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The summer of 1989 in Hawkins, Indiana, was supposed to be a reprieve. It was the last summer before the Party—now the “Founding Elders,” as Dustin insisted—scattered for college: Mike and Will to NYU for Art and Writing; Dustin and Lucas to MIT and UCLA, respectively; Max staying local while navigating physical therapy; and El heading to a state school in Indianapolis.
It was a time for quiet, profound, secret joy.
In the solitude of Will’s room, a worn-out copy of The Cure’s Disintegration spinning softly on the turntable, Mike Wheeler finally allowed himself to be happy.
“Do you think they know?” Will asked, tracing the line of Mike’s jaw with a charcoal-smudged finger.
Mike, sprawled across Will’s bed, sighed looking over the locked door of Will's bedroom, even though the house was empty. “No. I mean, maybe Dustin suspects. He knows everything.”
“Mike.” Will’s voice was gentle, edged with patience that had taken years—and a world-ending catastrophe—to cultivate. “Max saw us kiss behind the garage at Steve’s graduation party. Lucas literally walked in on us holding hands while we were trying to figure out which direction our parallel dorm rooms would face. And El… El knows everything. She’s just being respectful.”
Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, maybe they know. But they’re pretending they don’t, and that’s what matters. That’s the space I need, Will. I’m trying, I promise. I’m really trying to get past the… the thing.”
The “thing” was the eight-year-old, calcified block of panic that still seized Mike’s lungs whenever the word 'gay' was mentioned, or whenever he imagined holding Will’s hand in public. He’d kissed Will in the depths of the Upside Down, in a hospital room, in Will’s childhood bedroom, in Mike's own bedroom—but never on the Wheeler's basement or the living room of any of their houses. Will understood. He had waited since Mike was twelve; he could wait a few more months until Mike was on a different continent.
“I'm so proud of you,” Will whispered, running his hand through Mike’s dark hair, which was currently long and artfully disheveled, a nod to Robert Smith that Will found infuriatingly attractive. “And I’m patient, Mike. But I’m still Will Byers, the guy who got possessed by a shadow monster because he held onto feelings too tight.”
Mike laughed softly, the sound muffled against Will’s shoulder. “I promise. NYU. New start. We’ll be two brooding, artistic guys holding hands by the Washington Square fountain. It’s a trope. It’s fine.”
This fragile, beautiful truce—the quiet intimacy, the shared future, the necessary secrecy—was precisely what the universe decided to shatter on a Tuesday afternoon— the shattering agent was none other than Mike’s older cousin, the self-proclaimed 'Trashmouth' comedian, and Will's first boyfriend, who hadn't been seen in Hawkins since his brief, disastrous visit four years prior.
Richie arrived in a battered, customized Ford Econoline van—dubbed the 'Puke-a-Vomit Rocket'—smelling faintly of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the triumphant failure of his summer stand-up tour. He wore a neon yellow windbreaker, ripped jeans, and his signature coke-bottle glasses magnified his dark eyes to comical proportions. He looked exactly like Mike, still, but filtered through the lens of a bizarre 80s public access television host.
He found the entire Party—Mike, Will, Dustin, Lucas, Max, and El—crammed into Steve Harrington’s living room, watching the summer Olympics on Steve’s new, enormous television. Steve and Robin were supervising the soda and chip consumption from the adjacent kitchen counter.
“HAWKINS! I’m back, and I’ve brought the gift of chaos!” Richie bellowed, kicking the front door open dramatically. “Don’t worry, Mike, I sold the Hawaiian shirt. This time, I’m only wearing clothes that can cause actual retinal damage.”
Mike buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God. He’s worse than I remember.”
Will, who had instinctively scooted closer to Mike the second the van screeched to a stop, felt a nervous thrill. Richie Tozier was a living force of nature; a chaotic mirror image of Mike's brooding intensity, and he was a lot of Will's firsts. The thing is, a lot of people say that men don't easily forget their first love and that's true. It's the same reason Will had been patient and understanding with Mike's personal evolution because he is after all his firstlove.
But Richie— Goddamn Richie Tozier, was in another (if not the same) level of Mike Wheeler in Will's heart, Don't get him wrong. Will is content and happy and would do anything for his boyfriend including maybe hiding their relationship until their 30 and is living in the same house. He definitely love Mike so much, he well— almost— cut off his cousin out of his life. But it doesn't mean that Will can replace that very very soft spot he had for Richie for giving him all those happy memories a million summer ago.
