Chapter Text
Mom calls is making the best of things, which is her way of pretending Hawkins hasn’t been slowly falling apart since the government rolled in with their vans, their clipboards, their fake smiles and reassurances. The signs are subtle if you don't know where to look. Fresh asphalt where the ground had split. New fences around places no one wants to remember. People talk quieter now, like the town might hear them.
Quarantine rules go up on the fridge in Mom’s handwriting, blue marker, all caps, like that makes it more official. It starts with NO UNNECESSARY TRIPS, CHECK-INS TWICE A DAY- once in the morning and once at dinner, FRONT DOOR LOCKED BY NINE. She underlines that one, even though everyone in this house knows doors haven’t meant much in years.
The house feels smaller, even though nothing’s changed. Same walls. Same couch. Same spot on the carpet where Will used to sit, crossed-legged with his crayons, tongue caught between his teeth. I notice that kind of thing more than I want to. It’s probably just a habit. Someone has to keep track.
Will and Jonathan move in on a Tuesday.
It’s weird how fast it happens. One day, the house is still ours, and the next, mom is standing in the doorway wringing her hands, saying things like “It’s just safer this way,” and “We have the space,” and “Of course they can stay.” Not much to my dad's amusement.
Mom says it anyway, she says it like it’s obvious… why wouldn’t they stay with us?
Will and Jonathan are standing just outside the door when my mom invites them inside. Jonathan’s got a box balanced on his hip. Will sluggishly steps inside slower, as if he were anxious and bracing for something. Like he’s not sure he’s actually welcome.
I hadn’t talked to Will much since California, since our adventure back to Hawkins. There was an unspoken tension between us. Neither of us seems willing to be the one to touch it.
His back, facing the backlit archway, highlighted his silhouette for a second. He doesn’t look like the kid I remember. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed before. He had broad shoulders, fuller muscles, almost Jonathan's height now. I watched him set down his bags. My mom interjects in my thoughts when she decides the sleeping arrangements.
“Will can take your room,” she says, already nodding to herself as the matter’s settled. “You boys are used to sharing space.” I open my mouth to argue, mostly out of reflex.
She adds on, gentler, “You don’t mind, do you, Michael?”
I look at Will, who is already looking at me. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, his shoulder hunched like he’s trying to take up less space than he already does. His eyes flicker to the couch in the living room, then meet mine again.
Will speaks up, “Ms. Wheeler, I can take the couch. It’s really no problem, I don’t-”
Before he can finish his sentence, I hear my voice tumbling out of my mouth without realizing, “I don’t mind.”
It’s true. I don't. Mind that is.
Jonathan insists on the couch. Mom offers him the guest room at least three times, but he just shakes his head, muttering something about not wanting to be in the way. Nancy says nothing, which I notice. I always notice.
Will sleeps in my room, like the countless times before when we were kids. My mom changes the sheets and apologizes like it’s some huge inconvenience, but Will just shakes his head and says, “It’s fine,” the way he always does, like he’s grateful for scraps. I hate it. He deserves so much and doesn’t realize it.
My room smells different with him in it. Not bad. Just, not mine anymore. There’s something sharper in the air, like graphite. He sets his belongings down on my desk, careful to stack them neatly, like he’s afraid it’ll offend my posters or something.
He picks up his sketchbook and pencil. Almost unanimously, we decide to go back downstairs with everyone else. To avoid uncomfortable silence. It feels easier than just standing here.
Will draws constantly. At the table. On the couch. Sometimes I catch myself watching him instead of the TV, the way his pencil moves without hesitation, like his hand already knows where it's going before he does.
This time he’s in the living room, hunched over the coffee table with his sketchbook. He’s been there for a while. I know because I’ve walked past twice already, pretending I forgot something. He doesn’t look up either time.
He hums sometimes when he draws. Not loud. Just enough that I notice.
He’s quieter than usual. Will has always been quiet, but this is different. It’s like he’s only halfway here. Like if I blink too long, he might disappear.
He freezes for no apparent reason. Just stares off into space, eyes unfocused, pencil hovering uselessly over the page. When that happens, I say his name. “Will.”
He blinks, like he’s surfacing from deep water. Smiles, small and apologetic. “Sorry,” he says, though he did nothing wrong. I want to ask him what he's thinking about. I don't.
