Chapter Text
The spoon slips from Will’s fingers and clinks against the cereal bowl. The sound is loud on this November morning at the Wheelers' dining table, and Will startles like he’s just woken up.
“Sorry,” he mutters, using his sleeve to wipe the spilled milk from the always spotless table.
From the living room comes the rustle of Mr. Wheeler’s newspaper – it’s quick and sharp like a warning. He’s been looking for reasons to kick both Will and Jonathan out of the house, and disturbing his sacred morning ritual of sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and reading the news, probably doesn’t help Will’s case much.
Holly drops her own spoon into her cereal and giggles at the splash. She and Mrs. Wheeler are up early as usual, and Will likes this time best – when it’s just the three of them in the kitchen.
“You look tired, sweetheart,” Mrs. Wheeler says, her voice floating over the clatter Holly is producing with her spoon. She slips a lunch bag into Holly’s backpack. “Not sleeping well?”
Will fishes his own spoon out of his bowl. “No, I’m fine.”
She smiles and her lipstick is perfect even at this hour. “I know the basement gets cold in the winter, so don’t be shy with the heater, okay?”
The truth is, the heater’s already on full blast every night and Will does feel pretty shitty about not just staying at the Wheelers’ house for free but also sabotaging their electricity bill.
The guilt, however, is not as strong as his fear of the cold.
There is only one thing stronger than that, and that is –
“Or you could ask Mike to share his room during the winter. It’s much warmer on the second floor.”
There’s a cough and another rustle of newspaper coming from the living room, followed by a low grumble that neither Will nor Mrs. Wheeler catches.
“What was that, honey?” she calls, though her face says she’s pretty sure whatever her husband’s about to say is bullshit anyway. She has a way of making him seem less scary than he’d like to be perceived.
“Grown boys shouldn’t sleep in the same room,” Mr. Wheeler repeats, louder this time. And even though Mrs. Wheeler rolls her eyes, it sends a chill down Will’s spine.
“I’ve got to get Holly to school,” she says and squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
When she leaves with Holly, the quiet folds again, broken only by the occasional turn of a newspaper page coming from the living room. Will sits with his spoon, hunched over the bowl, staring at the soggy flakes. A few minutes of peace.
That’s when the stairs creak.
He doesn’t look up right away, just stirs the milk around his cereal, pretending he doesn’t know the pattern of Mike Wheeler’s footsteps by heart.
“Mom, have you seen –“
Mike stops in the doorway. His hair’s a mess, as if he’s just woken up. It’s shorter than last year, but his curls still fall over his ears. His shirt rides up at one hip, like he just threw it on and hasn’t tugged it into place yet. When he spots Will at the table, his posture stiffens.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Morning,” Will mutters. For the millionth time he wonders if he should just eat in the basement – or avoid the shared rooms altogether. Anything to spare both Mike and himself the awkward reminder that they’re not close anymore. His spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.
Mike crosses the room, eyes looking anywhere but him. He grabs his backpack from the corner, then drifts to the kitchenette to pour his own cereal. For a second, he hesitates, glancing toward one of the empty chairs across from Will.
Their eyes meet.
The air feels thick with how loud the silence is.
Do you wanna sit? The words push against Will’s throat, but he swallows them. There’s no point in asking. Instead, he just stares at the table and hopes his face gives nothing away. He’s done expecting things from Mike – he’s done enough of that for a lifetime.
Mike lingers, clearly uncomfortable. Which really doesn’t come as a surprise. Because despite what he told him last year, about working as a team, about being best friends again, they barely speak. Honestly, they grew apart even before Will moved away. It was stupid to think they could fix that.
“I’m, uh,” Mike says, awkwardly standing with the bowl in hand. “I’m gonna eat in my room. I’m kinda obsessed with this new comic book series, so ...”
Will wants to ask which one – if there even is one – but he stops himself. They’re way past personal questions.
“Cool,” he says instead, hoping to sound casual.
Mike lingers for half a second longer, like he might change his mind. He doesn’t. Will listens to his footsteps fading up the stairs until the house swallows the sound.
The heater by the window rattles quietly. Will leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He looks down at his lap and remembers sitting in this same dining chair years ago, with legs half as short, back when his feet didn’t reach the floor and he and Mike would scoot their seats across the floorboards, giggling whenever Mrs. Wheeler scolded them.
He remembers when sleeping at Mike’s house was the best feeling in the world: Filled with games and laughter, whispered secrets, and the occasional flicker of hope, that each day of their friendship would bring them closer together.
