keeping the lights on and aimed at whatever moves first. “I don’t think It’s happy to see us.”

“Oh, but I am,” It says, drawing their attention to a different tunnel with each stretched syllable. Whichever way Richie looks, it feels like It is always speaking from right behind him. They press back against each other, shuffling away their fear. “There’s just been no time for me to prepare.”

The voice is simpering and apologetic. Richie imagines a clown in his mom’s dinner apron - the model host to unexpected guests - then smacks some sense into himself, letting the biting chill of the crowbar in his hands steel him against a laughing fit. This is no time to go insane.

“I want to slow down and enjoy our reunion, but I’m so very hungry. You have no one to blame but yourselves, cheating your way here early.” The sound of Its voice bounces, getting quieter and further away. “You’re losers for a reason. Cheaters never - ever - win.”

Then It goes quiet. Richie thought the taunting speech was bad, but this is much, much worse. Their flashlights dart to all the openings, shadows leaping in their frightened minds. No matter how frantically they look and listen, the only real sounds are their own.

Four become one in the darkness, waiting to become none.

When It drops from the ceiling, they are both unprepared and as ready as they are ever going to be.

Will catches the glint of a yellow eye in the beam of his flashlight, not relaying the news faster than It can start obeying physics again. The cavern quakes as It hits the ground, sending them all into a wild stumble before they scatter their formation and turn to face the danger, weapons lifted.

When the flashlights steady on It, Will’s heart almost stops.

They got the clown part right, but this isn’t all clown anymore. It’s not even clown-sized, the painted white head alone taller than Mike. The mouth is massive, red and gleaming, with shark-like teeth peeking through as the clown decides to speak.

“One of these Losers is not like the others,” It says, singing like an eerie lullaby. “You brought a little friend.”

Richie steps out like he means to make the first move, held back by Will’s hand. He doesn’t want Richie anywhere near that thing. Its body is built like a spider, two limbs swaying limply as It puts on the performance with two more gloved hands.

So much for no games.

“Will Byers,” the clown coos, oh so delighted by a fresh face. Its appearance is horrifying, Will can’t deny that, but to be frank, he’s seen worse. Their odds are still good. They have a chance here, if they could only get close enough. Will has a feeling that the eight legs aren’t just for show, so he doesn’t want anyone charging ahead without a plan of attack.

And that thing It can do, with the voices. Will has never heard Mike die before, but he knew it was him. He knew it was happening right then, and he was begging for Will to help him before it was too late.

If It can do that, can make the impossible so real, what can’t It do? Will thinks helplessly.

“All that fear.” It takes a chasmic breath in, like Will just reeks of terror. He probably does. The clown’s smile grows ghoulish and warped, voice layered with the delicate tones of children. “And an imagination to match. We can have a little fun before the end, can’t we? Just a little fun between friends.”

“Don’t look at It,” Mike quietly warns. “He’ll use your mind against you.”

“Uh, kinda hard not to look at it,” Richie replies, shifting uneasily, like a horse behind the gate at the races. “It’s right there. If we close our eyes, It’ll just kill us.”

“Try not to think of anything,” Mike says instead. “Make your mind go blank.”

“That’s the best tip you’ve got? Next you’ll be telling us not to cross the Proton Streams.”

“Just listen to me,” Mike snaps. “Its shape is whatever we expect it to be-”

“Yeah, we’ve all seen the fucking movie, Mikey!”

Contrary to the conversation topic, It doesn’t become a large marshmallow man. Will almost wishes It did, but blank in his mind is equivalent to darkness, and darkness produces only one thought.

The clown’s limbs begin to twist and twirl in their sockets, white sleeves being split at the seams before a red, fleshy form breaks through and consumes the clothes. Its fingers split into twisted ropes of muscle, fiery hair coming to a single point as the face elongates and the mouth opens in circular rows of razor sharp teeth that spin like a top. Lightning fizzles to life inside Its mouth.

Will is hypnotized by the flashing red storm, not seeing the arm that snakes through the air toward him until it’s flying at his chest like an arrow.

A hand on Will’s elbow rips him out of the way, preventing a recreation of the battle at Starcourt.

“Move already!” Eddie shouts at him. “You want to die?”

No, Will thinks, adrenaline burning inside his stomach as Eddie pulls on him again, getting him in motion. God no, not at all. He’s on the verge of tears as Richie snatches him up to hide behind a wall of stone, their bodies forming a loose circle that faces in this time.

“What was that?” Mike demands, like they have the explanation.

“Aren’t you supposed to know?” Richie hisses back.

“It only turns into the things we fear! I’ve never seen the thing It just became – and It didn’t do this last time we fought It!"

"It didn't get as big as a goddamn house," Eddie agrees, hand clutching in his own shirt, over the heart.

But we had a feeling we weren’t seeing the whole picture, Will hears at the end of that sentence. The original Losers may not have seen It get any larger than a clown to scare them, but they knew there was more to It than meets the eye. Anything is possible because nothing is impossible for It.

"This is new," Mike says, ducking away from the barrage of rock shards raining down from above. "Did It get this from one of your horror movies, Richie?”

“You think I’ve seen shit that scary without dying of cardiac arrest? What the fuck even was it, a mutated spider?”

“I saw meat,” Eddie says, gagging briefly. “It was made of- like, bone gristle. Shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, a shuddering breath breaking inside his chest and cutting off more words. They all turn to him. “It’s me. It came from me.”

Richie frowns, hand bracing Will’s shoulder when he sways. “What, you- you drew that?”

If only. If only it was all a drawing. When Will shakes his head, his mouth trembles. Mike’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“Jesus,” Richie breathes, staring at him like…like everyone else does. Terrified for him.

“Time for tag,” It crows to the air. Eddie screams as he finds a tendril cinching around his ankle. It drags him off his feet and out of hiding. “You’re it, Eds!”

Will pounces from his hunch, hands catching on Eddie’s wrists as they’re both brought out into the open. He pulls back hard, hearing Eleven and Eddie’s screams together for a mind-bending second. Richie plants the crowbar straight through the chunky arm holding Eddie captive, letting go as the metal turns to smoke in his palms and disappears.

“Richie!” Mike tugs the bat from his backpack and tosses it over, stomping out a second searching arm that tries to sweep Will’s legs. Will is almost parallel to the floor, trying to match the strength of Its pull. When Richie swings the bat, the wood tears through with a thick squish, splattering them all in monster flesh before It drops Eddie, absorbing the shoe that fell off Eddie’s foot in the process.

Will and Eddie land in a tangled heap. Mike drags them off each other, pushing their momentum toward the side of the room where they entered. “Run!”

Will does. He dropped his flashlight somewhere, but he hardly needs it with the flashing lights that It has created by the ceiling. As Will flees, they strobe on and off, suggesting that something new could appear in the break between flashes and Will wouldn’t know until he’s colliding with the threat. It booms with laughter while giving chase, a haunting change from the Mind Flayer’s animalistic attacks. The laughter is not quite human, but the mimicry makes the feeling the sound elicits even worse.

"If you had to fight that before, how the fuck are you alive?" Richie shouts, skinning his knee as he throws himself over a gaping split in the ground and keeps running.

"El killed it!"

"With what, a fucking rocket launcher?"

"With her mind!" Will ducks as Richie readies the bat, weapon swinging to meet the fleshy limb headed for Will’s neck. It flies straight into a spiked stone, impaled. "She had superpowers."

"WHAT?!"

They're distracted from arguing as the tendril splits, wound widening until it has two distinct ends. When they run this time, one chases each of them.

“What’s with this thing?” Richie shouts, tackling the far more pressing problem. “You cut off a dick and two grow back!”

Thesselhydra, Will thinks, instant regret swamping his gut as a primal hiss bounces around the cavern. Richie goes pale around the massive rims of his glasses as Its forked tongue flicks out. The many arms shake and sprout scales until they resemble serpent heads, all rearing back to strike.

“That was not an invitation, Byers!” Richie bellows.

“I didn’t do it on purpose-”

Will grunts as he’s hit full across the chest, It’s tail knocking him to the ground and shocking the life from his chest. Richie skids to a stop, turning to help him up, but the tail swings between them again, throwing him in the other direction so he collides with Mike, both crashing into a rock pillar and dropping to the ground. The thesselhydra’s eight-headed laugh is the melody to the thundering rhythm of Will's pulse. Its tail coils and rises, wicked end pincers snapping as Will gasps for air and frantically drags his own weight away by his elbows. Sharp stones dig into his back and forearms, blood beading in broken, jagged lines. Will is numb to the pain as the tail spins and snaps at his feet.

It’s toying with us, Will realizes, fighting to survive while the clown is merely playing with Its food. The thought is almost unendurable. Feeling this hopeless - knowing the threat and having no way to end the fear except to succumb to It - Will wishes he had enough air to scream.

It’s not fair.

Richie returns with the bat and a vengeance, aiming to bring it down on the rippling scaly appendage. Its pincers swivel to catch the weapon in mid-air, closing to hold fast as Richie tries pulling it free.

“Give it, you slimy-” The bat creaks, then crunches in half, wooden bits raining down on Will as the top end falls to the ground, rolling to a stop. Richie stares at the broken base he’s left with as the pincers open wide again, unharmed. “Shit.”

Mike hauls Richie away from the pincers as Will gets to his feet like a startled cat, just running in place until the friction takes hold. When the pincers close, their razor thin ends nick the top of Will’s neck. The strands of hair that get caught between the blades are cut clean through, and Will feels the itchy trimmings fall down the back of his shirt.

“Go, fucking go,” Eddie snaps, firm hands planting at the center of Will’s spine as they take off again, forced back the way they came.

Will spots a tunnel that looks similar to where they came in, figuring one exit is as good as another. He runs into it, away from It, and doesn’t stop to get a second opinion. He runs too hard for his frightened heart, vision going fully black before he collides with a side of the tunnel and drops into a puddle, wheezing hard. If he could catch his breath, he’d tell Eddie that an inhaler would come in handy right about now, and make Richie apologize for razzing him.

Will’s senses return to him slowly. His arms and legs are skinned and bleeding weakly. There’s a nasty bump on the back of his head from when he hit the ground, as well as the shallow cut. His ribs ache when he’s able to maintain a deep breath, so the tail probably hit him harder than he knows.

Will’s hand is lodged in some mushy, mossy grossness. With disgust, Will realizes he’s kneeling in it too. He struggles to his feet in the damp patch of ground, swaying in place.

Richie, he remembers, not blinded by his own body shutting down.

Will forces his tired eyes open and turns. Instead of seeing any trace of Richie or the tunnel he entered, Will is faced with a humble, one-story house in a wooded clearing. It’s buried in living vines, resting below a dark crimson and stormy sky. Ash-like specks float through the air, undisturbed by a clear lack of natural wind. The back of Will’s neck prickles to life as a low chittering sound rises all around him.

He’s home.

“Wait, where the fuck is Will? He was right behind me!”

“Can we deal with our own shit first?” Eddie shouts. Richie notices the meaty arm winding down the hall after them and reluctantly focuses, looking at the three doors. Weirdly familiar doors.

Not Scary At All. Scary. Very Scary.

“Which one?”

Richie takes a pause to consider. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe-”

“This is so stupid,” Eddie wheezes. “This is stupid, this is stupid!” Behind them, something squelches unpleasantly.

Richie turns his head to the side and squints. Holy shit again. It’s one of Will’s drawings. Richie presses his palm to his forehead, struggling to recollect with Eddie muttering how they’re going to die down here and he can’t believe he got talked into this.

“The middle! Definitely the middle.”

Eddie stops pacing. “What? Why?”

“Would you just trust me?” Richie asks, not appreciating the yes-but-I-reserve-the-right-to-hate-you-if-this-goes-horribly-wrong face he gets in return.

Richie approaches the middle door, gripping the handle tight. He really hopes Will is somewhere better than the other side of this door.

November 6th, 1983

Will shivers, breathing shallowly in the toxic atmosphere. He knows he can’t be in Hawkins, not when he was just in Derry, but it feels real enough that he doubts what he knows. Maybe you can be in the two places at once.

The chittering draws closer, some unknown creature screeching in the distance. Will walks quickly to the front door of his house, not stepping on any of the long, winding root-like tubes on the ground.

Learned that lesson quick. Will dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. When he woke up in the hospital - not remembering much of anything about his week in the Upside Down - he didn’t go looking for answers. Owens had prodded him with questions, but the fact remains - Will doesn’t like remembering. Not this place.

The house is cold and dark inside, unchanged from when he was here last. Instead of being safer than outside, Will would say it feels better to be in here, where he can put his back to a wall and watch the door. Anything’s better than being out in the open.

Will checks all the rooms, pretending that it’s only to look for a way out and has nothing to do with paranoia that a demogorgon is hunkered down in here somewhere. He doesn’t know why It would send him here, or show him this. If his goal was to scare Will, that’s been accomplished.

So why am I still here?

“Mom? Jonathan?”

Will turns at the voice, but he’s still alone in the hallway. He’s hit with a wash of warmth from the chest down, shivers running up his back as the voice calls out again.

“Mom?”

It’s me. This is a memory of that night, pulled from the recesses of Will's head and sickly replayed for him to see again. Will doesn’t need the reminder. He may not remember the full week, but these ten minutes are seared into him, made more vivid by a child’s creativity and overwhelmed senses. He hears his own quiet, shuddering breaths from the other side, able to imagine himself standing at the phone, the dial wheel taking years to roll back so he could input the next number.

This still doesn’t make sense to Will. Why is he here? What is It trying to prove?

“Hello? Hello?” The phone fizzles out, and Will finds himself watching the front door, immobilized by accepting the inevitable. The bolt slides out of place with a light clack from the metal chain.

It’s not until Will hears the sick squelch of an opening gate that he flees into his mother’s bedroom, locking the door sharply behind him.

Weapon, he thinks first, eyes landing on his mom’s bedside table. Even better, fire.

Will rips the drawer from the stand, dumping it out on the bed. He crashes to his knees to search, pushing aside old receipts and other paper mementos, fingers picking up an old key and an uncapped pen before he finds the right glint of silver. Will flicks back the cap of the lighter, thumb shaking as he jerkily presses down the wheel until a spark catches. He exhales so sharply with relief that the light almost goes out, the tool trembling like its flame in his unsteady hands.

In the hall, there’s the grisly sound of the Demogorgon’s face unfolding to let out a low, baying sound. Will holds the lighter so close that the fire warms his trembling chin, waiting for terror itself to break through the door.

Heavy, damp footsteps approach, sounding almost like his father’s work boots on the carpet flooring. The movement stops and Will’s heart stops with it, holding his clammy hand over his mouth as the light coming under the door becomes consumed by a staggering shadow.

Indecipherable clicks and grunts escape the searching Demogorgon as Will allows his eyes to close in desperation, willing it to leave. His fingers start to burn, cradling the overheated metal shroud, but he doesn’t dare let the light die. There’s no way of knowing if another spark would catch.

There’s a sudden guttural croak, like the chest of a frog bloating out, and then the Demogorgon abandons the momentary distraction, quick to depart through the back door.

Will sobs into his hand, too scared to make a louder noise and draw it back. He can easily recall the way the monster prefers to attack, striking when it all goes quiet and you think you might be safe at last.

In the shed, it-

Will’s head jerks up, finger slipping from the lighter’s lever. The shed. The night he was taken, it got him in the shed. The Demogorgon is getting him from the shed, right now.

Will pushes off the edge of the moldy mattress, switching the lighter between his sweaty hands as he unlocks the bedroom door. He focuses on a steady grip, getting a light on the first try. The door opens with a soft creak, Will hiding behind it until he’s certain he doesn’t hear anything in the house. Then he slips into the hall, moving as deftly as he can to get over the winding vines and reach the kitchen.

In the cabinet below the sink, he finds an aerosol can of disinfectant that’s orange-scented, but Jonathan always called it Zombie Bait - he claimed the strength of the smell could wake the dead. Those jokes stopped, after Will came back and the names started going around Hawkins.

Not now, Will thinks, blinking the blur of tears away to test the can, making sure it still has juice.

In the backyard, there’s the high, piercing scream that only a petrified child can make, and Will doesn’t let himself think too hard - whether this is a dream, a memory, or an illusion, it’s still happening. Will may not have telekinesis, but he’s seen countless people in his life fight their battles and win without superpowers. Looking out for other people and paying attention is what counts, for normal people like him.

Will doesn’t notice that he called himself normal in any sense of the word, too busy running out the backdoor of his alternate dimension house with his makeshift blowtorch to save his younger self from a faceless monster.

The fleshy back of the Demogorgon faces Will as he comes down the porch steps, seeing the Young Will being hauled away by his ankle, arms flailing to grab uselessly at the sticky uneven ground on either side of him. He’s crying out for his mom one second and whimpering the next. One of his hands catches on a stone and he yells as he throws it at the back of the Demogorgon’s head. The rock sails harmlessly over the monster’s shoulder, task uninterrupted as it lugs him toward the winding treeline.

“Hey,” Will calls, voice cracking as he marches forward. He’s scared so bad his whole body is shaking - but he’s angry too. This thing took him. It started all of this, almost costing Will and his family everything. It infected his mind. It killed Bob. It killed Hopper.

Not It. He. The Mind Flayer.

“HEY.”

Young Will’s head jerks back, wide eyes in an upside-down face staring at the only person he’s seen for miles - his only hope of salvation. He tries to roll to his side, to get an upright view, a maneuver made easier as the Demogorgon turns. Its budded head ripples, assessing the new threat.

Will strikes the lighter and it catches. The Demogorgon’s face starts to peel open, body recoiling and taking Young Will with it. The boy lifts his head, shaking the hair from his eyes.