Instead, I make dumb jokes. I complain about the rules. I challenge him to stupid competitions- who can hold their breath longer, who can eat cereal faster without milk. He laughs sometimes, real laughs, and for a second, everything feels almost normal.
I miss how it used to be.
“Hey,” I say eventually. It comes out rougher than I meant.
He startles a little, then relaxes when he sees it’s me. “Hey.”
He scoots his pencil to the side, like he might close the sketchbook, then doesn’t. His foot hooks around the table leg, grounding himself. I recognize that move, I do it too sometimes, when I don’t want to drift.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
He shrugs, “Just stuff.”
That’s Will for you. He never says nothing, there’s always something. He just doesn’t hand it over unless he knows it’s safe.
I lean against the back of the couch instead of sitting down. The springs are messed up on one side anyway. “Mom said dinner’s in like, an hour. Or forty minutes. Or– something like that.”
Will nods, as if this information is extremely important. “Ok.”
We stand there in it. The quiet doesn’t feel empty exactly. More like… unfinished. I clear my throat. “So. Uh. You’ve been drawing a lot.”
“Yeah.” He flips the page without looking at it, then flips it back. “It helps.”
“With what?”
He thinks about it. Long enough that I almost tell him never mind. “Sleeping,” he says finally. “And not.. You know.”
“Yeah,” I respond, even though I’m not sure I do.
There’s a storm coming. You can feel it in the air, the way everything seems like it’s bracing. The radio on the counter crackles and goes quiet again. I watch Will’s shoulders tense at the sound, just for a second.
“Power’s been weird all week,” I say, because that’s easier than saying are you ok.
He nods. “I know.”
I glance at his sketchbook again. One corner of a page is bent, like it’s been opened and closed too many times. “You gonna show me?”
Will hesitates. His fingers tighten on the edge of the paper. Then he shifts the book toward me, not quite all the way. An offering. A test.
“Don’t laugh,” he says.
“I won’t.” The promise is automatic. It feels like something I’ve said before. Something I’ll say again.
It’s not a monster. Not this time. It’s a house. Not ours, exactly, but close enough that my chest does something stupid. There are intricate details: windows, a bike in the yard, the porch steps drawn uneven like he kept fixing them.
“That’s-” I stop myself. “That’s really good.”
Will ducks his head. “It’s not done.”
“Still.”
Outside, thunder rolls, distant but getting closer. Will’s pencil taps once against the paper, then stills.
“If the power goes out,” I say, “We’ve got flashlights. And the Walkie-talkies still work. I checked.”
He looks up at me then. Really looks. “You did?”
“Yeah. I mean. Someone should.”
A small smile ghosts across his face, gone almost as soon as it appears. He nods and turns back to the page, pencil moving again.
I stay where I am. I tell myself it’s just until the storm hits. Just until Mom calls us for dinner. Just until.
Outside, the first drops of rain hit the windows, sharp and sudden, like the night’s knocking.
Will and I had just finished washing the dinner dishes when we headed up to my room.
The first night had a tension in the air. Will stands in the doorway, seemingly unaware of what to do with himself, as if waiting for instructions. I plop myself down on my bed, my hands on my knees, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. I look around, and silence stretches between us thick and uncomfortable. My eyes land on Will. He’s looking at the posters on my walls, observing everything.
“So…” I say.
Will chuckles awkwardly. “So”
I look behind me at my bed. My head still turned away, I say, “We can sleep here.” I turn back to face him. His expression was unreadable. Jokingly, I say, “What side do you want?”
I stand up when Will steps closer. “Where do you normally sleep? I’ll take whatever side.”
“Uh oh, ok,” I mumble. I sit back down on the bed, on my usual side. Near my bedside table. Will climbs in on the other side of me, the wall side.
I tell myself it’s not awkward. We’ve shared rooms before, basements, tents, sleeping bags on cold concrete floors. This is nothing.
Still, my room feels smaller.
The first night, we lie there in silence, both of us staring at the ceiling.
Will turns onto his side, facing the wall. I can hear his breathing, shallow at first, then uneven.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep.
I woke up around two a.m. to the sound of a door opening and closing softly. Footsteps, careful, like someone trying not to be caught. By the time I get up to peek into the hallway, the couch is empty. Nancy’s door is shut. Jonathan’s shoes are still by the front door.
I don’t say anything the next morning. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they just pretend not to. That seems to be the theme lately.
Days blur together after that.
Quarantine turns time into this weird, warped thing where everything feels both endless and too fast.