Speaking of the devil— Richie surveyed the room, his eyes lingering on Will, who was now sitting so close to Mike they were practically one sweater-clad entity.
“Mikey, you look like a teenager who just realized his extensive comic book collection is less valuable than his emotional baggage. Still rocking the ‘I think I’m Jim Morrison but I’m secretly terrified of being honest’ look? It’s a classic!”
“Richie, please,” Mike groaned.
Richie ignored him, zeroing in on Will. He walked straight over and clapped his hand on Will’s shoulder—a completely platonic (not really, maybe there was a bit of caress there if you squint), but proprietorial, gesture.
“And Byers! My lost boy! You’ve grown! You look like the star of a John Hughes film where the main character is trying to tell his best friend he loves him, but keeps getting distracted by the soundtrack. It’s a very specific vibe, and I approve.”
Will felt Mike’s body tense up beside him. “Hey, Richie,” Will said, forcing a casual smile despite the redness creeping up his cheeks.
Richie leaned in close, his voice dropping to a loud stage whisper that everyone could hear. “Listen, I don't think you were able to get it, but just to let you know, I sent you a postcard with a drawing of a very large, vulgar clown when you were in Lenora. Y'know, just for old times’ sake.”
Max snorted into her Sprite. El looked at the ceiling, pretending to be utterly captivated by the ceiling fan. Dustin and Lucas exchanged a knowing look that screamed, Showtime.
Richie then did the most audacious thing: he gently moved Mike’s leg, sat down between Mike and Will, and immediately draped his arm over the back of Will's side of the couch. Will was now pinned between the two physically identical cousins, one radiating suppressed jealousy and the other radiating pure, unadulterated intent.
“So, what’s the consensus, Party Elders?” Richie asked, pulling Will slightly closer to anchor his arm. “Are we doing DnD? Or have you guys evolved past the point where you rely on fictional worlds to escape the crushing banality of Midwestern life?”
Mike finally snapped. “We’re watching the Olympics, Richie. And could you not?”
“Not what, Mikey?” Richie asked, innocently blinking his magnified eyes. “Not sit near my favorite cousin’s best friend? My ex-boyfriend? Oh wait— we technically never broke up, didn't we, lost boy? Is there a designated seating chart for repression I missed? Because if so, I need a map. Maybe Will can draw me one. He’s the artist, right?”
He turned and nudged Will gently with his chin, a gesture that was far too familiar. Will felt his face heating up, not entirely from embarrassment.
In the kitchen, Robin elbowed Steve. “Oh, this is going to be spectacular. He’s doing this on purpose. He knows.”
“He knows what?” Steve whispered back, bewildered. “That Mike is pathologically jealous of anyone who gets Will’s attention? That’s not a secret, Robin. That’s Tuesday.”
“No, dingus,” Robin replied, “He knows that Will and Mike are ‘doing great’ but only in private. Richie Tozier sees a locked door, and his natural reaction is to kick it in and yell obscenities until the tenants surrender. He’s weaponizing Mike’s internalized homophobia.”
Steve stared at the scene—Mike’s knuckles white on the couch arm, Will looking adorably flustered, and Richie practically spooning him—and finally grinned. “Holy crap. He’s a genius. Get the popcorn.”
From that moment, the entire summer became a three-act play directed, produced, and starring Richie Tozier.
“It’s important to revisit the battlefields of our youth, Byers,” Richie announced, slinging his arm loosely around Will’s shoulder as they walked through the arcade's parking lot. Mike trailed behind, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Gives me material. Like, ‘My cousin Mike is so repressed, he thinks Pac-Man eating dots is too suggestive.’ Get it? It’s high-concept.”
“It’s not funny, Richie,” Mike muttered, quickening his pace to walk in-between them, effectively forcing Richie to remove his arm.
“It’s hilarious, Mikey. You just have a comedic black hole where your soul should be. It’s probably from all the denial. Don't worry, Will and I are going to fill that void with enough questionable behavior to power a small city.”