Will can’t look away from the beast, but he imagines his little mind is breaking right now, seeing what can only be an older version of himself.

“As soon as he lets go, get behind me,” Will whispers. He doesn’t know how much the Demogorgon understands, but the opening mouth is hissing at Will now, muscled body tensing like it intends to lunge. Young Will bobs his head, and that’s all the cue Will needs to aim and squeeze the trigger. The disinfectant bursts the tiny flame into an inferno, the Demogorgon howling as it turns away from the weapon, shoulder singed.

The beast staggers back from Will as he forces his legs to get him closer. Young Will’s foot falls free, and there’s only a heartbeat of pause where Will is sure he’s too scared to move before the boy is up, puffy jacket rustling.

The Demogorgon is circling Will now, trying to get an angle on both of them. Will does his best not to flinch. They both know how that would end. He isn’t sure how long either of these tools will last, so he starts countering the Demogorgon, letting himself be backed in careful semi-circles toward the woods. That’s where he ran once. He can run again.

Will lets the aerosol rest to lure the creature closer, then blasts it again, fire directed at its chest this time. The Demogorgon roars, enraged, and Will shakes so hard he almost drops the lighter.

A small hand fists in the back of his shirt. The fingers are trembling and cold, knuckles pressing into his back. His younger self is huddled as close as he can be. He’s just a kid.

“Run,” Will orders, not looking back as the Demogorgon starts to get brave, forcing Will to move faster to keep up with it, flames delayed for almost a second too long. “You’ll make it, I promise, but you have to run.”

Another heartbeat too long before the hand untwists from Will’s shirt. When Will steps forward to catch the side of the Demogorgon again, he hears quick footsteps heading away from him, into the heavy woods. The monster’s frustration is expressed in a few quick barks, as Will defends the stretch of backyard to keep it from following.

Eventually, the Demogorgon changes its mind. It’s hunting Will now, all five flaps dripping with saliva as it studies him, his cuts and bruises. Will is slowing down, and the monster is paying attention.

A flood of now-memories shock Will into a gasp, seeing Richie and Eddie yelling in front of a door while an arm with a demo-dog face snaps at their back. He sees Mike, hiding in the main cavern as It stalks the background.

You cannot save everyone.

The thought is pushed into his brain so violently that Will’s concentration falters, the Demogorgon swiping at him. Claws scratch clean across his arm, knocking the arsenal from his hands. Taking the advantage, the beast surges forward. Will gets a few hasty steps back until he trips on the pulsing ropes that serve as the undergrowth of the Upside Down, falling back on his side.

Will pushes to his hands and knees, crawling when adrenaline isn’t enough to get him standing. He makes a break for the shed, hoping that the temporary gate is still open. He won’t make it, but he tries. There’s nothing else to hope for.

The Demogorgon gets a grip on his ankle, pointed fingers sinking into the meat of his leg. Will screams, holding tight to one of the flexing vines as the beast tugs, trying to reel him in.

You can’t even save yourself, the Mind Flayer booms, blinding Will with such dread that his hands relax. His body is pulled along the ground as the Demogorgon’s clicks grow louder, claws cut sharper, teeth made longer. The monster expands in size, towering over Will as he’s flipped onto his back, staring his death in the face.

It took three years, but the Demogorgon got him in the end.

Maybe it was all for nothing then, Will thinks. This time the thought is entirely his own. Maybe I lied to myself back there, and I don’t really make it.

The Demogorgon’s split face poises over him, the smell that pours out of its throat ripe like blood and expired like bad milk. Will turns his head away as the five points ripple dangerously, like a rattlesnake’s tail.

What were we thinking, coming here? We can’t kill It. Nothing can kill It, just like nothing can kill the Mind Flayer. I rolled a seven. It was over before it began.

“Fourteen,” a soft voice corrects.

Will thinks at first that his young self has returned in time to witness his own end, but as Will hysterically scans the treeline, he sees no trace of the boy. That voice comes again, this time from inside Will’s head.

“You rolled a fourteen, not a seven.”

Will stares up into the gaping cavity of the Demogorgon’s gurgling mouth, gaze transfixed by the spiked teeth that shudder, preparing to feast. Will’s hand starts to move at his side, eyes watching the Demogorgon’s lift and unfurl its arm, prepared to bring it down on Will and end him, hunt complete.

Its clawed hand reaches for you one last time and…and…

Will’s fingers close over a sharp rock. He slams the pointed end into the side of the Demogorgon’s throat with a weak grunt, the monster choking on Its roar of fury. Will doesn’t wait a heartbeat to get moving this time, up and limping to the shed with a clearer mind than he’s had since he arrived.

Will fights for every breath and every shambling step. He reaches the shed this time because he knows he can, he has to, and he stoops to retrieve the shotgun he dropped three years ago, driving the back end into his shoulder and turning to face the door. Will plants his feet, channels his nerves from his hands to his stomach, aims, and waits.

As expected, the monster slams into the open shed door, almost breaking it off the hinges. The bloody mouth opens to scream as Will slips his finger onto the trigger. He exhales slowly.

You picked the wrong kid, you son of a bitch.

The gun fires and the Demogorgon gets blown clear out of the doorway, flying through the air and bouncing off the ground some fifteen feet away. Rolling and sliding to a stop, the beast’s body slumps, unmoving.

Will stares down the sights, breathing hot and rapid against the shiny stock of the gun. The Demogorgon remains dead.

It stays dead, as Will slowly exits the shed. It stays dead, as Will backs toward the woods, lowering the gun.

Will is so busy watching the body that he trips again, falling back and hitting the ground hard. His head bounces off solid ground, struck in the same spot for the third time today. Will clenches his teeth and keeps breathing, opening his eyes to find a roof made of sticks and tarp.

He sits up in Castle Byers. It’s dim and damp and doesn’t feel safe like it once did, but he misses it so fiercely he could weep with relief, seeing the place whole again. He’s not even in the Upside Down version anymore, the floor and walls clear of vines and the air free of particles. It’s just home. The gun falls from his hands as he kneels, shuffling to see the entirety.

Will had completely forgotten the interior. His sketchbook is filled end to end with the shape of Castle Byers from outside, an unwelcome viewer of his own paradise. Seeing it now, the memories return to welcome him. Will’s hand runs fondly over the old patio furniture cushions that make up the seats, touching and tracing old books and toys like he’s discovering ancient relics. Movie tickets stapled to the walls uncurl beneath his dirty fingers, words blurred and lost.

Will’s eyes come to rest on the photo propped against his lantern, this time in reverence. He reaches out to pick it up, heart racing at the thought of holding it again, the past also made whole by this memory.

An inhuman sound pierces the air as the Castle is struck, Will flinching back from the photo. He shifts his body into the far corner, staring at the entrance without enough air to scream. The boom comes again, like vengeful thunder, and the roof starts to cave in, debris and wooden splinters shaking to the forest floor. Will risks going for the shotgun where it lies abandoned on the floor, and he braces it in place on his aching shoulder.

He’s ready this time. When the Demogorgon breaks through, he’ll shoot It again. There’s only one bullet left, but Will can run. He’s good at that.

Will suffers in silence as Castle Byers is torn apart, walls cracking so easily. His sanctuary is ruined once again, and he has to watch from the inside. Its front wall comes down and the structure nearly collapses, a sudden bout of rain pouring in the gaps. As lightning burns the sky, a shadow stretches inside, Will tensing at the warped outline on the leaf litter.

The sound of hard sobbing startles Will more than any other noise could. He lowers the shotgun, leaning forward to see around the largest section of broken walls.

Splayed out in the opening is another Will, a bevy of emotion ripping anguished cries from his chest. A metal bat has fallen from his hand, rolling to a stop by the wrecked Castle Byers sign. Pale fists clenched in the dirt keep him from dissolving into his grief.

Will sets the gun aside and crawls off the bed, stepping over and ducking under what remains of the entrance to his childhood home. He stares down at his bruised, bleeding heart in the pounding rain until bumps rise on the back of his neck.

Will turns to face his destiny.

Rising to tower over the treeline is a shape undefinable but distinct. Will knows it from his nightmares and his waking hours, from his then-memories and his now. The Mind Flayer is given shape through the storm, wind whistling and thrashing the trees until the world is a squall of sound. Without taking a step, the monster approaches, spindly limbs slithering and spilling as Will stares. He thinks of them crawling inside to possess him. He thinks of Billy, skewered to death and bleeding black. He thinks of the Shadow Monster’s dying whimper and immobile corpse.

Will inhales and lifts his chin. Easy-peasy, right?

“Go away,” Will says sternly, taking a page out of Richie’s book and using a Voice that sounds a lot like Bob Newby. “Go away.”

The rain stops, then reverses into the sky. The cyclone limbs halt, then retract. The world around Will moves backwards until he’s alone among the gently rustling evergreen trees. One of the trunks splits on a seam, bark cracking outward until a narrow gate with sap like sinew is large enough for him to enter.

Will turns back, finding Castle Byers whole again. Its entrance sheet is hung open, inviting him to return.

I can save myself, he thinks, leaving the refuge behind him. I can save my friends.

Will pushes against the throbbing wall of plasma with both hands, ducking his head to fit. There’s resistance to each step, like he’s trying to walk at the bottom of a pool, and the slime sluices across his skin, leaving cold, stringy webs behind.

The last layer pops like a balloon, sending Will into a pinwheel stumble to stay upright. He flicks the remains of the Upside Down from his eyes, clearing them to find himself standing in a damp, rocky hallway. He holds out a hand as water drips from a crack in the ceiling, splattering against his palm. Will closes the hand into a fist and exhales.

“BEEP-BEEP, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Sounds like Eddie's going to need some help soon. Will’s first step is shaky, but he finds his footing, splashing into a wider cave tunnel and following the pained roar of dying monsters. He finds the main atrium, skidding to a stop as Pennywise coughs a bout of flames at the ceiling. A flash of motion on the right catches Will’s attention, Eddie falling to a stop at the unmoving Richie’s side, shaking his shoulders and patting his cheek.

“Richie? Richie, can you hear me? Wake the fuck up, Rich, come on!”

Will urgently hops down to a lower outcrop, catching himself on his hands when he overshoots the landing and his ankle spasms. He looks up, then goes still, a cold sweat breaking out across his whole body as Richie lifts his head.

“Shit, Richie, be careful. You do not want to die down here,” Eddie continues, breaking into a relieved smile as he sits back from leaning over Richie. Will’s gaze floats up, catching the gleam of shifting darkness above Eddie’s bowed back.

There’s not enough time to scream.

Chapter Text

Eleven told him once, what her powers felt like to use. How she reached out with some belief that her will would be imposed upon the world. When she was scared or angry, it worked best of all, like it fed from her heart or her soul. Like your brain talking to your limbs about how to move, she spoke to a part of herself that desired change and summoned those changes to life.

Or something complicated like that.

Will has never thought about it much, but it comes to him now, out of the blue. As Its claw hangs overhead, swinging like an arcade game, Will reaches into the back of his mind for a feeling that’s been securely tucked away – not a box in the darkest corner, but the shadows that make the corner dark. It is the feeling of the Mind Flayer, of a presence that built and built until Will was able to search the now-memories and channel them, digging through the parasite’s mind in return.

In desperation, Will acknowledges that immense, suffocating force. It cools the blood in his veins and makes his whole body break out in a fevered sweat, but he does it. With both hands, he reaches for the strength the Mind Flayer once offered. The void reaches back.

Will looks at Richie, looks at Eddie, looks at Its claw coming down to tear them apart.

Move, he commands, up to his elbows in agony as a hot burst of blood fills the back of his throat. Copying the Mind Flayer, Will drives the thought into Eddie’s head like a battering ram, shattering his self-control and imposing a simple idea.

Will watches through dimming vision as Eddie flings himself to the left with a hard shove to the ground. The bruised skin of his forearm is grazed by It, the living spear whistling by so fast that It tears the skin It touches like a deep papercut. Eddie falls into a roll until he hits the closest boulder and goes still. The cavern quakes as Its thwarted claw finds purchase in bare rock, an ugly cackle breaking out as Richie struggles to crabwalk out of being next.

Fate REALLY wants Eddie to lose that arm, Will thinks, letting go. He slumps to his hands and knees, leaving Eddie to reassert control of his own body by shooting to his feet and screaming bloody murder, as loud as a firework and twice as fast. He ducks under the limb wedged in stone to tug Richie upright and give them both a running start.

“-ill? Will!”

He blinks at the hand on his shoulder, following it to Mike(HanlonnotWheeler)’s face as he hunches before him, hands wrapping around Will's ribs to haul him upright.

“Can you walk? We need to go,” Mike yells, trying to drag him off to the exit.

“What- no, no.” Will plants his feet, holding off the assistance. He wobbles in place, but he knows where he stands. “We have to kill It first.”

“Before It kills us? Eddie just made It into a shish-kabob and the damn thing’s not even phased! How could we possibly-”

“Rotten little losers,” the clown burbles, a clumsy limb sweeping wide overhead and striking the walls of the cavern. Mike tows Will out of the torrent of falling rocks that follows, ducking behind the nearest spire.

“We’re outmatched,” Mike whispers, nails biting into Will’s arm. Will reaches up to wipe a hand over his own wet lip and his fingers come back red. “Is that blood? Did you get hit?”

Will scrubs the drying fluid onto the inside of his collar and swallows the tang of iron, peering around their shield of glass.

The brief moment of sharing Eddie’s head threw a lot of thoughts at him, but there was a piece in there, maybe the missing piece. In the seconds before It had revived, Eddie held a deep certainty that he couldn’t possibly have succeeded in killing It - the most powerful monster he can imagine. He had lingering doubts.

Before that, though, Eddie hurt It. He really hurt It. Whatever he felt wasn’t fear, it was stronger than that. Hope, desperation, love - whatever Eddie felt, it fought fear and won. They all fought fear and won, just by coming here and not letting It rest.

So what brought them down here, together, despite knowing the risks and being afraid? What brought Will down here?

I believed we could win, Will thinks simply. That we could fight evil and win.

Maybe it was naive to assume they had a shot, but it’s the truth. Will pushes up from his crouch, ignoring the hand that tugs sharply on his wrist. He steps forward, out of hiding. The clown is busy terrorizing Richie, who’s managed to slip into a crevice between two rocks, arm darting out to flail blindly in defense when a searching pincer gets too close. There’s a wheezing noise that could be Eddie coming from the rock too, suggesting he’s trapped in there with Richie.

We believed that we could kill this fucking clown.

“He wants us to think we’re too weak, but we’re not,” Will says, looking back at Mike’s grim expression. “We’re stronger than It. Can you believe that, without any doubt?”

Mike watches him for a long second, then slowly nods. “I- I believe in us.”

“Good. Don’t let go of that, okay?”

Mike nods again, this time clambering to his feet and hurrying to stand beside Will. They both look ahead, toward the unaware clown. Will takes a deep breath.

“HEY BOZO!”

Will’s shout ricochets off the walls like a twenty-one gun salute, bringing all the activity to a dead halt. Its bulbous head swings Will’s way. There’s a confused tilt to Its neck, but a crazed chuckle from Richie’s hiding place says loud and clear that the joke’s on It.

The body swivels to aim at a new target. Will’s palm aims back, trembling until he takes a deep breath and his hand goes still, the fractured image of the clown’s ghoulish face glimpsed in the space between his fingers. See it. Believe it. Fight back in your own way, all together.

“I cast Fireball.”

These words echo with all the impact of an untied balloon released to the air, whistling around to a pathetic stop in the space between them, deflated and sad. The cavern is so quiet that Will hears Richie’s defeated murmur from across the circle.

“Oh, fuck. We’re all gonna die.”

Then It laughs. That nasally, festering laugh which belongs to the bullies of the world who turn their hate on the closest and weakest target without a care. The laugh that’s chased Will his whole life finally catches up to him here, in the bowels of the Earth with misery for company.

Eddie’s mind had made this seem easy, but as Will struggles to stay on his feet - limbs weak and head swimming - he realizes that catching hold of Its mind is going to be nothing short of a miracle. He’s a kid trying to hop through an open door onto a moving bullet train, and he doesn’t have a billion cyclone tendrils to throw on the tracks until something sticks. One wrong move and Will’s brain paints the inside of his skull.

Gloved hands stomp closer, Its painted jaws dribbling with delight. Mike’s breathing is choppy and weak, but he remains at Will’s back, believing and believing in the face of insurmountable odds. Eddie, freed from the crevice, begins screaming at them to run. The pure ringing tone becomes like radio static to Will, drawing his concentration to a narrow, glinting point.

Working with the chaos, Will slips inside Its skin. The vast, seemingly endless mind is open and vulnerable with preemptive victory. Will knows the successful invasion is costing him - his human body is glaringly bright with pain, but he has to tune it out.

He focuses on discovering what’s what in here without falling into nothingness, looking through the flashes of thought and memory as they're hurled at him. This monster is hungry and old. It built Derry for Its needs, and the people are just part of the fun. It shows Will all the people that have been consumed - their fears feeding It more than their bodies.

See? See, new friend, this is what you have to look forward to. This is all there is. This is It.

Will pushes back with ideas of his own, the strength of his belief resisting the despair. He shows It years of campaigns against all kinds of monsters. Dragons, goblins, and trolls all falling to the Party’s might. It sees Starcourt, sees that the monster Will made It become has been defeated by fireworks and sacrifice and love.

It flinches like the Demogorgon under fire, and Will takes the step forward, bracing as It doubles down, thrashing him with desolation in return.

I’m no ordinary monster. I’m no monster you’ve fought before and all the kids in all the world are no match for me. I am fear! I eat worlds, just like I’m going to eat YOU.