They used to daydream about one of them being adopted by the other’s mom, just so they could live in the same house.
Now, living with Mike is just sad.
It’s one thing to pour your entire heart into a dumb painting, try to confess to your best friend, fail miserably, and help him get back with his girlfriend instead. It’s a completely different thing, to then be forced to live under the same roof and realize you have nothing left to say to each other.
Most of all, it’s lonely.
With Max still in a coma, Lucas spending every afternoon at the hospital, Dustin hanging out almost exclusively with Steve and Robin, El training with Joyce and Hopper, and Jonathan busy fixing things with Nancy, there are not a lot of people to hang out with anymore.
They still eat lunch together at school, but it’s not the way it used to be.
There seem to be too many gaps in the conversations now – with the way they avoid talking about Max or Eddie. And there’s a silence for each sentence that would have been spoken between Mike and Will, if they were speaking.
“You two are ruining the party, you know that?” Dustin has snapped one time, when Mike refused to sit next to Will during movie night. It was one of the only times Will had ever seen Dustin angry. “There’s enough shit going on right now, and you’re making it so much worse. What did you guys even fight about?”
But the truth is, they never fought. They just stopped talking. Will couldn’t look at Mike that night, whose gaze was fixed on the TV, his brows furrowed, as he squeezed in between Lucas and El, even though the space on the couch beside Will was empty. “Just drop it,” he muttered, and Will saw the hurt flash across Dustin’s face before he turned away.
Lucas was – and still is – equally as frustrated. Sometimes he begs Will to forgive Mike for whatever he did.
But there’s nothing to forgive. Nothing to fix. Nothing to say.
There’s just nothing.
They were close once, now they’re not. Simple as that.
The basement smells faintly of dust and metal when Will climbs down that night. With the heater turned up so high, the pipes rattle and hum. He likes to sleep like this, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders and back pressed against the heater.
Over the past year, he’s made this space his own: The table’s shoved up against the radiator so he can paint and draw in the warmth, and the mattress pushed along the opposite wall. Jonathan’s couch stays mostly untouched – a pile of blankets and a half-empty mug from last month, because he usually sneaks up to sleep in Nancy’s room.
Novembers in Hawkins were always rough, but now with the gates still open and cracks splitting through the streets, something about the air feels wrong. Even the summer was chilly, almost like the cold from the Upside Down is seeping through the cracks into their world.
The cold might actually be one of the few things Will remembers from the Upside Down.
Sometimes he dreams about it – no real pictures, just the cold and the dark. It’s a different kind of cold, almost like it’s alive. Like it moves and listens, it slides under doors and presses against his skin until he wakes up with a gasp, surprised he’s still breathing – his nightmares a constant reminder that this darkness is still inside him, somewhere.
Whenever it gets bad, he presses himself against the heater until the metal leaves red marks on his back. The sting feels like proof – that he’s still here, still in control of his body, and that there’s no dark force inside him, trying to cool down his body temperature.
We had to burn it out of you, his mother told him back in the fall of ’85 after the Mind Flayer. Heat weakens the connection.
And even though Will hates thinking about it, he knows Vecna’s still out there, regaining strength, waiting. Eventually, he will come back. Until then, there’s not much for him to do except stay wary and warm.
He curls up against the heater, presses his eyes shut and tells himself to stop being a coward. Vecna might come back at some point, but tonight is not the night. It’s supposed to be this cold outside – it’s just winter. Everyone’s freezing.
Above him, the house is silent. Somewhere far off, the wind whistles through a tree.
Down here, the hum of the heater is steady.
In the afternoons and on weekends, Will likes to stay out of the Wheelers’ house as much as possible, to lower the chance of running into Mike.
He bikes everywhere. To Hopper’s cabin, mostly, or the junkyard nearby that El’s claimed as her practice space. He was there the first time she floated. It gives him a thrill, seeing her defy gravity like that, doing things she shouldn’t be able to. It makes him feel like they have at least some control over the things the world keeps throwing at them.
Right now, she’s hovering about eight feet up, eyes closed, wind tugging at her wavy hair. When Will reaches out, his fingertips gently brush her ankle, careful not to break her focus. But she’s gotten so good that she just opens her eyes and smiles down at him without even wobbling.
“You’re amazing,” he says.
“I know, right?” she beams, winter sunlight catching her lashes.