Inside the loud, dimly lit arcade, the plan immediately went into effect. Will was, as always, drawn to Dragon’s Lair, sketching concepts for an oil painting based on the game’s aesthetic. Mike was supposed to be keeping watch over the tokens, but he was watching Richie who stood next to Will, ignoring Dig Dug and Galaga, and focused entirely on Will’s sketchbook.
“Lost boy, I’m serious. This rendering of Dirken the Dragon looks like it’s contemplating a career change to erotic fiction,” Richie said, his voice loud enough to carry over the arcade din.
“It’s supposed to be terrifying,” Will sighed, trying to concentrate.
“Terror is subjective, my friend,” Richie replied, leaning over Will's shoulder, their heads practically touching. He smelled aggressively of Jovan Musk. “Look at the curve of that snout! It’s sensual! Tell me, Will, when you paint, do you prefer a brush that’s firm, or one that’s a little more… flexible?”
Will froze, charcoal poised mid-air. He caught Mike’s reflection in the glass of the Street Fighter cabinet. Mike was staring daggers, his jaw working furiously.
“I—It depends,” Will stammered, suddenly dizzy from a sudden hit of memory from that summer.
“Variety is the spice of life, Byers,” Richie purred, his voice low and conspiratorial. He didn't move an inch. “Just like variety in companionship. You shouldn’t limit yourself to brooding intellectuals who haven’t admitted they’re bisexual since the first A-Team movie.”
Mike slammed his palm against the side of the Street Fighter machine. CLANG!
“Richie! We’re going to play Asteroids now,” Mike announced, his voice tight.
Richie didn't even turn around. He reached out and gently took the charcoal stick from Will's hand.
“Hold on, Mike. Will and I are having a deep artistic discussion about the inherent phallic symbolism of the space shuttle. You wouldn’t understand. You’re too busy suppressing the urge to kiss your best friend in front of the Ms. Pac-Man machine.”
Will choked on air. Richie then took the charcoal and, with a few expert strokes, drew a perfectly rendered, lewd addition to Dirken the Dragon’s armor.
“See, Will? Art should be challenging, vulgar, and slightly inappropriate. Just like me. Just like the feelings Mike is currently attempting to suffocate with sheer denial. I'm just helping you express the unsaid.”
Mike practically ripped the charcoal stick out of Richie’s hand. “That’s disgusting! And we’re leaving! Now!”
He grabbed Will’s arm and yanked him away, nearly tripping over a trash can in his haste.
As they stumbled out of the arcade, Richie gave them a theatrical wave. “Have fun discussing your feelings, boys! And Mike, try to remember: Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, it’s also the sound of gagging when trying to swallow!”
The Party, who had witnessed the entire interaction from the Tapper machine, erupted into laughter the second the Wheelers were out of sight.
“He is a goddamn menace,” Dustin wheezed, clutching his stomach.
Max adjusted her braid, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her face. “No, he’s a genius. Mike looked like a tea kettle about to blow a gasket. Will looked like he was having the time of his life.”
El, ever perceptive, nodded solemnly. “Richie is good. Loud, but good. Mike needs the push.”
Lucas shook his head, looking mildly scandalized. “I still can’t believe he told Mike his mom was so hairy, Bigfoot tried to trade his wife for her.”
Richie’s strategy quickly escalated from verbal assaults to strategic physical intimidation. His target was always Mike’s perception of his own public identity. The next weekend, the Party was at the Hawkins Community Pool—a place Mike had carefully avoided since he and Will had started dating, precisely because it was the public crucible of teenage angst and surveillance.
Mike and Will were sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling their feet in the water. Mike was wearing his most innocuous, preppy swim trunks. Will was wearing a pair of old, faded Baywatch-red shorts.
Richie, on the other hand, made a dramatic entrance. He wore a tiny, blindingly white Speedo (which he later confessed he stole from a mannequin) and enormous, reflective sunglasses.
He cannonballed into the pool right next to Will, splashing Mike dramatically.
“MIKEY! Look at me! I’m embracing the humidity! You should too, Will! You look like you’re about to sketch a landscape of your repressed emotions!” Richie yelled, treading water right next to Will.
Mike scowled. “Get away from us, Richie. You’re going to get reported for indecent exposure.”
“Nonsense! This is a fashion statement, Mike. It says, ‘I’m so confident in my sexuality, I can wear the fabric equivalent of dental floss in public.’ Something you should consider, actually.”