“You’re not fear, and I’m not afraid,” Will counters, holding on as It crushes him like Atlas under every scary thought he’s ever had. Mike dies. His friends die. His family dies. Everyone dies and it’s all his fault. Will strains under the sheer weight of his loneliness and grief, worst fears realized. He knows that he can’t keep this up for much longer. He’s not strong enough.

And then the burden is lifted, Will’s realization coming to him as he’s thrust into a situation where he could be outmatched and it scares him. Just like it scares It.

“You’re scared,” he says. It howls and bucks and presses on his mind like a steamroller, trying to shut him up and prove him wrong. Because out there, in Derry, It can be whatever It desires to be. It can consume life and terrorize children and be impossible to defeat. It’s the master of Its own universe.

But in Will’s mind, It isn’t anything special at all. Will pushes out on his possession of the monster, forcing the thought upon It.

“You’re scared of us.”

Wait, wait, noNO STOP

“You’re afraid to die and you know we can kill you,” Will says, the truth fully accepted now. It wasn’t going to take 27 years off for fun. It didn’t let the losers escape because it could. It had to. It got scared of them because they had finally hurt It, when nothing had before. All this time, It’s been hiding from them, here in Its own ancient fort of sticks and twine.

You can go you can leave you can be free I promise, just let me GO-

Inside Its melting mind, Will finds the deadlights, the real source of Its power. The alluring glow beckons at first, then tries to escape Will's approach, searching for somewhere to hide and failing. Will closes his eyes, opening the connection fully to unleash years of love and desire and triumph into It. He pours the white-hot feelings of a human soul into a being never meant to comprehend such an intense belief in good and happy things. This is Will’s world now. Life can be fair. Evil can be defeated. No more hiding.

It fights back, of course. If you were dying, you would too.

Hopeless, doomed, impossible, It jeers, making a last-ditch attempt to break free. The mind seizes and writhes under Will’s influence, like a dissected bug pinned to a tray. You’re dead already, Zombie Boy, because I’ve killed you killedyoukilledyou and once you’re gone I’ll kill the Losers and the freaks and everyone, everything. You’re float down here, you’llfloatYOU’LLFLOAT

Will does his best to hold on, to suppress the snarling, cornered consciousness as It fizzes and burns and pops. It’s strong, resisting the constraint of Will’s incredible hope that this will work, that they’ll succeed. He’s rolled the dice and he’s holding his breath, waiting to see how they fall.

Then he remembers it is not hope he needs to feel, but belief.

So Will, Zombie Boy, freak, loser, nothing – whoever and whatever he is right now, he wants to kill this clown. He wants to be with his friends again, here and in Hawkins. He wants to hug his brother and sister while his mom grounds him for the next century. He wants to tell Mike that he loves him, so he knows.

And I will, as soon as I’m out of here, he believes. I will.

Yes, his friend’s voice in his head drily responds. You, Will. I, Richie. Hearing it this time around, Will laughs so hard his stomach hurts, the stupid joke absolutely killing him.

Funnily enough, the joke starts killing It too.

Richie is moving before he can really appreciate how stupid it must look to run straight for the monster’s spindly legs as they stab into the dirt and barrel forward.

He doesn’t have a bat, or any clever words to stall for time. The clown is bearing down on Mike – who’s closed his eyes, for Christ’s sake – and Will Byers. Stupid, brave, stupid (it bears repeating) Will, who Richie knew would need saving, even if he never could have anticipated the very obvious moment of rescue. He thought Will wouldn’t see some part of the clown’s attack coming, like the claw that attempted to run Eddie through before he leapt out of the way like a ninja. Richie thought the clown would throw another curveball, like splitting them up and picking them off one at a time, and then Will would need saving.

Richie was wrong.

Will is standing in the middle of the highway that runs through the danger zone, staring down the slobbering grill of a monster remembered only by nightmares and missing kid posters. He has his arm held out, like that’s going to do fucking anything.

Richie’s plan isn’t much better than the Charge of the Light Brigade that Will’s putting on, but at least he’s approaching from the rear. Maybe Richie can grab one of the legs and hope he doesn’t go flying into any sharp rocks when the clown shakes him off. Maybe he’ll call it a slimy bitch again. All that matters is making a good diversion, long enough for Mike to drag Will back behind an outcrop and knock some sense into him.

Richie staggers into a slide, shoes finding poor purchase on the shiny stone underfoot. He’s almost found his balance when Eddie collides with his back and sends them both sprawling. Richie lands bruised hip first, cradling his side with a frustrated groan before attempting to disentangle their legs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Following your lead,” Eddie snaps, hissing as he prods an ankle that got stretched too far. “Why’d you stop running?”

Uh. Richie looks up at the unmoving leg poised less than five feet away. Suspended mid-stride is the strange and nauseating form of a spidery Pennywise (stupid name), stuck in place as though someone has sat on the remote and paused his advance. Besides their own desperate pants to catch their breath, the lair has gone quiet and still.

Richie looks through the towering, twisted limbs. Equally frozen in time is Will, eyes rolled back in his head and blood streaming from his nose. Next to him, Mike stares at Will’s profile in wonder. He puts an extra inch of distance between them, like he doesn’t want to risk disturbing the trance.

“Come on,” Richie says, rising timidly in case Mike has the right idea. He reaches back without looking, hand catching on Eddie’s elbow and pulling him to his feet. Eddie wavers for a moment, putting weight on his pulled ankle and finding himself able to continue.

Like children in a planetarium, they travel beneath the monster’s massive form with heads tipped back and mouths hanging open in sick fascination. They’ve never stopped screaming long enough to appreciate the grotesque details-

-and we’re not going to start now. Once it’s clear that this isn’t another act to lull them into a false sense of security, Richie picks up the pace. He pulls Eddie to a stop across from Mike, with Will between them, quick to turn so they don’t leave their backs to the clown.

It doesn’t look like Will’s in the deadlights, but he doesn’t seem to be breathing either, stuck in his stasis. His feet remain on the ground.

“Mike?”

His friend shrugs helplessly, just as lost. Richie risks a glance at the clown, seeing Its features stuck in a crooked arrangement and twitching. Went always said that’s what would happen to Richie if he pulled a face for too long. Its yellow irises are barely visible, tucked beneath the upper eyelids as they are. They roll back and forth, but don’t come down.

The situation is pretty fucking strange, in Richie’s opinion.

“His ears are bleeding,” Richie notes. “That’s probably normal, right?”

“Of course it’s not normal, Richie!” Eddie pushes him aside, hand moving as though he intends to touch Will before thinking better of it, intimidated by the dilemma. If they move Will, it might do more harm than good. Who knows what he’s getting up to in this state? “It’s bad,” he insists, uneasy.

Then Mike and Eddie look at him like he’s supposed to have the answers, but this is hardly Will as Richie knows him. Will’s expression is flat, void of emotion, and Richie has never even seen him bleed before today. The sight is terrifying, if he’s going to be honest. He made a promise to himself and to the other members of the Byers’ clan – protect Will. It’s the only responsibility here that he can’t abandon.

Richie is not oblivious to how he messed it up. There were very clear steps being taken toward Will getting hurt, but he’d been so earnest about getting Richie to remember that Richie let himself forget his promise. Stuck in his guilt, Richie doesn’t notice that Will’s mouth has opened until a piercing screech escapes. They all rush to cover their ears, the inhuman howl bouncing off the rocks and coming back twice as strong.

“Make him stop,” Eddie shouts - which Richie can’t hear, but he’s pretty good at reading lips.

“How?” Richie demands, falling just short of crushing his own skull to escape the increasing noise. Eddie drops to his knees just after Mike, but Will doesn’t relent, having no need to inhale as the agonized sound gets higher and deeper at the same time, layering itself like a hellish choir.

When Richie’s brain feels ready to burst all over again, he sacrifices precious seconds of unprotected ears to press one hand over Will’s mouth, bracing the other on the back of his friend’s head before throwing his weight into a backwards tackle. He can only hope that if the clown does reanimate, Its lifted body will pass right over them, blindly charging on the same path as before.

They hit the ground hard, sending a bolt of pain through Richie’s shoulder that he tries to ignore, gritting his teeth. It takes him a second to notice that the buzzing pressure of trapped sound against his palm has stopped. The disembodied screams are still demolishing the room and doing their best to make the clown’s house into a tomb.

Richie is distracted from Will’s fluttering eyelids when Mike wobbles to his feet, unholstering the bolt gun.

“What are you doing?” he yells, ears still ringing.

“Getting close!” Mike stumbles first, then falls into a shambling run. Richie is sure his friend has lost it, but then he sees that It has broken the trance too, legs scuttling back instead of charging forward. Its hair is longer than Richie remembers, or- no, that’s definitely fire. Erupting from the creature’s head are melting flames, smaller blazes catching on the dirty white collar of the clown suit and the ruffled sleeves at each end of Its eight limbs. Mike stalks Its retreat.

Eddie’s panicking face turns away from the action movie moment, reminding Richie of their primary concern. He sits up, hands shifting to grasp Will’s face before patting at the slack skin. Richie shakes Will by the head until Eddie crawls around the body and pushes at his wrists, forcing him to stop.

“Are you trying to make his concussion worse?”

“Who said it’s a concussion?”

“It’s head trauma of some kind,” Eddie argues, thumb pressing up on Will’s eyebrow to check his pupil. Its wailing gets so loud that the glass spires shatter all around them, a fiery inferno consuming the ever-shrinking form when Richie glances back. Mike probably has that covered.

“We can’t carry him out of here,” Richie says. “There’s climbing and shit, we have to wake him up.”

“I’m aware, but it’s not like I can do anything!” Eddie puts a hand to Will’s neck and frowns, prompting Richie to check the other side. There’s a faint flutter of a pulse. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

Will’s body jerks in a long spasm, startling them both back an inch. Once he’s still, they’re hesitant to touch him again.

“Zombie?”

“Shut up,” Eddie hisses, sitting up on his ankles like he’s prepared to run in case Richie’s joke becomes an unfortunate reality.

Somewhere behind them, the screaming has become a reedy cry, broken by pained whimpers. Mike is yelling insults at It like a playground bully – dude has a lot of pent-up rage, for good reason. There’s a metallic clunk as the bolt gun is reloaded without ammo, another shot primed and fired, the schwoop of collapsing air followed by a sharp howl. Will’s body jerks again.

Richie and Eddie look up, reaching the same conclusion with equal horror.

“Come on, Byers, time to wake up,” Richie shouts, noticing that Eddie puts up no protest as Richie shakes Will fiercely by the shoulders. The words tumble thoughtlessly out. “You have to get out of there, Will. You have to run. You’re strong, so I know you can do it, alright? It’s your turn, you have to finish your action. We’re gonna count down from ten!”

“Ten?” Eddie shrieks, hand clenching around Will’s limp arm as Mike steps through the dying flames. Pennywise is backed into a corner and still trying to get away, tossing restlessly and gurgling as Mike primes another shot.

“Three, Will! We’re going on three. Ready?”

Still unresponsive, Will makes no promises.

“One,” Richie starts, voice cracking as the clown’s death throes abuse his raw ears. Trembling hands clasp around Will’s cheeks again, the skin cold beneath Richie’s clammy palms. The blood tracks smear, Will’s pale skin stained pink.

“Two,” Eddie blurts, hearing the clown plead with Mike to let It live. Will doesn’t wake, and Richie convinces himself that it’s because he’s waiting like they had planned. He has to be waiting on Richie, so they can do this together.

“THREE,” Richie cues, flinching as the third shot fires and Will seizes in his hands.

Then he coughs in a deep rattle and Richie could cry, releasing his clutching grasp to help Will roll on his side, chest jerking with each spasm.

“Not dead,” Richie whoops, patting his back heartily. “Called it.”

Will’s eyes crack open, warning him without a sound. Richie settles down, running soothing circles over Will’s back instead, grateful to feel the rabbiting heartbeat through his palm once again. Well done, Mr. Whiskers.

Having missed all the fun, Mike appears, crouching beside Eddie and dusting off his sleeve. Tiny flakes float up into a dissolving cloud. Richie holds his breath, not wanting to breathe that shit in.

“It’s gone,” Mike says, heavy and yet light, settling somewhere in pleased astonishment. “You got him.”

“We did,” Will corrects blearily, making his body sit up. He looks at Richie. “Together, right?”

Richie braces a hand at the back of Will’s neck, grinning around the kiss he plants on his friend’s forehead. “Damn right.”

Their one moment of peace is interrupted by a cascade of fine dirt from above as cracks start to splinter in the ceiling, a low rumble threatening further collapse. The celebration will have to wait. Richie and Eddie help get Will to his feet, but he teeters drunkenly trying to walk on his own.

“Alright, stay with us, Steamboat.” Richie pulls Will’s arm around his shoulders and drags him after Mike, who snatches up an abandoned flashlight as the room starts to dim, leading the way out. “Wells don’t climb themselves.”

Chapter Text

March 9th, 1986

Getting out of the sewers is even more of a pain in the ass than going in, given they’re walking against the water and there’s now twice as much of it from the storm. Eddie takes them back the way they came, but makes a few turns sooner than before, leading them out of an overflow pipe in the back of his neighborhood. Richie hops down into the swollen creek below, looking up to find a clear and starry night sky, all dark clouds drained and gone.

They made it out. Jesus, they really did.

“Richie?”

He turns back, seeing Will standing above him, on the edge of the pipe. His eyes are distant again, staring straight through Richie despite calling for him. Fresh blood drips from the tip of his chin.

Richie’s arms are already coming up when Will’s knees lock, body going slack and tipping toward the water. They collide, staggering in the creek together. Will’s saved from braining himself on a rock by Richie’s hectic grasp on his bicep, hands reeling Will back to his feet.

“Will,” he says firmly. “Hey, you still in there?”

Will’s head lolls on Richie’s shoulder, his hand attempting to grab Richie’s arm before falling limp again, useless.

“Just a little farther, I promise,” he whispers into Will’s hair, accepting Mike’s help getting his friend to the closest bank. Once they’re on level ground, Mike tries to heave Will onto his back and almost collapses.

“You’re just as exhausted as he is, man,” Richie says, catching their combined weight. “Take it easy. We’ll each carry half, alright?”

Mike looks at him with bloodshot eyes, expression tight. Together, they drop Will back to his feet so Mike can get a grip under his arms, hands locking across his chest. Eddie takes flashlight duty and Richie goes to Will’s feet, taking him up by his ankles until his weight is hanging between them. They begin a slow, shuffling march toward Eddie’s house.

This isn’t what I imagined when I offered to drag him to the nurse’s office, Richie thinks, slightly delirious with euphoria and a serious lack of sleep. He giggles to himself, which only gets a confused, loving head shake from Mike. Eddie’s house is a nurse’s office, in a way. Richie laughs louder, and Eddie is too drained to shush him as they approach their destination.

They set Will down within the backyard in case any nosey cars drive past. Eddie sneaks into the house, fully prepared for the dressing down of his life. The plan is to get decontaminated and locked in his bedroom so he can open the window for them. Richie and Mike settle down in the grass, prepared to wait.

“Are you staying, once we get him inside?”

“I would, but I have to get home,” Mike whispers, head resting back against the old wooden boards of the fence. His eyes close, and it looks like he could nod off any second.

“It’s the middle of the night, though.”

“My grandfather will be looking for me in the morning, if he hasn’t already noticed I’m not home.” A slow grin takes over Mike’s face as he rolls his head to look at Richie. “Besides, I’ll be alright. There’s no reason to be scared of the dark anymore.”

Other than the normal murderers and robbers and kidnappers, sure. Richie doesn’t spoil the moment by pointing that out, just listening when Mike tells him where they should meet tomorrow to talk before Richie goes home.

Will’s fingers twitch around Richie’s loose grasp of his hand, and he looks down. Will remains unconscious, eyes darting beneath the lids - which are so translucent that blue veins show through the skin like living spiderwebs.

“You think he’ll be alright?” Mike asks.

Richie wonders that himself, unable to find a comforting answer before Eddie is exiting the house.

“She’s asleep in her chair,” he tells them, voice full of wonder. By some miracle, they should be in the clear. No coincidences.

They slip out of their shoes on the porch to avoid squeaking down in the hallway. Moving like a coordinated heist crew, they cart Will into Eddie’s room and lay him down on the carpet, ears tuned to the distant sound of Sonia’s snores, a TV playing faintly in the background. Mike crushes them both in a farewell hug and wishes Will well soon, even though he can’t hear it.

When Mike is safely out the door and it’s locked behind him, Eddie returns, ditching their retrieved shoes by the door and looking Will over again. Waiting for his analysis, Richie peels himself out of his jacket, bundling the fabric around his arms before tucking it under Will’s head.

“It’s a lot of things,” Eddie eventually murmurs. “He’s cold, and he’s lost blood. I don't think he has a concussion, but his cuts need to be treated.”

“Do we take him to the hospital?”

“We let him sleep for now. His body is taking the rest it wasn’t given. We’ve been going non-stop all day, so I’m sure he’s tired.”

Richie wants to trust Eddie’s judgment implicitly, but the rusty red tint smeared across Will’s bloodless face makes him unsure they’re doing the right thing. This feels more serious than a few kids can handle, especially if Will's head trauma is legitimate. If he doesn’t wake up soon, they’ll have to get a professional involved, which means parents, which means eternal grounding, which means Richie loses the one friend he has in California.

Way to keep your cool, Tozier.

Eddie slips out of the room and returns with tools to get them cleaned up. They start with Will, gently tipping his head to the side to dab at the dried stream of blood that starts inside his ear and runs down to the crease of his neck. When the rag starts to get gross, Richie hands it to Eddie, who lets it soak into a shallow bowl of water. Eddie wrings out the excess, passing it back.