By the time the sky turns purple, Will’s back on his bike, pedaling toward the Wheelers’ place, going faster near the forest. He hates the way the shadows shift between the trees after sunset. It almost feels like the forest remembers him.
Even before he reaches the driveway, he knows something’s wrong. The house is dark. Except for a flicker, too subtle to tell where it’s coming from. The motion light in the driveway doesn’t turn on.
Will drops his bike onto the lawn, his breath quickening as he stands in front of the door. His chest feels tight. He hesitates a second, then pushes it open.
“Hello?”
A warm orange flicker glows from the living room. Voices – hushed and low. Will exhales, relieved, and lines up his shoes neatly in the rack before stepping in.
But something is off. The whole Wheeler family plus Jonathan are gathered around the coffee table. It’s unusually dark, the only light coming from several candles, casting shadows across the walls.
Will reaches for the light switch. Nothing happens.
“Will!” Jonathan’s already on his feet, gripping his arm. “Hey. Good you’re home. The power’s out, we’re trying to reach–“
“Uh-huh.” Ted Wheeler is holding a walkie like it’s a foreign object. It’s weird seeing him with something Will so strongly associates with his friends. “You’re telling me there’s nothing to be done?”
A burst of static, then a tired, mechanical voice, sounding like it’s explained this a million times already: “Sorry, sir. It’s not just your house, whole grid’s down. We’re doing our best. Until then, please use candles and blankets to stay warm.”
Mr. Wheeler mutters something inaudible, before clumsily pushing the antenna back in and handing the walkie back to Mike, who’s silently sitting beside him. In the dim candlelight, Will can’t help but notice some similarities in their features, the same frown plastered between their eyebrows. He wonders if Mike too will become like his dad one day.
“No lights tonight?” Holly asks excitedly.
“No, honey. But it’s okay – we’ll make it cozy with candles.” Mrs. Wheeler hands her a flashlight. “Why don’t you go upstairs, and I’ll tuck you in in a minute? Be careful with the stairs!”
Holly scurries off, the flashlight beam bouncing. Ted Wheeler sits on the couch and stares at the dark TV screen, like if he’s looking hard enough, it might turn back on. Nancy is rummaging through drawers for more candles.
“The heaters,” Will suddenly remembers.
“Aren’t working,” Jonathan confirms. “But it’ll be alright. We’ve got blankets.”
“You boys.” Mrs. Wheeler looks between Jonathan and Will. “I know the basement gets cold even with the heating working. Jonathan, you can take the couch, and Will, maybe you could share with Mike –”
“No,” Will says quickly, because he’d rather say it before Mr. Wheeler – or worse – Mike says it. His eyes briefly meet Mike’s across the room, his expression unreadable, brows still furrowed. Will clears his throat. “Uh, no thank you. It’ll be fine.”
“But if it gets too cold –“
“We’ll let you know.”
The night unfolds in flickers and shadows. Candles, cold leftovers, the soft clatter of dishes under freezing water. Nancy and Mike light the fireplace. It takes a while for the room temperature to rise.
Ted Wheeler turns on the battery radio, flipping through channels in hopes for an update.
“We reached out to Roane County Water and Electric,” a woman’s voice says through static. “A spokesperson says that the reason for the outage is still unknown.”
Mr. Wheeler grunts and switches stations to settle for some music, but every time a good song comes on, he changes the frequency. Will and Jonathan exchange a pained look and an eye roll.
“Hey,” Jonathan whispers, kneeling beside Will on the carpet, while Mr. Wheeler is holding the radio to his ear to make out the words on a static-filled channel. “I was thinking. Do you want me to sleep downstairs with you tonight?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You sure? You’ll ask for help, when you need it, right? Please tell me you will.” He squeezes Will’s shoulder. “I know you aren’t on good terms, but I’m sure Mike would be fine with you sleeping in his room, if you’d ask.”
Will hesitates, before shaking his head.
“Will,” Jonathan’s voice softens, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want you to freeze to death just because you two are too stubborn to talk.”
It’s hard talking to Jonathan about this, because he was with them in Lenora. He caught his eye in the rearview mirror of that van, when his face was still wet with tears. He probably knows a lot more than he’d admit: about the painting, the failed confession, and how badly Will had screwed it all up.
“I won’t,” Will says. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s just one night. It’ll be fine.”
When he can’t delay it any longer, Will steps into the hallway to head down into the basement. Halfway out of the living room door, the sudden coldness of the house feels tangible – like crossing through an invisible wall.