Richie then began a prolonged, highly theatrical attempt to flirt with Will in the middle of the pool, all while making sustained, provocative eye contact with Mike.
“Hey, Lost boy,” Richie purred, running a hand through his wet hair. “You know, if you spent less time drawing and more time swimming, you’d have a physique capable of destroying my cousin’s fragile ego. Have you ever considered a career in water sports? You look very... buoyant.”
He then started doing slow, exaggerated stretches, highlighting the unsettling physical resemblance to Mike, but with a level of self-assurance Mike lacked.
Mike couldn't take it anymore. He stood up, dripping water everywhere.
“We’re leaving, Will. I think I’m getting a chlorine rash,” Mike lied, his voice strangled.
Will, who had been completely enjoying Mike's public humiliation, just shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m good, Mike. I think I’ll stay. Richie was just about to tell me about his audition for the local community theatre’s production of Grease.”
“I’m trying out for Rizzo, Will! Because I embody the spirit of sexual frustration and chain-smoking!” Richie announced, splashing water at Mike’s retreating back.
Mike practically ran out of the pool area, his jealousy a physical, agonizing force. He hated that Will was laughing. He hated that Richie was so effortlessly loud about everything Mike kept bottled up.
The situation peaked that night when Richie invited himself to the party's weekly sleepover. Mike, unable to openly tell his visiting family member to get lost, was forced to share the legendary basement.
It was game night so Will, Dustin, and Lucas are gathered for a short campaign. Max and El joined shortly after pretending they're interested and wants to spend more time with them, which was clearly a pretext to witness the carnage. On days like this, Mike and Will usually shared a secret, late-night moment in the comfort of Mike's room after everyone is sound asleep. They still can, Mike thought. Richie won't be awake forever and once they're all asleep, he and his boyfriend can tiptoe their way to his room and then he can do whatever he wants.
Tonight, Richie had secured a spot right in the middle of the carpet.
“Okay, so since we’re having a cozy gathering,” Richie declared, pulling a dusty, ancient flannel blanket out of his duffel bag, “we need to discuss the proper geometry of a sleepover. Mike, you sleep on the far end, with your repressed feelings. Dustin, you can sleep near the table. Will, however…”
Richie paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, his eyes sparkling behind the glass.
“Will, you need to sleep right here, next to me. I need someone to tell me if I start grinding my teeth, and Mike’s jaw is already clenched shut from all the denial. You have a kinder face, Lost Boy. You look like you’d appreciate the vulnerability of a good nightmare.”
Mike exploded internally. “Will is not sleeping next to you! He always sleeps closer to m—the stereo! He likes the ambient noise!”
Richie raised an eyebrow and draped the flannel blanket dramatically over Will’s shoulders. “The stereo? Mike, you truly are a poet of avoidance. Don’t worry, Will. I’ll be your emotional stereo. I’ll whisper all my deepest, filthiest insecurities directly into your ear until you fall asleep.”
Will, his eyes darting to Mike’s tortured face, settled down next to Richie. “That sounds… nice, Richie.”
Mike was practically vibrating with fury. He ended up choosing the spot furthest away, right under the laundry chute, where he spent the rest of the evening staring venomously at the back of Richie’s head.
The friends watched the spectacle, using elaborate, exaggerated hand signals to communicate their amusement. Dustin silently mouthed, "He's losing it!" Max responded with a thumbs-up and a dramatic sip of her soda.
Richie didn't stop the campaign even after the lights went out.
“Hey, Will?” came Richie’s loud whisper from the middle of the darkness.
“Yeah, Richie?”
“Do you think Mike would get mad if I told you a really lewd joke about his mom and a spatula?”
A strangled noise came from the laundry chute corner.
“Probably,” Will whispered, giggling slightly.
“Good,” Richie said, his voice dropping slightly, closer to Will's ear. “Because I have a truly disgusting one about the anatomical impossibility of dating someone who refuses to acknowledge you in public. Wanna hear it?”
Will didn't reply, but Mike heard the soft intake of breath. The low, private murmur between the two of them lasted for what felt like hours, punctuated only by Will’s quiet laughter and Mike’s grinding teeth.
Mike didn't get any sleep. He spent the entire night wrestling with the realization that he was willing to let Richie physically intimidate him into the corner of his own basement, just to avoid having to admit his relationship to the people who mattered most for him and Will.