“Where’d you even find this guy?”

“He found me,” Richie replies, turning Will’s face away to clean the other side. Maybe he’d be better off if he hadn’t.

“I didn’t know there were wizards in California.”

Richie tries not to think about the unsubtle hints that went right over his head. Seriously, what was that comment about El having powers too? “Until an hour ago, neither did I.”

“He’s never done this before?”

“Look at him,” Richie says, moving on to wipe the underside of Will’s chin. He cleans away the streaks left by his own grasping fingers, pushing away the sense memory of a failing heartbeat. “Does it seem like he has experience in killing monsters with his mind?”

Eddie shivers, not liking the reminder of what they've done tonight. He stands. “I’m going to get painkillers. When he wakes up, make sure he doesn’t freak out. My mom would kill me if she found you guys here.”

Quiet footsteps pad out into the hall. Richie has a lot of questions, even if he’s doing an admirable job of not shaking Will awake and demanding to know what the fuck happened down there. There wasn’t enough energy left in the tank to have a full conversation in the sewers, all of them too focused on managing the next step. Mostly, he just wants to know if Will is going to be okay. He was hurt way before he went full Professor X on It's ass.

Richie pushes aside the damp hair sticking to Will’s forehead and his eyelids twitch, bunching up.

“He’s alive,” Richie drawls, getting a slow blink as Will’s throat bobs. A weak hand lifts to rest over Will's chest, fingers flexing against a bloody line that's drying on his shirt. “Welcome back, champ.”

Will groans unhappily, his brief attempt to sit ending with his head thumping back onto the pillow Richie fashioned for him. He’s looked better, sure, but it feels like progress that he’s awake.

“We’re at Eddie’s house. Can I get you a stiff drink? Perhaps a better friend?”

That earns a quiet laugh, Will’s dark eyes hazy as he stares into the middle distance. Richie would give him space, but he gets the sense that Will isn’t totally back from wherever he went during those last few minutes in It’s lair. He might not come back if he’s not told that he’s supposed to.

“It’s around midnight,” Richie says, undoing the clasp of Will’s watch to pat the rag against a jagged scrape on his forearm. “I thought about calling your mom, but if I’m being honest, I knew she could scare the truth out of me. Wasn’t sure you’d want her knowing everything.”

Will comes up slowly this time, fighting out of his daze. When he slants to the side, Richie puts a hand on his back, keeping him steady.

“Phone?” he asks, voice rough.

“Coming right up,” Richie says. He takes the prescription bottle as Eddie returns, sending him out again. Will’s confused gaze watches him leave, then turns to stare at Richie, lucidity returning in slow waves as his muddled mind makes the correction from Mike to Richie.

“Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. You got the worst of it.” Richie presses the rag below Will’s nose until he gets the idea, taking over and scrubbing around his mouth. The blood flakes away. “You had me freaked for a minute there, passing out like you did.”

Will’s forehead wrinkles and Richie keeps trying to make a spark catch, recounting their time in Derry until the handset can be passed to him. Will is not quite complete as he punches in the phone number, but Richie helps him lay back down, which seems to help. Eddie hands over a fresh, cool rag and Richie tucks it below Will’s hairline, backing away as his friend says his greetings and a voice explodes on the other end.

“I’m fine, Mom. Yes, I swear. I’m sorry, we lost track of time.”

“Come on,” Eddie whispers, closing his dresser and heading into the hall so they can shut the door. He leads Richie to the bathroom across the way, his unappreciative stare watching Richie take exaggerated steps forward, creeping like a cartoon burglar.

The dim circle of light provided by the wall sconce above the mirror casts Eddie’s sharp features in soft shadows and Richie drops the performance, taking a seat on the edge of the tub. The bathroom door is quietly closed behind them. Eddie sets the clothes on the sink counter, frowning as he digs through an emergency medical kit in the bowl of the sink.

“You're a real peach,” Richie says, painfully sincere. “Letting us stay here after we almost got you killed by a clown and all.”

“We’re better stocked and less stingy with the medicine than a hospital,” Eddie says without satisfaction, tucking a few bandages into his palm and digging deeper. “They wouldn’t know what to do with him anyway, since we can’t tell them the truth. I don’t want Will’s blood on my hands.”

“You’d prefer the blood on your carpet?”

Eddie’s mouth twitches, like he can’t decide to be disgusted or entertained. He abandons the gathered supplies in the sink, gesturing to Richie’s damp, mucky layers.

“Those need to be burned in the nearest dumpster,” Eddie says, finding a big t-shirt among the clothes while Richie wriggles free of the button-up and long sleeve. Richie gets a glimpse of the jaundiced bruises creeping up his own side, realizing he can still hardly feel them. Tomorrow, they’ll sting like a bitch, he just knows it.

They trade carefully, Eddie’s wary hand taking the soiled garments between two fingers and dropping them into a plastic bag like radioactive material. The clean shirt is almost a perfect fit, even if a shower would be much preferred right now. Eddie tears open several packets of alcohol wipes with one pull, pushing the spares into Richie’s hand while he takes one to the cut across Richie’s temple. The bracing smell of antiseptic is a small comfort, given it effectively overpowers the reeking stench of sewage.

“What’s the diagnosis, Dr. K?”

“You’ll live,” Eddie mutters, ignoring a reflexive wince from the sting. “Are your memories coming back now?”

Richie’s eyes flick up from Eddie’s mouth to the determined set of his brows. “A little.”

“Good. Better than them not coming back at all.”

Richie nods, taking off his glasses when they slip on his nose. He tries to keep his head tipped down, but Eddie takes him by the chin, patting at the scrape of torn skin along his jaw.

“It’s still weird to think that I lost any of my memories. If leaving Derry is all it takes, what’s to stop me from forgetting everything I’ve remembered when we go home today?” Richie’s stomach lurches at the possibility, not sure he can return to thinking he’s always been alone. Will is great, but he can’t fill that old void by himself. Richie needs this. He needs Derry. “If I forget-”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t think you get to decide,” Richie snorts, face tilting as desired when Eddie returns with a bandage and tapes it into place. “It’s not like you chose to make me forget the first time.”

Eddie’s hands pause. Richie holds his curious tongue as Eddie unwraps a smaller bandage, peeling away the paper scraps. He takes a deep breath, working up the will to speak.

This oughta be good.

“When you first left, we called each other every day,” Eddie finally says, his hand tucking Richie’s hair out of the way to keep it clear of the adhesive. “Ma didn’t like how high the phone bill was getting, so it turned into a weekly thing. You did better than the others. Bev stopped calling after a month and Ben stopped writing after two. Bill was out after three.”

As he says it, Richie can recall the emptiness left by their vacated spaces. He had held tighter to the remaining losers like he could keep them together that way. When his parents informed him that they would be moving soon, he had cried alone in his room, then rode to Eddie’s house, drafting jokes on his way so his voice wouldn’t crack as he broke the news.

“You still talked to us, five months after you left. You even remembered to call Mike for his birthday. I thought you were different,” Eddie says, thumb pressing along the curves of Richie’s face to make the butterfly stitches stick. “We got into an argument over something stupid. A week later, you tried calling me, right on schedule. I let it go to voicemail.”

Richie feels like he’s hearing a criminal confession, Eddie’s voice strained and clearly admitting guilt.

“A week after that, you called a day late and I let myself stay mad. I waited longer, but then you didn’t reach out at all. About a month after our fight, I ended up at Stanley’s house, and he told me he stopped getting your letters.” This close, Richie can tell that Eddie’s eyes mist over. “So I panicked. I ran home and called your place. It picked up, but it wasn’t your house anymore. I guess you moved.”

They did. Richie had asked his mom for their new landline number and found the note later, trashing the paper when he couldn’t recall a reason to keep it. Eddie turns away with the used supplies, blowing out an overwhelmed gust of air as he drops them into the trash.

“It was such a lame way to end everything.”

Lame, indeed.

“I still think you should go to New York,” Richie says, shrugging when Eddie looks up sharply. Now that his memory’s been prompted, Richie has no trouble remembering the penultimate call. Mrs. Kaspbrak had convinced Eddie to go to the local college and Richie had some choice words on how he felt about her holding Eddie back. It was a dumb argument, considering that Richie was obviously right.

Eddie frowns. “My point is that it doesn’t matter if you leave again. I won’t let you forget about us this time. I’ll call you every day, even when I’m mad.”

“How noble.”

“I’ll send you letters too, now that Stan’s not here to do it.”

“You won’t have much to write if we talk every day,” Richie muses, letting Eddie inspect his raw palms and determine if they need to be wrapped.

“Then Mike can send you letters.”

A floorboard creaks in Eddie’s bedroom, both of them going still until the house is quiet again. Eddie pulls Richie to the sink, sticking his hands under the water until the thin smear of Will’s blood and sharp bits of stone are washed down the drain. He pats the clean skin with a fresh hand towel until it’s dried.

“I can visit California, once summer break starts.”

“That’s ambitious,” Richie says, pulling his hands free of Eddie’s grasp. He doesn't want to risk Eddie feeling the rapid heartbeat that runs all the way to Richie's fingertips. Eddie washes his dusty glasses next, both sides wiped down with the same methodical treatment. While Richie blindly waits, last summer’s phone debates come back in fragments. “Didn’t you say I’d never convince you to get into one of those flying steel death traps just to see me?”

Eddie lifts the frames, slipping them back over Richie’s ears. Even with one lens cracked, fracturing the view, Eddie’s rare smile remains the most beautiful thing Richie has ever seen.

“Never is a long time.”

Just after sunrise, Richie wakes up first, then promptly wishes he hadn’t. The first thing he reaches for is the bottle of painkillers, downing two dry before he even thinks about searching for his glasses.

His tired brain’s priority is making sure that Will didn’t die overnight, looking to his left to find his friend sleeping soundly, only a little paler than usual. His arms are wrapped like a mummy, courtesy of Eddie’s expertise and Richie playing nursemaid last night. He’s also wearing a shirt he borrowed from Eddie, though it’s snug enough in the shoulders that it looks like he’s constantly flexing. Eddie had offered to find him a better one, but the visual made Richie laugh pretty hard, so Will declined.

Will’s hand is tangled in the top sheet they laid out on the carpet, but his expression is so peaceful that his dreams have to be pleasant.

Richie sits up in their mess of covers, looking to his right to find Eddie curled in a tight ball, equally blissful in sleep. He had detested the thought of laying on the floor, even once they were all scrubbed clean and bandaged, but somewhere between Will falling asleep and Richie following, Eddie had made his way off the bed to join them.

Right now, his blanket is folded over twice beneath him like the princess that slept on stacked mattresses, and Richie entertains himself with the thought of Eddie being able to sense a single microbe through the layers.

It distracts his mind from the more obvious attention that he pays to Eddie’s appearance.

Richie’s memories have continued to repair the holes in his life through the night, reminding him that this is the first time he’s really seen Eddie in almost a year. He’s grown into his face and his limbs much smoother than was the case for Richie.

Still cute, he quietly thinks, gaze jerking up and away as Eddie suddenly moves to lay on his back, arms going up over his head. Only once his deep breathing stretch is complete do his eyes open, drifting to Richie with a hint of bleariness.

“How’d you sleep?”

Eddie’s response is a jaw-popping yawn that Richie mirrors. He blinks through his watery eyes to see Eddie slumping deeper into the layered pillows beneath his head, gaze steady and slow to remember. He turns his head to glance at Will, then returns to Richie.

“Thought it was a dream,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as though he intends to drift off again.

Eddie indulging in a quiet Sunday morning is infectious in the worst way. Richie feels an intense bout of lovesickness take up residence in his chest like a fatal disease - two sets of memories where he’s fallen for Eddie fighting to be felt at the same time. His heart burns and melts and aches and exhibits every symptom it can to let him know that whatever it is, he’s got it bad.

Richie’s desire to focus on anything, anything else makes his senses turn outward, hearing the creak and thud of a recliner being pulled upright.

Wait-

There’s some unsteady breathing, and the squeak of springs, like someone attempting to get out of a comfortable chair and Eddie’s eyes pop open, confirming Richie’s suspicion. Eddie gets up so fast that he trips, ankles tangling in the blankets until he falls against the bed, kicking to free himself.

“Get him up,” he hisses at Richie, trying to tug the mess free of Will’s weight.

Richie spins up onto his knees, clapping a hand over Will’s mouth and giving him the rudest awakening he’s probably ever gotten, his confused eyes darting open and trying to speak past the finger muzzle. Richie does the universal shush signal as the house settles under the new pressure of an upright body, the soft pop made by wooden floorboards sweeping Eddie into a faster vortex of panic.

Will cooperates in being dragged to his feet as Richie’s eyes dart around the room, moving before he knows where they’ll end up. The folding door of Eddie’s closet is cracked.

It's some kind of cosmic joke, but between Sonia Kaspbrak’s double-edged wrath and dull irony, Richie knows which sword to fall on.

Slippered footsteps scrape along the kitchen floor, drawing closer to the back hallway. Richie tucks their bodies between hangers for light jackets and summer polos, turning back to catch the plastic bag of damp clothes that Eddie tosses in after them. He forces the closet shut, squeezing them in and spinning to put his back against the centerfold as the door to the hall rattles.

“Eddie? Why’s the-” Sonia pauses when the lock unclicks. Her silence is louder than her words as the knob is twisted so the barrier can be flung open.

“My hand must have slipped last night,” Eddie says, not saying more to keep from audibly panting with adrenaline.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Sonia replies, purposefully vague. She attempts to catch Eddie in a lie, rare as they are.

“You were asleep when I got back from the store. I was trying not to wake you.”

There’s an expectant silence. Leaving opportunities for the suspect to sweat and admit guilt through overshare is another classic Kaspbrak interrogation tactic. The light shining into the closet gives Richie the barest view of Will’s face, seeing his plain confusion and alarm as he stares back. Richie draws his thumb across his own neck, warning of the consequences should Sonia find them here. Will’s eyes go wide as saucers.

“What are your blankets doing on the floor?” Sonia asks with the air of a detective revealing the missing murder weapon to a captive audience. Ha-ha, old chap, I’ve got you now!

“I woke up with a spot on my arm, so I wanted to check for bed bugs,” Eddie explains, cooler than a genuinely innocent suspect.

“You shouldn’t put your pillows on the floor.”

“I’ll run a load of laundry before remaking the bed.”

“And what on Earth is that smell?”

“The heater’s been acting up,” Eddie explains. “I told you about it last week, remember?”

“Of course I do,” she says primly, not remembering shit.

It’s like watching Wimbledon, the way they talk - back and forth, back and forth, neither one giving an inch. No wonder Eddie argues so well; he gets to practice every day.

Sonia’s footsteps come into the room, surveying the evidence to decide if Eddie’s passed her test. There’s a soft creak, like she’s checking behind Eddie’s door. She’s not vindicated there, but the resulting waft of air disturbs the poorly shut closet, the folded door cracking open in the middle with a soft rattle.

We might need that eulogy after all, Richie realizes, hearing the slippers approach. A shadow crosses the narrow strip of light that runs down Will’s petrified face as she gets close. Richie’s pretty sure his friend was less afraid of the clown.

Just when hope seems lost, there’s a light cough. The shadow goes still.

“What was that?” Sonia asks, voice turning away from the closet.

Eddie clears his throat. “Stripping the bed must have kicked up some dust.”

“That doesn’t sound like dust. You’re overexerting yourself, Eddie.” Sonia’s voice gets pitchy, complaining instead of accusing. “What have I said about moving around when you first wake up? You can’t do it!”

“Ma, I’m fine. Let me get this out of your way.”

“Oh no you don’t!” she cries, hurrying to intercept his attempt to pick up the blankets. “I’ll do it. Where’s your inhaler?”

Eddie retrieves it from the nightstand, triggering the device as Sonia scolds him for doing too much, his lungs unprepared for strain so early.

“Open the window,” she says on her way out. “Pollen’s supposed to be low today and you need fresh air in here. I’ll come back to dust once I’m through with this. Don’t take any deep breaths while I’m gone, Eddie-bear. You’ll only make your asthma worse.”

Eddie assures that he’s way ahead of her, their escape hatch opened with eager hands. Sonia’s footfalls disappear into the house, heading upstairs. Eddie darts to the bedroom door, slipping it shut with a hand twisted on the knob so it silently settles back in the frame.

Seeing Will’s very obvious relief at escaping death for the second time today, a snort escapes Richie. The closet door is thrown open wide, startling them.

“Do you have any idea what my mother would do if she had found you?” Eddie seethes, whispering so quietly that he’s practically inaudible.

Richie makes a show of cupping a hand around his ear to hear better and gets dragged from the closet by his elbow. Will appears in the opening with his hands raised, sidling out and making for the window, leaving Eddie’s outrage to be handled by its creator alone.

“She’d probably be overcome with pent-up desire. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Richie explains, barely lowering his voice when Eddie tries to quiet him. He tucks the bag of their clothes under an arm as Will finds their shoes tossed under Eddie’s desk, passing over Richie’s pair and slipping into his own sneakers.

“I’m glad you’re having fun. You almost got us all caught.”

“I don’t see how it’s my fault that she barged in here at the crack of dawn and launched a full investigation.”

Eddie’s expression says he could strangle Richie if he didn’t completely agree with him. He abandons the fight to scour the room instead, triple-checking that they haven’t left anything for the bloodhound to find.

“I’m missing a sock,” Richie mutters.

“What? Why did you take them off?”

“Someone said I shouldn’t wear wet socks all night.”

“And I was right. If you want athlete’s foot, get it in your own house,” Eddie says, finding Will’s watch tucked beneath a pillow. He tosses it to him. “Why didn’t you put your socks in the bag with the rest of your clothes?”