Mike is sitting at the foot of the stairs, quietly talking into the walkie. A flashlight is stuck between his knees, casting a light against the opposite wall. Will is about to walk past him, when he hears Lucas’ voice through the speaker.
“– Emergency power should last a few days, then the generator needs refueling.”
Will freezes. Max. In a coma. In the hospital. Emergency power.
“I was so worried,” Lucas continues, his voice sounding shaky in a way Will’s never heard before. “I drove here as soon as the lights went out, I thought she’d–”
“I know, Lucas,” Mike says softly. “It’s okay. She’s gonna be okay.”
Mike’s voice is gentle in a way Will hasn’t heard in months. He looks up, catching Will’s eyes, and Will realizes he’s just standing there, listening in on a conversation he’s not a part of. He could be – if Mike and him were on good terms. He’d be able to just slip in the space next to him on the stairs and grab the walkie, offer comfort to their shared friend.
Maybe Dustin is right – they are ruining the party.
Will averts his eyes, and quickly walks past Mike to head down to the basement.
Despite what he told Jonathan, it is, in fact, not fine.
Downstairs, the cold hits like a memory.
Even on the stairs, Will can feel it creeping through his layers of clothing. He reaches for the light switch out of habit. By the time he lights the first candle, his hands shake so badly the flame dies out. He curses under his breath and tries again.
He’s always hated candlelight. Too much flickering, too many shadows.
It’s just a blackout. It’s fine. It’s just winter. It’s supposed to be this cold with no heating.
Will gets another sweater from the drawer to layer over the one he’s already wearing, before crouching down on the mattress. He checks the heater – dead, of course. Then he slips under the blanket that’s so cold it almost feels wet, and grabs the walkie, like he wanted to, all evening. She’s probably in bed by now. “El?”
There’s static. Then: “Will?”
Relief floods through him. “Thank god. You okay?”
“Not really,” she says and Will can hear her turn around, a shuffling like the sound of her turning against her pillow. “Mom and I missed our favorite show because the TV’s not working.”
Will laughs and he swears he can see his breath in the cold air. “Shit.”
“What about you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you lying?”
Will tries to keep his teeth from chattering. She’s too good at reading him. “Maybe. I don’t know, I’m just … tense. Do you think – could he be causing this?”
There’s a silence. El never just answers a question carelessly, she always thinks it through. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “Can you feel him?”
“No, not really. It’s hard to tell. Just – it’s so cold, it reminds me of …“
“I know,” she whispers.
“I guess I’m just worried. I mean, what if he’s looking for me? To take me back?”
“Oh, Will.” Her voice is soft and warm. “I won’t let that happen. Ever. Should I come over? Or do you want to sleep here? We can share my bed?”
“No, no.” The thought of El waking up Joyce and Hopper in the middle of the night to come get him makes his skin crawl. His mother has worried about him enough for a whole lifetime. “It’s okay. I just … wanted to hear your voice.”
Even in the silence Will knows she’s smiling.
“It’s good you’re sharing the basement with Jonathan,” she states, her voice now more like a hum, the way she sometimes sounds overly positive in an attempt to make other people feel better. It’s something very motherly – she probably picked it up from their mother. “You’re not alone. If anything happens, Jonathan can call us.”
Will opens his mouth to say something but stops himself. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets himself be deluded for a second. El doesn’t have to know the truth. In fact, it’s better that way. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.”
When they say their goodnights and the channel goes quiet, Will curls up under his blanket, tucking his hands between his knees, trying to let the softness and warmth of El’s voice linger in the air. He pulls the blanket up into his face, so his warm breath radiates from the fabric right back to his skin.
But even tucked into the blanket, he’s shaking. His hands and feet sting from the cold. And he realizes this is stupid. So so so stupid.
He imagines tomorrow’s newspaper. He might even make it the front page.
Boy who came back from the dead – also known as Zombie Boy – freezes to death because he couldn’t ask his former best friend to share rooms with him.
The candlelight flickers. Will presses his eyes shut, so he doesn’t have to see the shadows ghosting over the walls and furniture.
Focus, he tells himself. It’s just a blackout. Nothing unusual. It happens in every town, in every part of the world. Yes, it’s cold, but it’s not gonna kill you. And no, the cold doesn’t mean Vecna’s lurking outside the house, it’s literally the end of November.
Maybe – if he waits long enough for Ted Wheeler to go to bed – he can sleep on the couch. But he usually stays in the living room until two or three AM, spending half the night sleeping in his La-Z-Boy. Maybe Will could share with Nancy and Jonathan, but knowing Nancy, she’d bang on Mike’s door and force both boys to get a grip and share the freaking room.