The next day, Mike called an emergency Party meeting at Family Video, needing to vent to anyone who wasn't currently being aggressively flirted with by his cousin.
He found Steve and Robin behind the counter, discussing the merits of a new foreign film import.
“I need help,” Mike whispered, leaning dramatically over the counter. “Richie is trying to seduce Will.”
Robin didn't look up from stacking VHS tapes. “Oh, you noticed? We took bets yesterday. I said a week, Max said three days. We were both wrong. He started within the first five minutes.”
“You bet on my emotional distress?” Mike exclaimed.
“Of course, we did, Mike! It’s the most exciting thing to happen in Hawkins since the last time the government tried to open a portal to Hell,” Robin said. “And frankly, it’s necessary. You treat Will like a perfectly balanced, vintage collectible that you have to keep under lock and key. Richie treats him like the gorgeous, messy, complicated human that he is, and he’s doing it loudly. It’s performance art.”
Steve, who had been listening with an air of detached parental concern, chimed in. “Look, Mike, I get it. I hate the guy. He calls me ‘Mom’ and asks if I've checked the expiration date on my hair gel. But he’s got a point. You guys are going to NYU together. You’re talking about shared dorm rooms. What’s the end goal of the secrecy?”
“The end goal is that I’m not ready yet!” Mike hissed. “It’s one thing to know I love Will. It’s another to let the entire world, and especially my parents, know that the Mike Wheeler is… is not straight. It’s huge!”
“It’s 1989, Mike,” Robin said, finally looking up with an expression of weary kindness. “It’s still hard, yes. But Will has been through literal hell, and the only thing he’s ever asked for is for you to be honest. If Richie Tozier, the living monument to vulgarity, is the catalyst, then so be it. Just use the chaos, Mike.”
“But he’s flirting with him! He took him to get art supplies this morning!” Mike wailed.
“Oh, that’s great!” Robin grinned. “Richie has taste. Will needed new charcoal. He’s investing in your boyfriend’s career. What did you do this morning, Mike? Obsessively reorganize your X-Men comics?”
Mike deflated. “I alphabetized the Silver Age collection.”
“See?” Steve patted Mike’s shoulder awkwardly. “Richie’s winning the romantic battle because he’s actually doing stuff. Go, Mike. Go fight for your man. Just try not to get arrested for stalking, okay?”
Mike stormed out, resolving to intercept the Will/Richie ‘Art Supply’ date. He found them at the local art supply store, The Palette and Pen. It was a small, quiet place, usually Will’s sanctuary. Today, it was the stage for Richie's most aggressive performance yet.
Will was holding up a new set of vibrant oil pastels. Richie had his arm wrapped around Will's waist, ostensibly steadying him while they both examined the colors.
“Will, these yellows scream Joyful Discovery! Much like the look on your face when you realize you can do so much better than my repressed, sweater-vest-wearing cousin,” Richie whispered loudly.
“They’re for the light source on the portrait I’m doing of El,” Will replied, slightly breathless, trying to extract himself from Richie’s grasp.
“Speaking of light sources,” Richie said, pulling Will closer so their chests were almost touching. Will was laughing nervously, looking around. “I was thinking we could recreate that famous photo—the one where two bohemian artists are sharing a secret moment over a canvas? You know, for posterity. We could do it in the basement. Under the glare of the bare bulb. It'll be so meaningful.”
“Richie, stop,” Will giggled, pushing gently against Richie’s chest.
“I can’t stop, Will! The flirting is part of my creative process! I need the tension! I need Mike to burst through the door and declare his undying, very public love for you, thus validating my entire existence as a disruptive force!”
Mike, who had been hiding behind a towering stack of canvases, could not take another second. He launched himself forward.
“GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HIM, TOZIER!” Mike screamed, his voice echoing in the small, silent store.
Richie slowly turned, his enormous glasses catching the fluorescent light. He still had his arm wrapped around Will.
“Oh, look, Will! It’s the repressed intellectual! Did you get lost on the way to the library, Mike? You should know, Will and I were just discussing how much easier it is to hold a delicate pastel when you have a strong, guiding hand.”
“I am his strong, guiding hand!” Mike sputtered, pointing a trembling finger at Will. “I’m his boyfriend!”
The store owner, an elderly woman named Mrs. Peterson, peered over her counter.
