Chapter Text
Over the past year Chris had started a habit of going to bed early. And not 10pm early, but when the sun is still up early. When night hasn't fallen yet and the Wendigos are still asleep and shadows don't sprout milky eyes and clawed hands yet. And he never gets up before sunrise. Not by choice. Fear binds him to his once comfortable bed, paralysing him until the sun rays melt the anxiety off.
He calls it a habit, lacking a better word. Maybe it's a tick, like when people touch statues or count their steps or avoid black cats. Maybe it's paranoia, looking over your shoulder one too many times and eyes never stopping to check and double check.
Whatever it is, it's something he's gotten used to for better or worse and sticks with it. So 7:30pm sharp is when Chris goes to bed on that day, checking under the bed, checking in the wardrobe, the bed again and closing the curtains just enough not to be bothered by anything outside but light still seeping through it comfortingly.
He doesn't notice the phone ringing isn't in his dream at first. He has been dreaming about Ashley and Sam and two summers ago when the three of them had camped for a week by a lake. In reality, there had been three other people accompanying them.
If it weren't for the display lighting up Chris wouldn't have dared to expand his hand in the dark to reach for his phone. Not yet. In the blueish light he finds the switch for his bedside lamp, throws a nervous look under his bed and then answers the call.
“Christopher?”
The voice of a woman. Something out of a dream just like the pictures of the girls swimming in the lake still lingering behind his eyelids.
“Mrs Washington?” Chris asks, no doubt in his question.
“Yes. Yes, it’s me. I'm … I know we haven't had the chance to talk recently.”
After their return from the mountain, the Washingtons had made it their honorary mission to call or at least text each of the kids at least twice a week. But after a couple of months, Chris stopped picking up when he saw the screenname blink on his mobile phone, simply staring it down until it stopped. It made him sick, how much they cared about him. He didn't do anything to earn their concerned questions, their honest apologies, their updates about -
- “Josh.”
On the other line, he hears Mrs Washington draw a shaky breath. Her voice, as she speaks again, is weaker than before. Wretched. Exhausted.
“Yes. Christopher, it's … him. They found him, they found my son.”
He doesn't comfort her as she breaks into sobs, muffled through the phone. He stares right ahead at the blank wall without seeing. He sees him. A boy in a plaid shirt and an overall. All green eyes and sly smiles. Chris could easily un-imagine the dark bruises under those eyes and the cracks around the smile.
And as Mrs Washington finds her voice again, saying that they have found the boy in the mines and brought him to safety, Chris is up and putting on his clothes, regardless the time, regardless the darkness.
He silences the voice inside his head, the voice of paranoia and shame and guilt and anger with memories of Josh. He drowns it out with how his laugh sounds and how his face looks and it makes his heart hurt because he hasn't been able to do so without crumbling and falling apart in panic for so long. Too long. Its relieving.
And for a moment, everything seems so small. The mountain, the lodge, the terror. All the reasons why this shouldn't make him smile this bright. But he isn't afraid. Not now. He isn't tired or angry or anything. He's just a boy who wants his best friend back.