“I wanted to ruin your day,” Richie says drily. He ducks below the dresser with one bare foot when he sees a scrunched sock hidden behind one of the legs.

“Can we argue about this later? I don’t want to be here when she gets back,” Will whispers, straddling the windowsill with his watch in its rightful place. He glances at Eddie, slightly cowed. “No offense.”

Eddie sighs, waving away the comment. His face scrunches up when he catches Richie putting the damp sock on before jamming his foot into his remaining shoe.

“I guess this is goodbye?” Richie counters Eddie’s shock with a knowing stare. “You coughed. She’ll put you on bedrest for a week.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Richie. I can talk to her.”

“And I can talk to a brick wall – that doesn’t mean it listens.”

The bag is thrown out to Will first, Richie following to land with a slight tumble in the neglected side garden. He turns back to lean against the frame, sticking his head inside. Eddie is watching the closed door in uncertain silence, fists at his sides. It reminds Richie that he only adds to Eddie’s frustration when the jokes get real. He’s remembering how to hurt Eddie, and he’s remembering why he doesn’t want to.

“Mike wants to meet up at Lou's around eight.” A low rumble passes through the walls as the washer starts up. To Richie, it sounds like sand running through an hourglass. “The flight home is tonight, so we need to head back before noon. I’ll call you tomorrow, after school.”

No response.

If Eddie would just turn around so Richie could get one last look at him- but footsteps come back through the kitchen and Richie is forced to move or be caught, bending low to follow Will around the exterior of the house.

Safely reaching the street, Richie faces the Kaspbrak home, seeing the invisible bars on the windows and doors where he couldn’t before.

Some monsters are harder to fight than others.

Will sighs in relief from the passenger seat as the engine turns over with ease. He feels bad enough inconveniencing the Toziers without adding a broken down car to the list.

“What’d I tell you?” Richie pats the dashboard in encouragement. “Just like new.”

Will rolls his eyes, knowing who told who what. They drive to the diner where they’re supposed to meet Mike, and this time Richie is able to give him a full tour on the way. His eyes light up as he points at a storefront or a street corner like he’s just remembered what was on the tip of his tongue. He tells Will tiny stories about his friends, with all the good times and all the bad times mixed up until it’s hard to tell them apart.

It’s Richie’s childhood in one short drive, and Will doesn’t stop smiling the whole time.

As they’re getting out of the car at the diner - that Richie is pretty sure he was once permanently banned from entering - Mike comes around the corner of the building, grinning from ear to ear when he spots them.

“No car trouble today?”

“No problems at all,” Will replies.

“Glad to hear it,” Mike says, approaching to wrap him in a hug. It’s constricting, like Will thought it would be, but it’s also extremely comforting. Will sinks into it happily. “You're up and about. How do you feel?”

“Like I spent the night in a sewer,” Will says, letting Mike look him over as he pulls back. He pats on Will’s shoulders thoughtfully before squinting at him. He looks Richie over too.

“Are you wearing Eddie’s clothes?”

“No choice. We’re already pushing it, smelling the way we do,” Richie says. “I don’t think they’d serve us shirtless.”

“Is that my bag?” Will asks, pointing at Mike’s back. He hums, sliding the pack off his shoulder.

“I hope you don't mind. When I went to get my bike for the ride home, I found it in Richie’s carrier. I figured it’d be easier to return to you now than to let it sit out in the cold all night.” He hands it over, and Richie pops the car’s trunk so he can stow the bag inside. “I lost my own down in the sewers.”

Will glances back at him in surprise. “Wasn’t your journal in there?”

“It was,” Mike says, a bittersweet look on his face. “Not like we really need it anymore. I think it was a worthy sacrifice to end everything.”

A sacrifice, huh? We beat the devil and all it cost us was one treasured backpack.

“Come on.” Mike waves them onward. “Let’s see if Richie can get himself banned a second time.”

“But then you’ll never get to hear about how the Wicked Witch of the East almost sniffed us out in her son’s closet this morning,” Richie says, slamming the trunk shut once Will ducks out of the way.

Mike’s laugh spills across the parking lot as he leads them inside. Richie recounts the near death experience in exaggerated detail, just getting to the closet creaking open when an old, grizzled waiter appears beside their half-booth, coffee decanter loosely in hand.

“You kids ready to order yet?”

Mike begins to nod. Will is so starving that he goes to ask the man to bring him anything that can be ready right now, noticing that Richie isn’t already doing the same. Richie is looking away, toward the door, eyes falling to his own arm braced across the backrest of the empty chair beside him. His watch relays that it’s ten past eight.

“We’re waiting on one more,” Will says. The waiter is strangely attentive, and it’s not until he pours Richie a cup of joe and shuffles away that Will realizes he had looked at them and really seen them. It's a welcome improvement, even if it might garner some invasive questions about the state of their injuries.

“I thought you said Sonia got to him.”

Richie shrugs at Mike while pouring an obscene amount of cream into his mug, his foot nudging Will’s under the table to get an explanation.

“We should give Eddie the benefit of the doubt,” Will says. “If he was willing to escape his house last night and look after us until morning, then he can probably come out to breakfast after one cough.”

“He coughed?” Mike’s eyebrows lift, his look implying the odds against Eddie showing his face.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Richie agrees.

“He’ll be here,” Will says, stubborn now. “If he was willing to stand up against It, he can stand up to his mom.”

Richie makes a doubtful noise, licking his coffee stirrer before setting it aside. “You haven’t met Mrs. K.”

Despite their apparent certainty, three heads turn every time the bell above the diner’s door rings. Mike caves first, guiltily ordering his food. When it’s half past eight, Will defaults to their better judgment of the situation and orders too. Richie consumes nothing but coffee for an hour, catching up with Mike about the situation in California and telling a very different version of events than what Will remembers for their developing friendship.

“I begged him to take me back. Got on my knees in the school hallway. Will, I said, you got to give me another chance, you’ve just got to,” Richie cries, acting his heart out.

“That’s not what happened,” Will points out for the millionth time.

“I didn’t think so,” Mike replies, listening raptly as Richie continues. The bell rings again and they all absently check, double taking when they see Eddie breathing hard as the door closes behind him, torso hidden behind an arm sling.

“Oh good,” he pants, approaching the table and dropping into the waiting chair. “You guys are still here.”

“Right where we said we’d be.” Richie lifts a hand for the waiter. “You, on the other hand-”

“What happened with your mom?” Mike asks, cutting out the bickering that’s sure to delay an explanation.

“What do you think? She saw the bruise on my arm and the bandage wrappers in the trash can, so I had to tell her I crashed my bike on the way home from the store. She tried to take me to the hospital to get a full physical.”

“How’d you talk her out of it?”

“I told her that I’d ask them to check up on my asthma, while they’re at it,” Eddie says, sounding somewhere between proud and horrified. He tugs at the fastener of the sling until it slips free of his neck. The revealed bruise on his forearm is a splotchy violet now, but he doesn't seem to notice any pain. “She said I didn’t have to go, as long as I wore this and she got to drive me here.”

Will’s not sure that’s a balanced deal, but the others are openly impressed.

“Congrats,” Richie says. “Did she ask you to pass any sweet nothings along?”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Eddie replies, scowling at the menu as the waiter returns to take their orders. Once him and the suspicious glint in his eye are gone, Eddie sits up, sliding the sling into his lap. “You know, I came to wish you a belated Happy Birthday, but I take it back. Have a shitty birthday.”

“Way ahead of you,” Richie says, gesturing to the bandage on his forehead.

Eddie reaches up, prodding at the tape with a frown. “Is it still bothering you? It might be infected. I’m sure that nasty fucking greywater didn’t do you any favors.”

Richie lets him fuss until Will slips out of the booth. “Where ya going, Steamboat? My food’s not even here yet.”

“I have to call my mom and let her know we left,” he says, digging in his wallet. “We don’t want her calling Eddie’s house to look for us, do we?”

As Will departs for the payphone just outside the front windows, the table devotes their quiet attention to him. They notice him growing tense as he makes the call and it goes through, forcing him to confront his own lies for the sake of his family's safety. Richie is pretty sure he doesn't intend on telling Joyce the whole story - ever, if he can help it. Maybe he's right to hesitate. Richie certainly doesn't plan to tell his parents about how they really spent their weekend.

“Is she always like that?”

“Who, his mother? Yes and no,” Richie says, remembering the five-hour long review of rules on the night before they left for the airport. "Her fears are valid."

“If I bled from the ears and casually challenged monsters on Saturday nights, I’d understand my mom’s concerns,” Eddie notes.

It does make one wonder. He’s not strong enough, El had said. The Byers try their best to protect Will, even though he clearly doesn’t need that much help. There could be a sliding scale, considering Eleven apparently has superpowers too (still unanswered questions there). Maybe they think they’ve seen Will’s strength, and they’ve just witnessed even greater strengths willing to act against him.

Richie was down there in that sewer, twice now. He knows power. He watched Will stare It down, unflinchingly wounded in the process, and now his friend has bounced back to his normal self, less than a day later. So maybe the right question here is-

How much of Will has anyone really seen, if they’re not impressed by his strength?

Chapter Text

Richie wants to leave Derry. Honestly, he’s never wanted to be here, it’s just that there’s no way to leave Derry without leaving the people with it. If Richie could pick the Losers up and go away, he would.

They don’t deserve to be stuck here. No one does.

“What are we thinking when it comes to the others? Are they going to return like homing pigeons or what?”

Mike sits back from his cleared plate with a thoughtful sigh. “I couldn’t tell you. Your memories have been recovered, but that could be because you’re in Derry, prompted by being around us. The others may require a catalyst before they’re free, or it could be a matter of time. No one called my house, as far as I know, so I doubt the memories snapped into place as soon as It died.”

Mike frowns - a sight rarely seen - and Richie knows he’s considering the possibility that the Losers have remembered but simply don’t want to reach out, not wanting to rehash the olden days.

“They’ll be back,” Richie says, reverting from his Terminator impression when Mike raises an eyebrow. “Come on, man, you think they’d chicken out? If you got the two biggest babies in the group to go down there with you, the others will at least try to call.”

“Not like I had much choice,” Eddie mutters, jabbing with his fork when Richie’s hand tries to sneak a slice of his toast.

“Why don’t we go looking for them?” Will asks. “I mean, It’s gone this time. Really gone. They don’t know there’s nothing for them to lose by reaching out.”

“Some things are better left alone,” Mike says tensely.

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“Mike,” Will says, so gentle compared to Richie’s sweeping comedic maneuvers. He turns his whole body in the booth to face Mike head-on and reluctantly, Mike mirrors him. “They want to see you, okay? I had to drag Richie here because the amnesia’s job was to keep you apart, not because he didn’t miss you.”

Mike nervously side-eyes his friend for confirmation and Richie puts a hand over his own heart. “I swear on Eddie’s mom-”

“Asshole.”

“-that I’m very happy to see you, and don’t regret coming at all. Not even the part where you three almost got me killed by a sewer clown.”

Mike huffs a laugh. He looks older than his seventeen years. It’s a disturbing thing to note, especially because Richie is aware that Mike intended to wait another twenty-four years here in Derry, where time passes differently. The days are too short, and the nights are far, far too long.

“I appreciate your encouragement,” he tells them both. “But I'm not sure what we could do to speed their remembrance.”

“You could try talking to them - see if they’re like Richie or if they’ll have to recover on their own.”

“I could, if I had any way to contact them,” Mike agrees. “I was keeping up with their last known locations, but it was all in the journal.”

“What happened to your journal?” Eddie asks, disturbed.

“What didn’t happen?” Richie replies.

Will is undeterred. “Do you know their parents’ names? Their old houses?”

“Of course,” Mike says.

“We can send return letters out from the post office and see if anyone left a forwarding address. It’s not a guarantee we’ll find them, but it’s a good place to start.” Will smiles at Mike as his features relax, quietly hopeful. “You don’t have to do it all alone, you know. Not while we’re still around.”

Richie makes the executive decision that it’s time to leave the diner when Mike starts sniffling into a napkin while pretending to wipe his mouth. When Richie sees Eddie trying to calculate the tip for the bill on his fingers, his stomach flips. He had always been around to help Eddie study for algebra in ninth grade, just to watch him count that way. Richie had imagined that one day he’d be brave enough to reach out and weave their hands together.

Eddie runs out of room on his own fingers, and Richie instinctively puts his hand out alongside.

“Twenty-seven,” Eddie finishes, blinking as he looks up at Richie. “Thanks.”

Richie’s smile is a little bit helpless before he stands, circling to meet Will, who drops half their remaining cash on the table, grossly overpaying.

“Mike can’t remember the name of Stan’s mom.”

“It's Andrea,” he says, dropping an arm around Will’s shoulders once they pass through the exit in single-file. “My mom used to call her Andy and Mr. Uris would get so pissed. He’d use his adult voice, you know, that one that’s like-”

“Eddie.”

They all freeze on the instinct of children getting caught where they shouldn't be. Will gawks up at Richie, but he slowly shakes his head, not responsible for that voice at all. Turning around, they see a car idling next to the sidewalk that wraps around the diner, Sonia Kaspbrak’s bright red face fuming in the shadows of the driver’s seat. Her eyes catch on Richie over Eddie’s shoulder and her skin goes pale. Good.

“Eddie, you come here,” she says, chilling their blood. “Right now.”

“You didn’t tell her you were seeing us, did you?” Richie asks.

“It didn’t come up,” Eddie whispers hoarsely.

“You’re not wearing your sling,” she sharply scolds, the car pushed into park and shut off. Eddie clenches the nylon fabric tighter in his hand and it rasps unpleasantly. “Eddie-bear, your arm won’t heal right if you don’t rest. You come here and I’ll take you home. I can take care of you at home.”

It's over, then. That sweet shit always works with Eddie. He loves her too much to scare her by getting hurt.

“Eddie, please. Those boys are no good, I’ve told you about them. I know their type.” Sonia unclips her seatbelt, done waiting. She intends to get out and collect Eddie herself.

Richie's attention falls away from her as a hand slips into his own and clasps tight. A wish so easily fulfilled, just like that. Eddie is watching his mother climb from the car, breath catching on each inhale.

“Can we run?” he asks.

Yes, yes, YES-

“Don’t look back,” Richie warns, hearing Mike’s shoes scrape on the pavement as he pivots on a dime and takes off. Richie pulls Eddie in a short circle to keep their hands joined and Will gets with the picture, running after Mike and trusting him to lead the way. It’s a bit like being chased by a bear - you’re safe as long as you’re not last in line. They book it across the parking lot, leaping up over the curb and down an embankment.

“Eddie? Eddie?! Listen to your mother!" She makes his name three syllables somehow, pleading. "EH-EDD-IE!”

They cut through a dying line of hedges at the bottom and cross another parking lot, hitting a row of shops on a wide street. Will tries to stay on the main road, but Mike urges him toward a secluded alley and they keep moving. The more distance they can get from Sonia, the better.

With every step, the resistance on Richie’s guiding arm slackens, until Eddie is not only pulling even with him but running faster. Soon, he’s the one dragging Richie along. Not once does he turn around, but he holds tight to Richie’s hand, making certain not to leave him behind.

Richie runs with his eyes on their laced fingers, smiling to himself. One day, we’ll get the hell out of here together. One day.

They leave the post office with modest expectations.

Will can’t say what the other Losers will want to do after hearing that It is gone. They might prefer to put that chapter of their life behind them and be normal, but Will has to believe they’ll want to be contacted, in the case that their memories do require a nudge to come back. It’s what Will would want, if he was the one with a missing childhood.

If he had forgotten the Party, forgotten the best part of living in Hawkins, he would want to be told.

Mike stops them to use a payphone outside the building, face poised in hesitation - as it has been since he carefully wrote out Bill’s old Derry address. He calls Directory Assistance and asks for Zack Denbrough in Portland, Maine. They all huddle around, waiting for the line to connect.

“Hello? This is Mike Hanlon, from Derry. Yes, Derry.” He pauses for a moment, expression falling. “The funeral. Who- I’m sorry, someone died?”

Will glances at the others. Eddie isn’t breathing and Richie’s throat bobs.

“Oh, yes, I’m- I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mike says, sounding far too relieved about condolences.

“Jesus,” Richie rasps, hand colliding with Eddie’s back like he’s getting a TV showing static to work again. Eddie wheezes, but resumes breathing. His fist goes into his pocket and stays there, fiddling with the contents.

“I was actually calling to speak to Bill. I wasn’t aware of his father’s passing, but I’d like to talk to him, if it’s not any trouble.” Mike’s teeth worry his lip as he gets a long reply. “I see. Yes, I understand. Could I leave a number for him to call? A message?”

No Bill. Will can’t be disappointed for long though, knowing they found one of the Losers already. They may not have spoken to him, but there’s a phone number now. There’s communication.

Will holds up his hand beside the box and Richie meets it in a resounding high five that draws Mike’s attention, getting him to briefly smile as he finishes listing off his home number.

When he hangs up, they all wait for him to explain, full of questions.

“That was his aunt. According to her, Bill attended the service this morning and disappeared shortly after. No one’s seen him since,” Mike relays, the words turning him somber. It’s not great timing, foisting this onto Bill’s shoulders when he’s handling another death in the family. Nor is it good news that Bill has fallen off the map exactly when they start searching for him.

“One down, three to go,” Will reminds, trying to stay positive. “How’d you know the city he lives in?”

Mike’s mood draws closer to disappointment. He looks at each of them before focusing on the ground. “It’s two hours away by bus. Some days, I thought about catching one out there and going to see him, just to have some company with it all. The memories, you know.”