Will sighed, the adrenaline rush wearing off. “Mike, indoor voice. And yes, you are my boyfriend. You can stop pointing.”
Richie slowly released Will, looking utterly delighted. “See, Mike? That wasn’t so hard, was it? You managed to say the quiet part out loud! Congratulations! I’m so proud I could vomit.”
“You did this on purpose!” Mike accused, pointing at Richie.
“Well, of course, I did, Mikey,” Richie said, pulling his glasses down to expose his intense, surprisingly sober eyes. “You’re dragging Will, the kindest, most emotionally honest person I know, into college while still treating your relationship like a dirty secret. Will deserves to be flaunted, Mike. And if you won’t do the flaunting, I certainly will. Now, help Will pay for these pastels before I try to kiss him in front of Mrs. Peterson.”
Mike was speechless. Richie had called his bluff and won. He grabbed Will’s hand, lacing their fingers together in a desperate, possessive grip. It wasn't exactly public, but it was a start.
The rest of the Party showed up at Mike’s house for a barbecue the next evening—without Richie. It was an orchestrated move, led by Max and Dustin, designed to hold Mike accountable.
The Founding Elders gathered around the kitchen table, watching Mike nervously grill hot dogs in the backyard.
“He’s pathetic,” Max stated, not looking up from her deck of cards.
“He’s getting better!” Will argued, quickly defending Mike. “He yelled that Richie was disgusting in the arcade. He screamed 'I'm his boyfriend' in the art store. Those are baby steps!”
“Baby steps are for people learning to walk, Will. Mike is a fully grown man who faced down a goddamn Mind Flayer and Vecna,” Dustin countered, adjusting his baseball cap. “He needs a giant, terrifying leap. He needs 'Operation: Grow Balls.'”
Lucas nodded firmly. “It’s for his own good. And honestly, this is the most fun we’ve had since El closed the Gate.”
El simply smiled, stirring her lemonade. “Mike is scared of being happy— so we fix it.”
They waited until Mike came inside with a tray of slightly burnt hot dogs, his face pale with anxiety.
“Where’s Richie?” Mike asked, looking around nervously.
“He went to the video store to look for a copy of Pretty in Pink so he can critique the repressed sexual tension,” Max lied seamlessly. “Don’t worry. He won’t be back for hours. Now, sit down, Mike. We need to talk about your life choices.”
Mike sat down slowly, sensing the trap.
Dustin started the intervention, his voice taking on the official cadence of a history professor. “Mike, we, the Founding Elders, have come to a consensus. You are in love with Will. Will is in love with you. It is the most beautiful, painfully obvious thing any of us have ever witnessed. You have faced literal monsters, Mike. Why are you letting the concept of 'public opinion' win?”
“It’s not public opinion! It’s my parents! It’s the concept of being out!” Mike pleaded, gesturing wildly. “It’s different for us, okay? This town—"
"This town has been decimated by interdimensional horrors, Mike," Lucas interrupted. "Nobody cares who you're kissing. And if they do, they can deal with it. We all know. We all love you. We are literally pretending not to notice that Richie is trying to steal Will just to force you to confront your own bullshit."
Mike stared at them, betrayal and astonishment washing over him. “You knew? The entire time? You were just watching me suffer?”
Max dealt herself a card. “It’s fun, Mike. You and Richie are essentially doing a live-action version of The Taming of the Shrew, but with much gayer subtext. And honestly, it’s working. You’ve been more expressive in the last three days than you have been since you were nine.”
Will reached across the table and put his hand over Mike’s, his touch grounding. “They’re right, Mike. And Richie is right too. I love that you’re doing great, but I don’t want to go to NYU and still have to hide my favorite person. If we’re going to be us, we have to be us everywhere.”
Mike looked at Will’s steady, honest eyes. He knew Will wasn't giving him an ultimatum, just stating the truth of their situation. The constant secrecy was starting to feel like another monster lurking just beneath the surface.
“What if Richie is right?” Mike whispered. “What if I’m never brave enough?”
“Then he’s taking Will back to Derry with him,” Dustin deadpanned. “And you’ll have to live with the knowledge that you lost the greatest person in the world because you couldn’t hold his hand in front of your dad.”
This was the final straw. The image of Richie Tozier, the absolute king of chaos and bad jokes, taking Will away was a pain Mike couldn't bear.
