Richie wasn’t always annoying… well, actually, scratch that. He was always annoying. From the moment he opened his mouth, there was no escaping it. Around you, though, it was different. He thrived on pushing your buttons, on knowing exactly which words or gestures would make your eyes roll or your lips twitch into a begrudging smile. He knew you—inside and out. How could he not? You’d been best friends since first grade, and now, somehow, it was eighth grade, and Richie was still the same chaotic whirlwind, the same loud, unpredictable, infuriating, lovable mess.

Annoying. That was the word. But also… somehow, impossibly, adorable. You knew him so well that you knew exactly how to make him blush, how to twist his words into stammered, scrambled sentences until he couldn’t even finish a thought without a nervous laugh.

And right now, in front of all his friends—every single member of the Losers’ Club—you had that power. You tilted your head, a small smirk playing on your lips, and asked the question that you knew would unravel him.

“What!?” Richie sputtered, nearly tripping over his own words. “Of course I don’t—uh, I-I like guys! Girls are… girls are super cute and… pretty and… uh—uh… nice! Yeah!” He threw his hands up helplessly, cheeks flaming a bright red, his usual confidence nowhere to be found as you grinned, fully aware of the chaos you’d just unleashed.