Will does. The things they’ve experienced are hard to explain and impossible to understand for people who weren’t there or haven’t gone through the same. When burdens are shared, it feels both better and worse.

“I never went through with it. I didn’t want him to remember and have to live with what happened when I thought there was nothing we could do until the time was right,” Mike admits, eyes dull. “It felt selfish.”

They’re all surprised when Mike is suddenly hugged from the side, Eddie letting go to stare up at him with shameful sadness.

“Sorry. I know I stopped visiting, after Stan left. That wasn’t cool.”

Mike’s expression shifts into knowing sympathy. He didn’t mean to make it sound like he needed Bill because he couldn’t go to anyone else. “I don’t blame you, Eddie. You were tired of being told to let go.”

He nods jerkily, accepting Mike’s forgiveness.

“Are we the ones holding a funeral or what?” Richie says, squeezing into the center of the circle with his usual aloof cheeriness. “The next one who mopes is buying the ice cream.”

“It’s 11 am in the first weekend of March, Richie. We aren’t getting ice cream.”

“Discouraging counts as moping,” he counters, getting an I-don’t-like-your-math face as Eddie’s arms cross. “Come on, I’ll drive. Is that soda fountain still open across from Bassey Park?”

“Last I checked,” Mike says, smiling as Richie sets off, heading toward the diner to retrieve their abandoned vehicle.

“Let’s hope Mrs. K isn’t staking the place out for our return.”

“Why would she do that, when she could follow the sound of you shouting everywhere?” Eddie asks, making no real effort to deter Richie from his stated destination. Will trails after them fondly, falling a step behind with Mike.

“I can’t believe I’ll miss that again,” Mike says. “Once you’re both gone.”

“I think I’ll miss it too,” he admits. As much as he likes talking to Richie and hearing Richie talk, Will is pretty sure those two are the only ones who can keep up with each other when it comes to pure conversation.

“I’m glad to see he hasn’t changed much,” Mike says, watching his friend’s backs like the road ahead is more about them than the pavement beneath his feet. “Being away, I thought we’d all grow up. Grow apart, like you see in the movies. Just…puzzle pieces that don’t fit together anymore.”

Is that how it goes? Will wonders. Is that what we’re supposed to believe in?

“But there’s so little that I don’t recognize in him, it’s as if not a day’s gone by. The changes are all positive too. He reaches out more. He relies on people.”

Mike looks slyly at Will, who brushes off the implied compliment. He’s not willing to take credit for improving anything when Richie often has to be the one supporting him.

“It gives me hope for the others,” Mike explains. “Most of them have been gone longer than Richie, so it may be a different story, but it’s nice to have even one of them home again.” His face radiates contentment as he addresses Will directly. “Thank you for bringing him. For not letting him go through this alone.”

The sun draws out from behind a cloud, shining on the new Derry. Will feels its heat warming the back of his neck. He runs a curious hand over the smooth skin. Comforted, his fingers push up into his hair, catching on a clotted cut that twinges with fading pain.

“I should be thanking you, shouldn’t I? You got me to Eddie’s house.”

Mike hums in comprehension as Will’s hand falls to his side. “After what you did down there, it was nothing.” They cut across a road, still following Richie and Eddie’s trail of chatter. “If I can ask without offense, what exactly did you do?”

Excellent question. Will has been thinking about It in short bursts all morning. So far, all he’s been able to recall is a cluster of desperation and fear fueling him to fight. He was scared and hurt, and his will to live is all that kept him alive. There was running. Falling stones and snapping pincers. He remembers a clown, grinning-

Richie laughs, yanking Will back to the present with a sharp tug in his gut.

“I don’t think I can talk about It yet.” He turns to Mike (Hanlon not Wheeler), still walking beside him. “Next time?”

Mike hardly pauses before extending a hand to shake, smile blooming as Will accepts.

“Next time,” Mike confirms. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The Canal malt shop has only two other patrons, and both greet them with suspicion. Four unsupervised teenage boys is suddenly a problem, as Will suspected it might be. Their banged up appearance doesn’t assure people that they’re not troublemakers. Richie is getting the biggest stink eye, so either they’ve recognized him as that one loud-mouthed kid from years past or the racket he’s currently making irritates them. Richie doesn’t notice, facing Eddie at the main counter with a deadpan face and delighted eyes.

“You're sure you don't want a double scoop of the mint chocolate chip with pistachios?”

“I’m lactose intolerant and allergic to tree nuts, Richie, you know that.”

“Right, but are you really or is this like the time you were allergic to chocolate because your mom didn’t want you eating candy bars?”

“You think I want to risk my life finding out?”

Will lifts Jonathan’s camera from where it hangs around his neck, aiming at them as they argue. He advances the film, and the repeating click makes their heads turn. Eddie frowns and Richie grins as they both hold up middle fingers before Will can take the picture.

Not showing that one to Mom, he thinks, lowering the camera again. He hasn’t had a chance to take any photos before now, so he thought he would try to get some use out of Jonathan’s thoughtful gesture, but his subjects remain uncooperative.

“You gonna live a little? Get strawberry instead of vanilla?”

“Dietary restrictions are serious, dickwad. I’m getting a sherbet pop.”

“Wow, you're taking big swings today.”

“Can I see that?” Mike asks, peering down at the camera. Will pulls the strap from around his own neck, handing it over.

“Just be careful. My brother will probably cry if it gets broken.”

“Of course.” Mike holds the device carefully, smiling as he shifts it in his hands. “You know, my father loved pictures. Old ones, specifically, but he admired any camera. Most little kids were shown pop-up books, but he would always pull out his photo albums for me when he had the chance. They were full of things he’d found and collected. People he didn’t even know. He’d make up stories for them, like one day they were the world’s biggest celebrities, and the next they were penniless, with only their clothes to their name.”

Will listens to him speak, not only because it’s interesting, but because Mike doesn’t seem ready to stop talking. He’ll slow down sometimes, but he never stops, merely pausing as they order ice cream and follow the others across the road, into Bassey Park.

There’s hardly anyone here, with the tall grass lightly flooded from last night’s storm and the day being much colder than yesterday, but it leaves more seating options for them. They gather at a batch of picnic tables with Richie hopping up to sit with his feet flat on the bench. His leg knocks into Eddie’s shoulder when he tries to nudge Richie aside.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t devolve into more conversation. The two of them stay quiet, only making crude gestures at each other as Mike continues.

“I remember some of the strangers, if you can believe it.” Mike lifts the camera questioningly and Will nods, watching as he lifts the device to Will himself. The shutter clicks before he can react to being the subject of the frame. Mike winds the film, taking another picture of a preoccupied Eddie. “I lost my only photograph of the Losers with that journal. Makes me wonder which of their faces I’ll get to keep, and which ones will fade with time.”

That quiet, looming silence comes again. Eddie looks ready to give Mike another hug.

“Who needs pictures when you got the real thing, boyo?” Richie reaches out to flick Mike’s forehead, wrist caught before his finger is released. Dark eyes stare up, bemused as Richie defuses the weapon. “Pretty soon, you’ll be sick of seeing our sorry faces ‘round these parts.”

“Too late,” Eddie says, not quick enough to catch Richie as he changes targets. His hand goes up to cradle the thumped skin.

Will speaks over the rapid-fire insults that ensue. “I can send you copies of these pictures, once I’m home. That covers Richie and Eddie, at least.”

“And you,” Mike says. He laughs when Will only stares at him, the camera strap lifted over Will’s head as Mike returns it. The device’s weight settles against his sternum. “What, you want to be forgotten?”

“No, I- that’s fine. I’ll send one.”

Mike saves his own ice cream cup from being crushed by Richie’s flailing elbow, viewing his friends' antics with inexhaustible patience.

It’s weird to feel so wanted. Will is under no false belief that his Hawkins friends want him gone, but the way this group interacts is so immediate compared to the delay in communication with the Party that it's hard not to compare the two. To be welcomed with such open arms feels like coming out of the cold to find hot cocoa waiting.

Mike has known Will for less than twenty-four hours at this point. This friendship is a drop of water compared to the entirety of Lovers' Lake that represents his childhood in Hawkins, and yet the attachment is undeniable. Just like Richie, Mike and Eddie have fallen into some place in Will’s life that he can’t explain.

Richie would probably know how to say it right, but Will accepts this growing connection with vague amazement and a lot of gratitude, rather than trying to find a good reason for it. He can admit that he needs this sense of community. Crossing the country to get it doesn’t seem like such a big hurdle, now that it’s in his grasp. He wants to keep these people in his life.

Keep them close. Safe.

When Mike says he absolutely has to leave for his work rounds, Will has a hard time not catching his arm and asking him to stay. He puts on a smile and stands for the mutually expected hug, air crushed from his chest as Mike adds extra strength, like he knows Will needs it.

“Look after each other,” he murmurs, Will only nodding into his shoulder. Mike withdraws, hand cupping Will's shoulder before Richie drags him aside.

“I get a secret whisper conversation too,” he says.

Stuck waiting for him, Eddie and Will's gazes dart away from each other.

They haven’t spoken without Richie as a buffer for good reason - Will is pretty certain that Eddie hates him for having any part of Richie for the last two months while he himself had none. Still, Will does feel that innate connection to him. He has sunk hours of time into memorizing the shape and sorrow of Eddie’s eyes - it should hardly be a trial to talk to him. They need to find common ground.

Will tries looking at him again and Eddie notices, pulling his attention up from the uneven wooden planks that form the table. They watch each other, shades of the same pigment.

“Richie told me you might come to California.”

Eddie’s hands fuss with the mechanism inside his allergy-safe push up popsicle. “Did he.”

“Yeah, he seemed pretty excited about the idea,” Will says. Eddie narrows his eyes. “If you want it to be a surprise, you can call me. It could be fun, setting everything up. He’s smart, so we’d have to be clever about our planning process, but I think it’s doable.”

Will picks at the edge of his slightly soggy waffle cone as Eddie’s defenses come down with his shoulders.

“Oh. Maybe.” He lapses into a brief silence, then frowns at a falling leaf that flutters down between them, brushing it away with the backside of his hand. “Why are you offering when I’ve been such a dick?”

Will smiles through a shrug, getting a brief glance before Eddie’s mouth turns up at the edges too.

“I don’t know why I tore into you like that,” he says, a little stiff in his speech. Will understands that Eddie’s not the type to make apologies often, unless they’re to his mother. “You did a lot for us, calling Mike and convincing Richie that we exist.”

Like Will had felt happen with Mike, the air becomes brimmed with curiosity, the conversation opening to last night and all its horrors. Will braces against the bulging door, desperate to keep it locked away. The surge has almost overpowered him when Eddie appears there too, helping hold off the tide with an equal wish to ignore the obvious.

“I don’t know what happened down there, but you’re pretty cool,” he murmurs. “Please never do it again.”

That’s a promise I can’t make, Will thinks, turning away when Eddie seems aware that asking for an oath is pointless. Especially because I don’t even fully know what I did - what I could do, if I got another chance.

Clinging to the shallow end of his mind, Will checks on Richie and Mike. They’re finally going their separate ways with a few vigorous pats - the good, rib-shaking kind. It’s an uncomplicated exchange. Mike leaves for the park gate, and Richie returns to the tables.

They don’t linger like the Byers’ departure from Hawkins, wishing each moment would stretch to fit more time in an unchanging amount of seconds. It's the affectionate farewell of two friends heading home at the end of a long day, knowing that tomorrow will come around to find them together again. It’s not saying goodbye because this isn’t one. It’s the acceptance of I’ll see you soon, even if that’s never soon enough.

Will pinches his wrist under the guise of checking his watch, tears trapped behind rapid blinking until Richie's shoes stop beside the table.

“We have to start driving to Bangor soon,” he says, getting a slow nod of agreement from Richie as he retrieves his melting cup of ice cream.

“I should go too,” Eddie says. “I need to show my face before my mom can organize a real search party.”

“To the car then?”

“Not a good idea. If my mom saw you drop me off…well, it wouldn’t be good. I can walk, once you guys are on your way.” Eddie pushes to his feet, ditching his finished ice cream shell into the closest can. He joins them on their meandering trek to the exit, Richie putting them on the longer of the two paths that lead to the parking lot.

“You have anything left in there?” Richie asks, pointing to the waffle cone. When Will nods, Richie holds out the remains of his double scoop. “If we crush that up and add it to this, the combination of ice cream and toppings quadruple.”

Will is already handing over the cone approvingly when Eddie appears around the far side of Richie, nose wrinkled.

“Do you have any idea of the number of germs in the human mouth? You want to combine those too?”

“I mean, if you’re offering-” Richie says, words dying in his mouth as his eyes widen at Will. That kind of joke would be commonplace, if he were answering Will and they were alone with their unacknowledged secret, but they’re not alone.

They’re with Eddie, who trips over his own feet and goes sprawling out on the sidewalk before them with the dull smack of skin and bone meeting concrete.

Shit, Will thinks, watching Eddie push himself up on trembling arms. Will takes the cup Richie pushes into his hands and hurries to the closest trash can, throwing out the ice cream remains. By the time he returns, Richie has helped Eddie to his feet, troubled by his friend's splotchy flush and labored breathing.

“Talk about a wipeout, man. Did you hit your head at all?”

“No, I’m okay,” Eddie manages, legs shaking. His right knee is torn up pretty good, already beading with blood that runs weakly down his leg. His hands have lost a layer of skin too, the heels scraped up and gritty with dirt.

“Grab the emergency supplies, Steamboat.” Richie digs out his car keys and tosses them over. He takes Eddie’s weight on one side, helping him limp toward a lone bench along the walkway. “If we let him go home like this, his mom will have him in a full body cast before you can say beep-beep, motherfucker.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the least she’ll do after the stunts I pulled this morning.”

Richie sighs, swinging Eddie’s arm back over his head so he can sit down alone on the bench. As requested, Will goes to get the medical kit, peering at Richie one last time to find his features strained, trying to hide distress. In all likelihood, he’s overthinking the suggestive comment and hoping Eddie’s fall was an unrelated incident.

Richie brushes the loose bangs out of Eddie’s face, checking for a mark even though Eddie claims that his hands caught him in time. When Richie’s certain there’s not a bruise, he ruffles the hair until it’s a mess again. Eddie's wearing a half-frown that reads like I’m-enjoying-this-but-I’d-die-before-letting-you-know-it.

Will’s pretty sure there’s a correlation between the two events, but he leaves them to their fumbling attempts at tenderness. People don’t always need to be saved.

Will sets down Joyce’s homemade first aid kit and a bottle of water beside Eddie on the bench.

“I think I’ll go take some pictures of the park,” he says, subtle as a brick. He knows what he’s doing, and Richie knows what he’s doing - here’s hoping that Eddie has no fucking clue. “I have film left, and Jonathan will be disappointed if I don’t capture the view.”

“Don’t wander too far. I might need a second set of hands to hold Eddie down while I amputate-” Eddie pinches his arm and twists until Richie buckles, returning the grab on Eddie’s wrist and forcing the situation into a mutual surrender.

“I’ll be careful,” Will says, speed walking away.

“Look what you did. Scared him off.”

“He’s friends with you, Richie. I don’t think he can be scared off.”

Eddie subsides into quiet patienthood as Richie sorts out the supplies by injury. He cracks open the fresh water bottle to douse a clean rag from the kit, wiping away the trail of blood that has reached mid-shin.

“Really, I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” Eddie says, voice lowered. Richie raises his head to see Eddie staring after Will, who’s wandering through the nearby cluster of oaks, lens aimed skyward. “He’s special.”

“What gave it away, the mind powers?”

“I mean to you,” Eddie says. Richie lifts the rag from a ragged scrape on Eddie’s palm. He sounded like this last night too, serious and straightforward. “You’ve only known each other for two months?”

“And one day,” Richie adds. He feels the stare burning a hole in the side of his head. It reminds him of Eleven, who had accidentally reminded him of Eddie all those weeks ago, so time is a flat circle.

“Why are you so different with him?”

A loaded question. Locked and loaded. Richie gets the feeling that this conversation is going to be verbal Russian roulette, with one wrong move spelling the end. His throat threatens to close, so he does what he’s always done best - he starts talking.

“We got to know each other in a different place, in a different way. Talking to him isn’t like talking to you or Mike, that’s all.”

“But you’ve changed.”

“Wrong again,” Richie says. He gets on one knee, using the other to prop up Eddie’s ankle and clean away the bits of concrete caught in the bunched skin. It took a pound of flesh, so Eddie took a chunk right back. “I’m just showing him another side of me. It’s always been there. Will… draws it out of hiding, I guess.”

Eddie sucks in a breath through his teeth as Richie switches to an antiseptic wipe, cleaning as deeply as he dares.

“So what, you don’t want us to know you can be tolerable sometimes?”

Richie snorts. “Not exactly. If I wanted a cigarette, I would go to Bev, not you or Mike or the others. Being friends with Will, I’m asking for what only he can offer. It’s not about treating him better or you worse.”

“What does he say to you that we can’t say?” Eddie demands, full of righteous confusion.

“Oh, this and that,” Richie says, making a long story short. “We have a lot in common. Mostly, he doesn’t let me get away with the shit I like to pull, so I don’t bother trying. I’ve been housebroken.”

There’s an amused exhale from Eddie at that comparison. Richie reaches up for his hands and repeats the disinfection process. He notices the ends of Eddie’s fingers trembling.

“Are these starting to hurt yet?”

Eddie nods, and Richie returns his arms to his lap, opening a bandage for the short, deep graze rounding his knee. It’s going to scab pretty bad, even though it’s nicely wrapped. Richie realizes one of Eddie’s laces has come undone, bracing the shoe against his own bent leg and tying the strings neatly – making sure to double knot them, as Eddie prefers. Work done, he puts the foot down, shoving all the paper scraps into the distended pockets of the first aid bag.