“Fine,” Mike said, standing up. He grabbed his keys. “Where is he now?”
“He said he was going to Family Video for Pretty in Pink,” Lucas said, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I need to talk to him. I need to yell at him for a solid hour. And then I need to do something loud and stupid to prove him wrong.”
Mike had always been a planner. You can count on one hand the very few times he had been impulsive and all of those times included one certain person who is now his boyfriend. He found Richie where Lucas said he would be: holding court at Family Video, loudly debating the merits of Molly Ringwald with a very weary Robin and a very exasperated Steve.
“Mikey! You made it!” Richie exclaimed, spotting his cousin in the aisle. “I was just telling Robin about the sociological implications of Duckie’s unrequited love. It's truly tragic. Much like the way you look when you realize Will is laughing at my jokes more than yours.”
Mike ignored the taunt. He walked straight up to Richie, his face set in a mask of grim determination.
“We need to talk. Now. Alone.”
Richie grinned, putting the VHS tape back on the shelf. “Ooh, a confrontation! Finally! I love a dramatic scene change. Lead the way, my repressed protagonist.”
They ended up behind the store, near the dumpsters, a setting Richie seemed perfectly comfortable with.
Mike didn't waste time. “Stop it, Richie. Stop flirting with Will. Stop treating him like a prize to be won. He’s my boyfriend. We’re going to college together. We’re serious.”
Richie leaned against the brick wall, crossing his arms and pushing his glasses up his nose. He dropped the persona instantly. He looked like Mike—intense, dark, and suddenly serious.
“I know you are, Mike. That’s the problem. You’re serious in private, and a ghost in public. You've been ‘serious’ for almost a year now, and the only person who hasn’t reaped the rewards of that seriousness is Will.”
“I’m doing my best! I have a lot of stuff—a lot of internalized things I’m working through!” Mike argued, desperation creeping into his voice.
“Oh, I know all about internalized things, Mikey,” Richie’s voice was low, and for the first time, Will’s name sounded less like a weapon and more like a point of profound understanding. “I lived in Derry. I know what it’s like to feel like a monster and hide what you are because you’re terrified of what the town—or your family—will do to you. I get it. I’ve been there. I built a career out of being loud so I didn't have to be honest.”
He looked Mike directly in the eye. “But Will Byers is not your closet. Will Byers is not a secret to be protected. He is a person who has endured more trauma than anyone his age deserves. He faced down the Mind Flayer. He faced down Vecna. He deserves a boyfriend who is proud to stand next to him.”
Richie took a step closer, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “I like Will. I like him because he sees the truth in the chaos—he sees the scared kid beneath the jokes. He’s brave. You’re brave for loving him. Now be brave enough to show him. If you’re scared of the consequences, Mike, fine. But don't punish Will by making him complicit in your secrecy.”
Mike felt the force of the argument hit him like a physical blow. He realized that the relentless flirting wasn't about stealing Will; it was about exposing Mike’s own fear and shame. Richie wasn't a rival; he was a mirror, reflecting Mike's worst hangups back at him through a vulgar lens.
“I’m terrified of my dad,” Mike admitted, the words tasting like ash. “He’s… he’s a traditional guy.”
“Your dad,” Richie scoffed, immediately returning to his persona, “thinks excitement is finding a new brand of mayonnaise. You think he’s going to stop loving his successful, college-bound son because he’s dating the talented artist? Give me a break! He’ll be too busy alphabetizing his tie collection to care.”
Richie clapped Mike on the shoulder, a solid, non-flirtatious touch. “Look, Mikey. I came here because my mom was convinced I was going to ruin her summer vacation in Maine. I saw you and Will dancing around this thing, and I decided to be useful for once in my life. I’m leaving tomorrow. You have one night to decide if you want Will Byers—all of him, in public and in private—or if you want to keep collecting comic books under the fluorescent light of your fear. Because if you don’t step up, I will, even if it means going to college and stealing your spot at NYU.”
He grinned, the trashmouth fully back. “And honestly, Will already told me he prefers a firm brush, so the competition is stiff.”
Mike didn't know whether to punch him or hug him. He just nodded, his throat tight. “I got it. Thanks, Richie.”
“Don’t thank me! It was deeply uncomfortable and emotionally scarring! Now go be loud, Wheeler! You’re good at it when you’re not thinking!”