A body as cold as Will’s would make the perfect vessel.
The thought slips into his mind, and before he can shake it, it makes itself comfortable. It’s true, isn’t it? The Mind Flayer loves the cold, it’s where it thrives. It needs a cooled down host – that’s why Billy almost melted under the sun, that’s why Will refused to take a hot bath when he was possessed.
If Will falls asleep, he’s leaving his body unprotected: a cold, empty vessel, inviting and helpless. It must be so easy to take over his body. Nobody is here to witness it. And there’s no way he could fight it off.
Is it really irrational to think that way? Who’s to say it wouldn’t find him again? Vecna is alive and waiting, lurking – they know he is. Maybe he’s already outside the house, waiting for him to fall asleep. It would be easy. Would Will even notice? Would anyone?
He shouldn’t have refused Mrs. Wheeler’s suggestion of sharing Mike’s room so quickly. But even if Mr. Wheeler would allow it – would Mike?
He could say no.
Like he had at every single attempt Will had made to spend time with him this year. Mike is always – busy. Not in the mood. Avoidant. “Sorry, I’m really tired,” used to be his excuse, back when Will still asked him to hang out. He hasn’t for months now. It’s pointless.
His clothes and body feel too cold to preserve warmth under the covers. It feels endless. Incurable.
And it feels familiar. Like a coldness he once knew but forgot. A place that’s dark and icy. Castle Byers and a young boy, shivering on the ground, waiting to be found. A screeching from far away. And the thuds, like giant feet, stepping on dry roots. Not so far away. Coming closer. Sniffing him out. They’re almost here. He’s almost gone.
Will jolts awake. There’s a sound, like a banging.
Sitting up, he looks through the room, disoriented, trying to identify where the sound came from. Has the flicker of the candlelight gotten stronger? His body is tense, his shoulders pulled up towards his ears. He doesn’t know what time it is.
Then, another bang. Or more like a knock. Coming from up the stairs.
Will doesn’t want to leave his blanket, so he takes it with him, holding it over his shoulders like a cape, as the steps creak under his feet. He reaches for the doorknob and hesitates. Vecna wouldn’t knock, would he?
Will opens the door.
Mike’s holding a lantern in his hand and it’s casting his face in gold and shadow, making his eyes look like black orbs.
“Sorry,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” Will doesn’t know when lying became so easy. It used to be impossible for him to lie to Mike – but now the words just slip from his mouth, like the truth doesn’t mean anything anymore.
“Um,” Mike says, shifting. “Mom asked me to check on you.”
Of course she did. “I’m fine.”
“It’s freezing down here.”
Will straightens, forcing the shiver out of his voice and hopes his hands are not trembling where he’s holding the blanket over himself.
“I’m okay, Mike. I’ll manage. You can go.”
Mike’s eyes flicker over Will’s face, like he’s studying him. And it’s unfair, really. Because this past year, Will’s gotten away with it. With all the lies and excuses, saying he’s fine when he’s not, and Mike didn’t bother. So why does he have to examine him now, like he’s a puzzle he’s suddenly interested in solving again?
“I talked to El,” Mike says slowly. The shadows make his cheekbones appear even sharper in a way that makes Will’s stomach twist. “She said you’re … scared.”
Oh my god. Will’s chest burns. There it is, the all-too familiar pity. Mike is being pressured not only by his mom but also El to look after him.
“I’m not scared. I’m not a baby, Mike,” Will says, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“No, I know. But she said Jonathan is sleeping down here to keep you company.”
“Yeah, well. He is.” Will knows he’s being stupid now – Mike can see the empty couch from here – and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but for a second it looks like Mike’s rolling his eyes.
“You know I have ears, right? I can hear him sneak into Nancy’s room every single night. I’m literally next door.”
“Can you just go? I’m okay.”
“I don’t believe you. You just don’t wanna cause any trouble, or whatever.”
“No, Mike. I want to be alone. I don’t wanna talk to you, okay?”
If they were still close, Mike would be hurt now. But he doesn’t even flinch, he just stares, unmoving, brows furrowed.
“Fine.” He looks at the wall behind Will’s head. “You made it clear earlier that you don’t wanna sleep in my room. But I just wanted to come down here to say that you can, of course. It’s not exactly warm, but it’s better than this.”