“Voila! Good as new, mon ami.”

Eddie’s frown is twitching and unsure when Richie looks at him for confirmation that he doesn't need more medical assistance. “You have to call me tomorrow. You can’t forget.”

“Who, me? My mind is a steel trap. I never forget anything. Elephants remember less than I do.”

“Richie.”

“Tomorrow, I got it,” Richie swears.

For a moment, they’re locked in a deep stare, evaluating the sincerity of each other’s commitment. They can both hope that this amnesia bit is over, but if it isn’t, they’re going to be stuck right where they were a year ago - constantly reminding each other of days like today for an indeterminable amount of time, hoping that the memories will eventually stick. Tomorrow is not promised lightly.

Richie adjusts his glasses. “You’re Bill, right?”

“Such an asshole,” Eddie breathes, head falling forward so he can smile at his lap instead of giving Richie the victory. Feeling rewarded, Richie tries to offer Eddie the same comfort.

“I know I’m leaving again, but I’m not leaving you alone,” he says, pushing to his feet. It must have been a terrible purgatory here, left only with memories. Richie didn’t have to know what he was missing like Eddie and Mike did. Now they have to risk losing each other again, all because fate had the bright idea that they were better off apart. “The phone company can drain my trust fund, I don’t care. I’ll call you once an hour if it means I won't forget again. I’m gonna fight for you.”

Eddie’s head jerks up and Richie’s palms sweat, but he doesn’t walk that one back.

“You’ve been doing it all this time for us. With your mom being who she is, your life would be ten times easier if you gave us up.” Eddie watches him with wide, possibly scared eyes. “But you want us around and we want you around, and no one gets to decide that but us. That’s all that really matters, right? From now on, I’ll fight too, if that’s what it takes.”

Eddie is close to the brink of an attack by the end, so Richie calls up a new trick. He extends his pinky alone, holding it out between them, and waits. It doesn’t take long.

“How old are you?”

“You’d prefer a blood pact with an old glass bottle?”

Eddie shivers, hand lifting before Richie gets any ideas about tracking one down in the trash. Their pinkies lock down to the lowest knuckle, closing tight. Richie tries to feel Eddie’s heartbeat through the sliver of skin contact to check if Eddie can do the same. Before he can determine who that racing pulse belongs to, Eddie slips his hand free, holding onto Richie’s fist instead. Moving slowly, Eddie hauls himself to his feet, limping in place to test the strength in his wounded leg.

“You plan to roll home or should I help you into the car?”

“I can walk,” Eddie says, stubbornly putting weight on both feet. “My mom will freak if you bring me home like this.”

“It’s cool,” Richie assures. “If she tries anything, Will can fireball her ass back inside.”

“No. I don’t need another fucking headache.”

Eddie proves his speedy recovery by removing his hand from Richie’s support, bracing on the bench and training himself into a steady walk down the path. He shambles unevenly toward the gate of the park, tripping again over a crack in the concrete. Richie catches him before he can find a new place to bleed.

“Alright, Cinderella, that’s enough for today. Your chariot awaits.”

Eddie’s face is long-suffering but amused when he swivels around on one leg like a spinning top. In a swift grab, wiry arms circle Richie’s waist, bringing a perfect net down on the butterflies that explode to life in his chest. Going for the kill, Eddie rests his cheek against Richie’s collar. When he squeezes, Richie remembers how to exist, dropping his arms around broad shoulders that were once angular and narrow.

Heart pounding, Richie speaks, the sound reverberating through Eddie. “You did hit your head.”

“Must have,” Eddie mumbles.

Richie tucks his chin into Eddie’s hair, tickled by the stiffly styled strands. Looking out over the park, he notices Will moving to keep a fluttering bird in frame and lifts an arm to subtly wave. When Will catches sight of him and pauses, Richie points at himself, then frames his fingers like he’s taking a picture. Will lifts the camera hesitantly and Richie nods, giving him a thumbs up.

“What are you doing?” Eddie says, trying to squirm and check for himself.

“Playing Twister,” Richie replies, reeling Eddie deeper into the hug. “See? Left hand Eddie.”

“Yeah, I get it. Right foot Richie.” Eddie layers their shoes, crushing Richie’s toes.

“Right hand Eddie.” Richie cuffs the back of his head.

“Headbutt Richie,” Eddie says, leaning away to power up a stronger collision into the hollow of Richie's throat. His laugh gets muffled in the borrowed shirt Richie wears.

“That’s an illegal move, so you forfeit.”

“You surrender.”

“You wish.”

When Eddie does retreat, his face is one that Richie knows he’s never seen before. He can’t begin to guess what it means. Richie's chest aches with a constant Eddie, Eddie, Eddie as he stares back, face growing hot the longer his brain fails to come up with something to say. He would open his mouth and let the words form themselves, but he’s pretty sure the only thing it would produce is unintelligible babbling (probably about Eddie's mother).

At wits’ end, Richie sticks his arm straight up, beckoning with a frantic hand that Will notices much faster than last time. While Will’s on his way over to them, he stops to retrieve the abandoned med kit, giving Eddie the time to manipulate Richie's clumsy limbs for use as a living crutch.

They end up doing a three-legged shuffle to the car, not saying a word.

Chapter Text

“Holy shit, she called the cops!”

“What?” Eddie presses up between the front seats, peering out the windshield with Will as they roll to a stop across the street from his house. Incredibly, Richie's not exaggerating. There's a police car sitting empty in front of the walkway that leads up to the porch. “Fuck, not again.”

“Again?” Will asks, voice cracking.

He shushes Richie’s peals of laughter as Eddie slides down the backseat, scrambling out of the car to get a better look. Will sees a neighbor two houses down, watering their garden with the hose and giving them a cursory glance. Will hunches a little in the passenger seat to try and hide, which only sets Richie off again, rolling down the window so Eddie can better appreciate his joy.

“Okay, you have to go now,” Eddie says, fidgeting beside the car.

“Don’t you need help getting inside?”

“I’ll be fine,” he replies, looking both ways and doing a quick limping hop across the street to prove his claim. He stops in the grass lining the curb, shooing them away, but Richie just waves, encouraging him to keep going. Once Eddie’s back is turned, Richie’s smile falls into a faint and worried line.

Will’s been thinking about the way Richie has changed since they entered Derry. He oscillates between the trusting and vulnerable person that Will first met at school and this harsh, defensive person that has so many walls, he doesn’t know how to navigate them himself. The only explanation Will entertains is that something about growing up and going through what he went through here made the real Richie hide, somewhere deep, afraid of letting people close and getting burned.

So while Richie is remembering Derry, he’s also forgetting how to put himself at risk and be rewarded, trapped in the protective labyrinth of his own design.

It's horrible, seeing him stuck in all that doubt and hesitation, especially because it goes against everything Richie stands for. All his joking and teasing, it's not humor for the sake of making himself laugh. He does it to give other people relief. He dulls sharp edges and lights dark places. He picks people up and dusts them off and says we’ll get ‘em next time, bub. That's what Richie is - at least for Will - and he's irreplaceable.

Will sits up. This time, it's his job to remind Richie not to take it all so seriously.

“Richie.”

His friend hums in acknowledgement, still watching Eddie go.

“What if the Derry you remember is your hermit crab shell?”

Richie turns to Will, features slack with contemplation with the metaphor flipped around on him. He knows Will’s follow-up question.

If this is your shell, are you gonna stay in there forever or take a chance to grow, scary as it may be?

“Eddie!”

The unsteady figure hauling itself up the porch steps halts, facing them with a disapproving frown. His finger presses urgently over his lips to encourage silence, but Richie ignores it.

“You forgot something,” he calls.

Eddie glances at the front door of the house, then out to them, hands coming up to ask what the hell Richie could be talking about in gestures. Richie unclips his seatbelt, shifting to lean over the center console and root around on the rear flooring. He drops back into his seat, holding in view the arm sling Eddie that ditched before the malt shop.

Eyes scrunching up in irritation, Eddie comes down the front walk, injury less pronounced. He checks traffic on the empty street before crossing again. Eddie’s face reappears in the window, right hand bracing on the lower window frame while the other reaches out for the sling. He retrieves it.

“Thanks. My mom…” Eddie's words trail off, his good arm cradling the sling to his chest. The hand on the window is caught in place, the sharp jut of his wrist brushed over by Richie's thumb. Eddie follows the limb up to find Richie watching their sole point of contact with single-minded focus.

“Remember when you asked me what my past is worth, down in the sewer?” After a long beat, Eddie nods, fingers twitching. “I’ve got my answer, if you still want it.”

The front door of the house opens with a squeal of old metal hinges and out comes Sonia, just as terrifying as the last time Will saw her. She shouts for her son, voice like cut glass dipped in honey. Will's stomach sinks as she leans into the house to yell for the officers that are surely inside.

Eddie looks to Richie, skin pale but his eyes bright. “Tell me.”

Someone with a uniform appears behind Mrs. Kaspbrak, and Will grips his seatbelt as she yells for Eddie again, not given an ounce of attention this time.

“I think that even if killing It didn't work, I wouldn't regret anything we had to do to get my memories back," Richie says. He's not using any voice but his own, honest and shaky with fear. “For me, knowing you is worth all the trouble in the world.”

Will tunes out the frantic calls of Eddie’s name and the sound of wooden porch steps creaking as Sonia makes her way down, two officers behind her now. Richie’s right hand, which is on the gear shift, clenches around the top so hard that the blood is leached away. As Will watches, the digits slowly relax, knuckles growing pink and chasing away the numb look. The fingertips drum a light little trill, and Will dares to confirm his hopes. He finds Eddie gazing at Richie speechlessly, his face speaking for him to say that's-the-right-answer. His smile is shy and very, very cute.

“EDDIE!”

They all jump, seeing Sonia storming to the far edge of the street now, officers reluctantly following as they anticipate a problem.

“Go, just go," Eddie urges, drawing his hand away from the car and quickly waving them on.

“Alright, Will, your time to shine-”

“No fireball, Richie, drive!”

“Call me later, if you’re not grounded for life,” he says lightly, jerking the car out of park and pulling onto the road. Sonia screams after them and Eddie gets in her way, telling her to let them leave. The cops are scrambling, not sure who to listen to. Mrs. Kaspbrak is a bit of a mother who cried wolf, but Eddie is littered in bruises and bandages, so it could go either way.

Will keeps his eyes on the road behind for a few blocks, fully prepared for lights and sirens to come blaring after them.

“We can’t get arrested for kidnapping if we’re also minors, right?”

Richie laughs so hard he cries, and if some of the tears are more about overwhelmed relief than amusement, Will doesn’t mention it. He passes his friend tissues from the glovebox when his vision gets too blurred to see the road.

Fussing with the controls for the radio, Will gives him space until Richie takes it upon himself to talk.

“So what are you gonna do next?” he asks, glancing over as Will settles on a blues station. “You’ve got a bunch of free time, now that you’re not solving my unresolved trauma. No more distractions from dealing with your real problems.”

He picks at the outer leg seam of his pants, frowning at Richie's profile. “What?”

“You, Will Byers, got attached to my dire situation to avoid your own personal drama.”

“I did not.”

“Did too. You have experience fighting monsters and not with extreme emotional distress, so you went for the easier problem.”

Will gawks at him. “You think fighting It was easy?”

“To you, at least, yeah. You said it yourself, you’ve faced scary things before. El used some magic powers and you won. You knew you could handle monsters, so you went monster hunting.” Richie shrugs. “And now you’re back to square one.”

Will shifts, uncomfortable with this sudden change in topic. This trip isn’t supposed to be about him.

“Look, I get wanting to escape down any road long enough to take you away, believe me. I know you have a lot of shit at home that needs handling. There’s the lingering tension with El, your mom’s grief, Jonathan’s tenuous departure for college, and we still haven't talked about Mike.” Richie pauses thoughtfully. “Not to mention the bleeding facial orifices you picked up over the weekend.”

“Do we have to talk about this right now?”

“Fuck no, you don’t have to do anything,” Richie says. He’s so quick with reassurance that Will has no time to properly stew in his worries. “I’m not about to pull a Sonia and demand some answers, but considering how well you fixed my catastrophe of a life, I’m on board with helping you figure out your own.”

“It’s complicated, Richie.”

“More complicated than a child-killing alien sewer clown?”

“A different kind of complicated,” Will stresses, arms crossing tight over his stomach like he can hold off the flood of unhappiness that comes with being reminded of recent years. “I can’t explain any of my problems without telling you all of it.”

They pass the Thanks for Visiting Derry sign, glad to leave it in the rearview mirror. Richie grabs Will’s wrapped forearm and tugs it free of the limb shield, lifting his wrist to eye-level and checking the time.

“You’re got two hours on the clock, starting now. I’d offer to show you mine first, but that ship has sailed.”

Will looks at the long stretch of road ahead, finding he feels unusually safe about spilling his personal life to someone who’s dealt with the strange and lived beyond it. Richie would believe him, which is important. Plus, Steve had told Robin about their misadventures in new dimensions. Maybe Will doesn’t have to make a new party – he can just slip Richie into the old one.

He starts with a deep breath, chest tight at the thought of sharing information that could send Richie – his only real friend in California – running in the other direction. Then he remembers that Richie helped him kill a whole monster. He would have run then, if he was ever going to do it. Will may not be ready to talk about Derry, but Hawkins isn’t so fresh. He could try.

“Around two years ago, we were playing a game of D&D at Mike’s house. I rolled a seven.”

“Is that bad?”

Will slumps in his seat, then bursts into slightly deranged giggles, pressing his face into his hands.

"What?" Richie nudges at his shoulder, feeling left out of the joke. “What’d I say?”

“Right, a big scary flesh monster attacked you in the mall, but what I don’t get is why Eleven thought I was replacing Mike,” Richie says, pulling into the driveway of his aunt’s house, their journey complete.

“That’s your biggest problem with everything I just said?”

“I’m seriously concerned about her perception of me! The only thing I have in common with him is our looks. How has he survived so long being so oblivious to other people?”

Will sighs, lifting his seatbelt out of the way. “Give him a break, Richie. He had bigger things to deal with than noticing that I wanted to spend time with him.”

"Sounds like you were wearing a neon sign to me."

They climb out of the car, Will’s door lightly shutting while Richie makes the car rock by slamming his own. Through the open curtains of the front window, he can see his dad cross the living room, carrying luggage. Will joins Richie at the trunk, sorting out what needs to be carried inside. He shoves the plastic bag of bloody clothes in the top of Will’s backpack and zips it tight. They’ll need to ditch that in the outdoor garbage can before Maggie can stumble onto it.

"I'm just saying, the dude belongs on a football team with a skull that thick. He must already have the concussion for it, if he can't see what's right in front of him."

"What, the flayed monster? Mike saw it - the thing was two stories tall, it was kind of hard to miss.”

"You, Will." Richie stops moving to stare at him, making a serious point. “You were right there, asking him to be a better friend. I can’t fathom how he missed you.”

Will goes quiet, features soft and pinched, ever the wistful lover. Old romantic painters would go crazy over that expression.

"Especially when you’ve been friends since kindergarten," Richie says, closing the trunk as Will makes a non-committal noise. He keeps his hand light on Will’s back as they shuffle up to the front porch and ring the doorbell. "Has he always been that dense? What was he doing in recess that made him the youngest person ever diagnosed with a concussion?"

"Richie." Will’s eyes roll, but he relaxes a fraction, his mood reeled away from the cliffs of pining.

"It all makes sense now. Naptime was only an hour long because they couldn't let him sleep with a head injury, not unless they wanted a lawsuit on their hands."

Will represses a smile as the door opens, Maggie offering a pleasantly surprised hello before she catches sight of Richie’s bandaged face and the broken lens of his glasses. Moving slow to avoid detection, Will tucks his cocooned arms behind his waist.

“Richie, there better be a very good explanation for this.”

“Roughhousing,” he says simply, letting her tip his chin this way and that to take in the damage. “Mike let me wrassle one of the Hanlon prize pigs and it got out of hand. The pig played dirty.”

Maggie tuts in defeated exasperation, releasing him and stepping away from her guard dog role to show them inside. They’re led into the front room, Went scanning the Sunday paper in a wingback chair.

“You’ll never guess who was at the door,” Maggie says, as though she didn’t threaten to take away Richie’s allowance for a month if he wasn’t here by two o'clock.

Went looks over, catching sight of his irresponsible child. “Home on time? I would have worn my good socks if I knew I’d be witnessing a miracle today.”

“So you missed us?”

“I managed,” Went says. “Your mother, however, was inconsolable.”

As though proving the point, Maggie’s hand reels Richie in by the shoulder. She goes to kiss the side of his head, but her nose wrinkles when it gets close to his hair.

“Ugh, did you spend the night in a dumpster? You reek.” Maggie takes a second sniff, then holds Richie a safe distance away, troubled as she turns to her husband. “Went, smell him. It’s like a sewer line burst.”

“No thank you, dear. I went through puberty once myself.” Went cracks his newspaper flat, staying firmly seated. “There’s plenty of time before our flight to remedy the pitfalls of youth. Have them use the guest bath.”

Maggie notices Will trying to shuffle out of the room, her mothering eyes pinning him in place. She’s prepared to sniff his hair too, while she’s at it.

“Right you are, sir. We’re growing boys,” Richie announces, prying Maggie’s lacquered nails from his shoulders. “Perfectly natural for us to stink. If not us, who? If not now-”

Went sighs over the impassioned finish. “Beat it, Mr. President.”