It was a good talk, sure, but it was hella awkward since they have to walk the same way home. Mike walked back into the kitchen, his heart pounding. The friends were still gathered around the table, pretending to be utterly engaged in a game of Pictionary.
“Mike! Did you and Richie settle your differences over the proper use of profanity?” Dustin asked innocently.
Mike ignored him. He looked straight at Will, who had stood up, his face a mixture of hope and anxiety.
Mike took a deep breath. Richie was right. He needed to be loud and stupid. He needed to do something that couldn't be ignored or walked back.
He grabbed the nearest available object—a bottle of mustard—and jumped up onto the kitchen table.
“EVERYONE! LISTEN UP!” Mike yelled, his voice echoing off the ceramic tile.
The entire Party froze. Even the Pictionary game stopped.
Mike took another shuddering breath, his eyes locked on Will’s.
“I’m in love with Will Byers! I’m taking him to college! I’m going to marry him one day, probably when we’re forty and I’ve figured out how to buy him a decent house!”
Mike was shaking, but the words were out, loud and undeniable. He didn't look at the back door, terrified that his mother might walk in. He looked only at Will.
Will’s face cracked into the biggest, brightest, most beautiful smile Mike had ever seen.
Mike continued, gesturing wildly with the mustard bottle. “And for the record, we are dating. We are in a relationship. And if anyone, especially you, Richie Tozier, tries to flirt with him again, I will personally mail a package of very moldy bread to Derry, and ensure it ends up in your bed!”
The mustard bottle slipped from his grasp and landed with a wet thwack on the floor, splattering yellow goo everywhere.
Silence. Then, Lucas burst out laughing, followed instantly by Dustin. Max let out a whoop of triumph and high-fived El.
Will, tears welling up in his eyes, jumped up onto the table too, careful to avoid the mustard slick. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed Mike's face and kissed him—a long, deep, undeniable kiss right in the middle of the Wheeler kitchen.
As they finally broke apart, breathless, Dustin pointed a shaking finger at Mike. “See, Mike? That’s what we call The Grand Romantic Gesture. And it only took your cousin threatening to steal your boyfriend to achieve it.”
From the back porch, a theatrical voice boomed. Richie, who had clearly been lurking, stepped into the light.
“It’s about time, Mikey! That was almost as compelling as my set in Bangor! Solid delivery, excellent prop work with the condiment! Although, I still think a really good mom joke would have been punchier.”
Richie winked at Will. “Looks like you’re stuck with the moody intellectual, Lost boy. Too bad. You were fun to corrupt.”
Will slid off the table and walked straight over to Richie. He hugged him fiercely. “Thank you, Richie. Really.”
Richie patted Will’s back awkwardly. “Don’t thank me. I just hate secrets. They leave room for clowns.” He then looked over at Mike, who was still standing on the table, covered in mustard, but radiating pure relief.
“Hey, Mike! Your boyfriend is so grateful, he gave me a hug! Did you see that, Mike? I touched him! You better lock that down in New York, or I’m stealing him for my improv troupe!”
Mike hopped off the table, striding over to Will and pulling him into a possessive embrace. “He’s mine, Tozier. Go back to Derry and leave my love life alone.”
Richie grinned, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine! I see when I’m not needed! My work here is done! I’ve successfully deployed the Tozier Calculus: two parts chaos, one part lewdness, and a whole lot of repressed rage equals public honesty! You owe me a large pizza, Mike! And Will, I’ll mail you some clean flannel! You’ll need it for the cold, cruel world of public hand-holding!”
He gave one final, dramatic wave to the assembled, laughing Party, and strode out the back door, presumably to drive the Puke-a-Vomit Rocket back to Maine.
Mike looked down at the mustard stain on the floor, then at Will, who was looking up at him with utter adoration. He was covered in mustard, he was embarrassed, and he was terrified of his parents finding out—but he was holding Will Byers’ hand, and everyone knew it.
“Well,” Mike sighed, leaning down and kissing Will’s forehead. “I guess we have to clean this up.”
“I’ll help,” Will whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’m really good at cleaning up messes.”
“I know,” Mike said, finally and freely. “That’s why I love you.”
The summer of 1989 officially became the summer Mike Wheeler chose chaos, and finally found clarity.