The no already sits on Will’s tongue, when he realizes just how badly he wants to say yes. To accept the offer and release himself from the torture of being alone in a room that feels like everything he ever wanted to forget.
But there’s something about the way Mike’s face looks in the flickering light of the candle, the way his eyes are almost black now, that makes Will want to rather freeze to death, than spend a night with him alone in his bedroom.
“Thanks,” Will says stiffly. “But no.”
Mike stands there for another few seconds, like he’s waiting for him to change his mind. “Okay,” he says finally. He opens his mouth again to say more, but stops himself. He clears his throat. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Will says.
When Mike closes the door, the light disappears with him.
Will stands there, trembling and contemplating the decisions he’s made in his life.
So. Stupid.
He looks back to see the weak light of the candle he’s lit earlier. His body is so cold, he almost feels numb.
This is so freaking –
He curses under his breath, goes back to blow out the candle, before grabbing his pillow and blanket. He heads upstairs, flashlight in hand.
The house is dark and empty. It’s silent except for Ted Wheeler’s soft snoring from the living room.
Will closes the basement door as quietly as possible – he doesn’t want to imagine Mr. Wheeler’s reaction to seeing him sneak up into his son’s bedroom in the middle of the night. On quiet feet, muffled by two layers of socks, Will steps up the stairs.
He pauses at Mike’s door, clutching the blanket. The light of his flashlight shakes from how much his hand is trembling. Then he knocks. So quietly, he’s almost sure Mike’s gonna miss it. And if he does, Will’s not sure he could gather up the courage to knock again.
The door opens. Warm candlelight floods from inside the room. Mike’s eyes, dark and confused.
“I changed my mind,” Will says.
They stare at each other, and Mike’s expression is unreadable, like it has been for months. What happened to wearing your heart on your sleeve?
Mike steps aside.
He doesn’t realize how bad of an idea this was, until he closes the door behind himself and the room falls silent. Suddenly, it’s the exact scenario they’ve been avoiding for months.
A smaller version of Will would have daydreamed about being alone with Mike at night. He used to make up little fake scenarios until the early morning hours, to keep himself distracted from everything else that was going on.
Now he’s here, in Mike’s bedroom, freezing cold, and Mike stands next to his bed, awkwardly fumbling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. They haven’t had a real conversation in so long, it feels impossible to find words.
“Um.” Will considers going back down but there’s no way in hell he’s changing his mind again and making this even more awkward. “Do you still have that spare mattress? The one we used for sleepovers?”
He cringes at the last words – he didn’t mean to make it sound nostalgic. But Mike seems relieved over the given task. “Yeah, I’ll get it.”
While Mike pulls the second mattress from under his bed, Will looks around the room. Not a lot has changed since he’s last been in here – which is strange, because Mike has changed so much. The posters, the clutter, it all feels like an echo of a different life, a different Mike, and a different Will.
Will recognizes some of his old drawings on the walls, ones he made when he was twelve or thirteen. The newest painting he made for Mike – the one that always makes his face burn, whenever he thinks of it – is nowhere to be seen.
“This should work.”
“Thanks.”
Mike sits on his bed, as Will crouches down on the floor and puts his pillow on the mattress. It’s so quiet in the room. No buzzing from a lamp or radio. The electricity is drained from the wires and in this moment, Will swears it creates an unnatural silence.
He slips under the blanket and from the corner of his eye he can see Mike do the same. This is good – if they’re asleep, they don’t have to talk.
“Do you want the candle on or–“
“On, please,” Will says a little too quickly.
“Okay.”
Then it’s quiet again. Will has his blanket up to his chin and tugs his legs up against his chest, hugging himself to warm up. It’s still cold, but nothing like the basement. He tries not to shift too much, too aware of Mike being right there beside him, hearing every ruffle of the fabrics.
Neither of them say a word.
A minute passes. Then another.
“Well,” Mike says eventually and turns his back to Will. “Good night.”
Will looks at his back. “Good night,” he says quietly.
The house falls silent. The flame flickers, and shadows shift over the walls. And even though Will is still cold, the sound of Mike’s breathing beside him distracts him enough to not drift back into his fears. It’s a sound almost as familiar as his own breathing.
Will watches his back rise and fall, black hairs curling just below his ear. He tries to match his breathing to Mike’s.
He might not sleep much tonight. But he’ll sleep. He’ll make it through the night. Tomorrow the power will be back, and everything can go back to normal – or whatever counts as normal for them now. Mike can stop feeling obliged to care for him and Will can regain his dignity.
Eventually, sleep will come.