Richie salutes his father, marching from the room before Maggie can work herself up to a full inquisition. They’ve almost made it safely up the stairs when she comes to a delayed realization and shouts after them.

“Whose clothes do you have on?!”

Will drags his hand down through the condensation on the mirror, wiping his wrinkly hand dry on the towel draped around his neck. He feels like a completely new person, now that he's clean and isn't wearing anything that was recently steeped in a public waste reservoir. He'll never underestimate the benefits of a hot shower again.

The used gauze from his arms is gathered in a misshapen heap on the countertop beside the sink. Will pokes at it until the stack unravels down into the trash can on the floor, looking over his scratched arms. They're not pretty, but the bleeding's done. It stings a little to pull on a long sleeve over his t-shirt, covering the marks, but it's necessary. Bulky bandages under the fabric would definitely get his mom's attention when she picks him up from the airport tonight, and Will can't risk that.

Feeling a twinge as he takes a deep breath, Will checks on his chest too, a nasty bruise centered at the top of his abdomen where Its tail caught him. He prods at the splash of color, the area still tender to the touch but not painful on its own yet. It looks like someone's spilled a grape slushie on him, staining his skin.

It could be a lot worse. He could be dead. In that light, these injuries suggest he managed a seriously impressive saving throw.

As soon as Will steps out of the bathroom, Maggie is there, offering him a plated sandwich with soup in the kitchen if he wants more. Will can hardly start to accept before Richie intercepts, scooping the plate from her hand and leading Will out to the patio. The patterned brick is cold beneath his bare feet.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make sure he eats," he calls to his mother, shutting the door firmly behind them and pulling out a deck chair at the outdoor table for Will. Richie pushes it back in once he's seated. "While you were taking your sweet time in the shower, Eddie called me."

"What? Why?" Will asks, paralyzed with fear that they did something wrong and It's not actually dead. We have to go back.

"Apparently, Bill showed up on his doorstep half an hour ago." At Will's open-mouthed stare, Richie laughs, taking the seat across the corner from him and setting down the plate.

"He's- how?"

Richie picks up the overstuffed sandwich, holding it out until Will takes it from him. Once he's had his first bite, he practically inhales the food, reminded how little he's eaten over the last two days.

"He just got in his car and drove there," Richie says, delighted. "The memories started bubbling up when they mentioned Georgie at his father's funeral. Bill claims he didn't call before coming because he had to see them to make it real or something, but Eddie says he seemed pretty out of sorts. I think Bill knows the Losers are the only ones that get his grief, considering what It did. He needs his friends to mourn in peace."

"I hope he can. I mean, it's amazing he showed up at all," Will says, picking up the edge of the towel to scrub at his hair when water drips onto his cheekbone. "Is he still there now? Did you talk to him?"

"Briefly. They were headed to see Mike. You should have heard him though, he was so pissed when he found out he could have caught us there."

Will finishes his late lunch in pleased silence. He's happy for them, even if they were cheated a full reunion. It's a great sign, too, Bill's memories jumpstarting themselves. They might not need to send those letters out after all.

"Did Eddie say anything else?"

“Not with his mom breathing down his neck," Richie says, laughter drying up. He gives Will an odd look, somewhere between uncomfortable and hesitant. "Why did you leave me alone with him, at the park?”

The answer is pretty obvious, but Will's still embarrassed to say it out loud. “I thought you two needed time to talk.”

“Maybe we did,” Richie allows with a slight frown. “It’s not your job to manufacture that for us. We can find our own moments to talk alone.”

“Okay,” Will says, stomach churning with regret. He didn’t mean to violate an unspoken rule, but maybe Richie thought it was nosey, assuming as much as Will did about their relationship. “I’m sorry for...reading it wrong.”

Richie pushes aside the empty plate with a slight head shake that heightens Will's anxiety. This might be a trespass that can’t be fixed with a simple apology.

"I’m not asking you to feel bad, Steamboat.” Richie's words momentarily quiet Will’s overactive mind in its wild conclusions. He focuses on hearing what Richie is actually saying. “I want to know why you act like you aren’t allowed to be around us. Every chance you got, you tried to slip away, like you're some burden we're supposed to want gone."

What? Will fails to process. Richie's still talking.

"Things were weird at the beginning when we were all feeling each other out, but I think it's safe to say they've got nothing against you now. We make a lot of smartass comments, but you're aware we actually enjoy spending time with you, right?”

In a way, Will knows that. He knows they don’t despise him, and he wasn’t…Did he do that? Will was trying to give them space. He thought that’s what they needed.

“But Eddie…” Will’s determination grows enough to be direct. They're alone outside anyway - there's no one around to eavesdrop. “You like Eddie. Don’t you want to be alone with him?”

“Are you kidding? We’d kill each other in a week if we were alone all the time,” Richie says, amused by Will’s blank surprise. “I do want to be with him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to stick around too.”

Oh.

“Is it awkward?” Richie asks, vaguely concerned about the possibility. “Are we making you a third wheel?”

“No,” Will says, eyes damp. “I feel welcome, it’s just-” He stops, unable to explain why he forced himself out of the group to make them happier. His fingers pinch at the inside of his shirt cuffs. “My mistake, I guess.”

Dazed, Will thinks about the fact that Richie not only noticed his self-isolation, but wanted to ask and reassure him that his disappearance wasn’t necessary or desired. Will scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Will says, forcing words past the croak in his voice. “There’s too much.”

“That’s what happens when you forget to talk it out.” Richie pats his wrist to soothe. “Come on, tell the Toze your woes.”

Will is too drained to resist. He slumps onto the table over his crossed arms, the full ache of his strained injuries sweeping through him and fading away. He presses his mouth into the bend of his elbow, peeking up at Richie to find the offer wholly serious despite his lighthearted way of proposing it.

Everything going on in his head is a lot. Once again, Will doesn’t know where to start.

He’s relieved to be going home. In retrospect, not telling his family anything about Derry was reckless, even if his mom would have flown here on the slightest suspicion that he would be in danger. Now he has to face them, knowing that he lied, and he has to continue to lie, to save them the stress of finding out just how disastrously things could have gone for him. Nor can they know how well things did go. Will can never tell them what he did, that he fought and he won.

Just one more secret to keep. His family doesn’t know everything about him, even if Will sometimes wishes they did.

As far as the Party goes, and Hawkins, Will isn’t sure he knows where they stand. They’ve been drifting apart for a while, and the distance certainly didn’t help. It’s not that he’s afraid of losing them, not really. He knows that they can come together and fix their problems and make it right.

Except he’s started to wonder if his friends think it's even a Party worth keeping, considering how easily they've been able to abandon it. Maybe Will’s childish, not wanting to let go, but isn’t that what friendship is? Flying across the country to find your missing parts and facing your fears to protect what matters to you?

Will wants that again. He wants to be important to the people who are important to him.

And he wouldn't dare overlook the sewers. Whatever happened in that foul place, it scares him, and not just because of the physical aftermath of the monster. Will unlocked something down there. He stepped into the dark, and he isn’t sure he fully stepped out again - even though he's sitting in afternoon daylight right now, his stomach full and wounds healing. He left another piece of himself under Derry, just like his week in the Upside Down. He doesn’t know how much he has left to lose before he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. He’s growing. He’s changing. He desperately wants to keep what’s being taken from him.

Will summarizes. “I don’t want to do things alone anymore. I don’t think I can.”

Richie leans over the table to match him, resting the side of his head on his overlapped hands so they’re at the same eye level. It makes it easier to talk, looking directly at him. His glasses are crooked from the uneven pressure and an irrepressible hint of a smile lurks at the corner of his mouth.

“I want support, instead of protection,” he explains. “For some reason, I’ve just sat still, waiting for people to come to me after miraculously sensing that I need them. I have to start meeting them halfway.”

“Look at you, figuring life out in one afternoon. You're a problem-solving machine.”

Will snorts, watching Richie’s smile grow too big for his face. Too big for Mike’s face, his mind quietly corrects. For Richie, it’s just the right size.

“I’m proud of you, Byers.”

Damn it. Will squeezes his eyes tightly shut against the swell of sudden tears and Richie chuckles, ruffling his hair when he ducks further into his own arms.

Maggie pokes her head out the door. "Will, honey, can I move this camera bag without breaking anything?"

He lifts his head, trying to stand. "Yeah, do you want me to-"

"You rest, we'll get the car packed," she says, waving him to sit back down. When Will nods, pressing a hand beside his eyes to keep them from watering further, Maggie gracefully doesn't comment. She does give her son a narrow look, trying to determine how heavily he was involved in upsetting Will. "Do you need anything else? Are you still hungry?"

"Didn't ask if I was hungry," Richie mutters.

"Of course I didn't, you couldn't possibly be hungry after the third helping you stole while my back was turned. Will's our guest, we have to host him properly."

"This isn't even our house!"

Needless to say, Maggie remains suspicious. She shoots Richie that warning look all day, to increasingly earnest insistence from Richie that he has done nothing to deserve the scrutiny. It’s not until they’re seated on the plane that Maggie risks leaving them alone again, flipping through a magazine as Went dozes off beside her, a full aisle of privacy between them.

“What about you?” Will asks.

Richie picks up the thread of the conversation without a missed beat, leaning in to speak quietly. “Like you said, it’s a lot. If we ignore the kid-eating alien part, this trip has still been one long jaunt down a grueling memory lane.”

Will doesn’t know how that first part can be ignored, but he does his best.

“I can’t believe it yet.” Richie reaches up to fix his glasses, but detours, pushing his hair behind his ear instead. “Any of it. I don't know when it'll sink in, if ever.”

Will nods, yawning as sleep creeps over him to reclaim the lost hours of this morning. His head tips onto Richie’s shoulder, and he doesn't fight the drowsiness.

“I think I'm gonna tell Mike,” he confesses quietly. It’s been one of those thoughts floating around since this morning that he hasn’t been able to pin down, just a vague idea in mind.

“Yeah?”

Will nods, the shoulder bony against the side of his face until Richie hunches, making it possible for Will to fit on a gentler slope. “I know, sort of, what he's going to say, but I think I need to hear it.” Will’s eyes close. “He needs to hear me out, too. I can’t hide forever - or at least, I don’t want to. Not from Mike.”

Richie’s silence is understanding. When Will is on the cusp of unconsciousness, Richie's neck tilts, his cheek resting against the top of Will's head. Will feels perfectly safe in his temporary resting place.

“Hey,” Richie murmurs into his hair. “You don't know till you ask.”

Maybe I don’t. And that’s the thought that carries him off to sleep, Richie following shortly after. Neither of them can recall their dream upon waking, but it's a nice dream. It is the first one they share, unlonely and unhidden.

Just the first of many to come.

March 11th, 1986

Will smiles at the rolled canvas resting on his lap. It’s a blank off-white page for now, barely an idea, but Mr. Patricks says his vision has honesty and spirit - which is a high compliment, as far as Will’s concerned. As soon as Argyle hits the driveway, Will is slinging open the door to a brief protest from Jonathan about safely exiting the vehicle, rushing inside the house with a silent greeting to his mom while she's on the phone. He drops his backpack in his room, setting the canvas up on his easel and taking his time to decide on the right sketching pencils. His favorite one is still broken at the end from the last time he used it.

The place that Will’s sharpener usually turns up when it’s missing is his mom’s desk, so he heads to the front room. He takes it upon himself to search while Joyce is getting off the phone.

“I’ll get that sample sent right away. Yes.” She leans in her chair to let him reach around her, puzzled by his hovering. “Yes, alright. Sounds great. You have a super day. Uh-huh. Bye.”

The phone clicks, giving Will the ability to talk without interrupting his mom's work.

“Sharpener?”

“Somewhere around here,” she says, confusion clearing as she gestures to her mess of reference sheets and number lists. Will does his best to root through the stacks without disrupting them.

“Do you know if Mike’s plane comes in on Friday or Saturday?”

“Saturday, why?”

“I want to start working on something, but I don't know if I'll have enough time,” Will says. The painting is going to be daunting to finish inside of two weeks, but he really wants to get this right. He gets the feeling he has to make it, that he’s going to need it-

“I'm sure it'll work out, sweetheart. Things always do," she assures. Her voice falters only a little, remembering the times where things didn't go as they should have. Recovering, she peers around him, checking for someone in his shadow. "You came home with El today?”

“Oh, yeah. Richie and I thought it might be better if he gives me a ride every other day, instead of all the time. Gas money and stuff.”

The real reason is a bit more complicated than that. Will had promised that he and El could try being friends, but in order for that to happen, they have to spend time together. He can admit, he’s been neglecting hanging out with her in favor of Richie, and he doesn’t want to do that anymore. He doesn’t want to be a hypocrite about the same complaints he made last summer.

Besides, he still enjoys spending time with El. Going to and from school with Argyle again offers them more chances to talk and catch up. This Angela situation, for instance. Will’s been where Eleven is now, and he knows it's not easy, navigating life when it feels like everyone's out to get you. He may not be able to stop them, but he can give El his support to help her ignore what they say and do, like the Party always did for him.

“Speaking of Richie - Jonathan told me to ask what he should do with the film. I figured Richie might want copies, but he was thinking about a little album, like the one El got.”

“What film?” Will asks, rifling through the cluttered top drawer.

“The negatives, I guess," his mom corrects. "From the camera you took to Derry.”

Derry-

Will hisses through his teeth, hand sharply withdrawing from the drawer like he's been bitten by a snake. He checks the pad of his index finger, a clean slice across the skin. As he puts pressure on it, blood wells up.

“Are you alright?” Joyce asks, fluttering nervously at his side for the unclear sound of pain.

“Just a papercut,” he says. For such a small thing, it sure can hurt. He considers what his mother asked, trying to remember when he took out the borrowed camera during their trip. He can’t recall it ever leaving the case.

“I think I forgot to use it," Will says, brain feeling fuzzy. "We didn’t end up taking any pictures.”

“That’s a shame. It would have been nice to capture some memories,” she says, looking over Will’s injured hand herself until the phone starts to ring. “Makes them harder to lose.”

Will nods absently. The small manual sharpener reveals itself beside the handset when his mom reaches to pick up the line.

“Hello?”

“Joyce, wonderful!” Owens greets. “Listen, I got that information you were after.”

Joyce holds the phone to her shoulder, watching as Will returns to the stairs and descends to his room, sharpener retrieved. Hopefully he tracks down a bandage for his finger while he's at it. She tucks herself into the far corner of the kitchen, bringing the receiver to her ear.

“Anything weird?”

“Nope. The whole family’s clean as a whistle. One Richard Tozier, born to Margaret and Wentworth on March 7th, 1969. They moved to Lenora Hills last May to expand Wentworth’s dental practice. Moderately wealthy with no shady income or affiliations. The kid was a bit of a rascal in school - got Honor Roll academically, demerits for disruptive behavior - but his official record’s spotless.”

That does sound like Richie. Joyce leans her head back against a cabinet in relief. She doesn’t know what she had expected Owens to find, but she had to ask after that day, with the way Richie became Jim-

She can't take chances. Anything strange has to be searched with a fine tooth comb, and there’s no finer tooth than a CIA contact.

“There was one thing, but we looked into it and nothing turned up, so-”

“What was it?”

Owens makes some defensive stuttering noises for a second, as though he considers telling her it's really nothing, but he remembers that won’t work with her. Joyce Byers is not the sort to let a fleeting comment slide.

“It’s where they lived before California,” he reluctantly tells her. “Richie’s hometown was an area of interest on one of the old project files from the mid-fifties. There was dissent about the cause of unexplainable events from around those years, but other than a string of child disappearances and some old town legends, there was nothing concrete to suggest a serious, otherworldly threat. The investigation was closed by the turn of the decade.”

Joyce remembers the marks on Richie’s face at the airport. He had brushed them off with a light joke about trying to take candy from one tough baby, and it had passed Joyce’s original bullshit filter because Will was unharmed. Surely he would have told her if anything went wrong?

A sudden change of plan. Failing to call any earlier than one AM. Will's inability to meet her eyes after their reunion hug.

“Listen, Joyce, I don’t want you to worry over someone else's paranoia. Back then, we had plenty of investigations into a lot of small towns with low media coverage, as a precaution. I could give you a dozen other names just like it, and a dozen other families like this one whose connections are purely circumstantial.”

She scrubs her hand over her forehead, pressing hard. “What was the uh- the name of the town? Richie’s hometown?”

“Give me a second here,” Owens mumbles, shuffling papers. “That would be...yeah, it’s a place called Derry. Derry, Maine.”

Joyce closes her eyes, relief crushed by the returning weight of concern. Her son’s detour may not have been as innocent as she was led to believe. The coincidence is too great, considering everything else she knows. Will happens to meet a boy who happens to look exactly like Mike, who happens to be from this weird town, where Will happens to go without warning and one of them happens to come home all banged up after abandoning communication for a full day?

Please. She's been a mother for eighteen years, not eighteen minutes.

“Why did you want to know?” Owens asks, mystified.

“I thought it would sound familiar,” she says, keeping her voice free of her growing certainty that there's trouble brewing. “Richie must have mentioned it. I’ve got dinner on the stove, so I’ll let you go.”

“Alright. You know you can call me, if anything happens.” That's almost funny.

“Yes, thank you. You’ve been great.” Joyce makes the goodbye quick, dropping the phone to the counter behind her once the call ends. She takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to approach Will’s closed bedroom door and make sure he's in there.

It’s starting, her gut whispers. Joyce tries to break the feeling down, tries to escape it, but it doesn't let her go, like all the times before when she knew- she just knew that something was wrong. But there's often no time for fear. There's no room for doubt. Joyce's hands curl into fists as she looks forward, to the fight sure to happen in their future.

Something is starting, she accepts. And when we end it this time, it'll be for good.