Chapter Text
By late November, the cold slips into Hawkins without a sound, before anyone is truly ready to feel it. It’s not something the radio announces, nor something written on the school calendar. It simply happens.
One morning, Will leaves the house wearing a sweatshirt that would have been enough back in November, and halfway down the street he realizes the air cuts straight through him, settling deep in his bones. The sky hangs low and gray, as if it’s pressing down on the town.
He thinks it fits.
The school still stands exactly where it always has, unchanged—and yet something about it feels different. Maybe it’s the silence. Or the way the hallways seem longer now, narrower somehow. Will walks past closed lockers and hurried footsteps, shoulders drawn in, his backpack slung over one shoulder, as if that might help him take up less space.
He doesn’t feel as watched as he used to, though every now and then a glance still lingers on him, like he’s the greatest mystery in the world. Probably because, to some people, he still is.
Not every day a boy comes back from the dead.
They pull him out of the freezing water of the quarry, motionless, pale, surrounded by cameras and whispers. They say it’s his body. They mourn him. And then, somehow, he simply comes back, walking the same hallways as if nothing had ever happened.
The nickname zombie boy still drifts through the school, slipping between badly buried secrets and murmurs no one ever says out loud. Will knows it. He’s always known it. But now, with Hawkins split in two, with cracks running through the ground and through everyone’s memories, his story doesn’t seem quite as important anymore.
There are worse things than a boy who came back.
And still, sometimes Will feels like the looks he gets aren’t really seeing him at all, but the memory of that dark lake instead—as if they expect to find something strange still lingering beneath his skin.
He gets to class before the bell rings and heads straight for his usual seat by the window.
He likes sitting there because he can look outside without anyone calling him out on it. Because the glass works as an excuse. If someone talks to him and he takes too long to answer, he can always pretend he was distracted by the sky.
That morning, the glass is cold. Will rests his forehead against it for a second before sitting down, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. The classroom smells like chalk and damp paper. The heater isn’t working—or at least, not well enough.
He sits down and pulls out his notebook.
He doesn’t think about Mike.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
He hears footsteps behind him a few minutes later. He would recognize that walk anywhere—neither too fast nor too slow, like the person moving has nowhere in particular they’re in a hurry to get to.
Will doesn’t turn around.
He feels the chair behind him shift, the soft thud of a backpack hitting the floor. There’s no greeting. No comment about the cold or how early it is. Just that silence that has become familiar between them over the past few months. Even while living in the same house.
Will tightens his grip on the pencil.
He tells himself it’s normal. That after everything that’s happened, it makes sense for things not to go back to the way they were. That growing up means learning how to live with uncomfortable silences and friendships that change shape.
Still, he can’t help counting the seconds until the teacher walks into the classroom.
Julie arrives a few minutes after class has already started. Lost in his thoughts, Will doesn’t hear her approach, but he recognizes her presence the moment she sits down beside him—in the slight shift of air, in the careful way she sets her backpack on the floor, as if she doesn’t want to make any unnecessary noise.
“Hi,” she says softly.
Will barely turns his head and nods.
“Hi.”
Nothing more is needed. With Julie, there never is. She settles into her chair, pulls out her notebook, and starts looking for a pen as if everything is fine, as if the world hadn’t cracked open beneath their feet just a few months ago. Will is grateful for that quiet normalcy. It helps him not to think too much.
During class, Julie slides a sheet of paper toward him when she notices he’s forgotten his. Their fingers brush for a brief second. The contact is small, almost nothing, but it’s enough to anchor Will back in the present. He focuses on copying what’s written on the board, on following the straight lines of the letters, on keeping his thoughts from drifting to the back of the room.
He doesn’t turn around once the entire class.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the board, even though he barely hears what’s being explained. He knows Mike is sitting back there. He can feel him like a constant presence, like a cold draft slipping through an invisible crack.
When his pencil falls to the floor, he takes longer than necessary to bend down and pick it up. For that brief moment, he wonders—without looking—whether Mike noticed too.
Nothing happens.
Will straightens up again and keeps writing.
Without meaning to, he thinks of the airport.
Of the drawing.
Of the way something seemed to break in his chest when Mike looked at him with that mix of surprise and something else Will has never been able to name.
He forces himself to stop thinking about it.
When the bell rings, the scraping of chairs pulls him out of his thoughts. Will closes his notebook carefully, as if any sudden movement might give him away. He stands up slowly.
Mike is the first one to leave the classroom.
Will watches him get up from his seat and walk out the door without looking back. That familiar ache hits his chest—sharp and precise—and he lowers his gaze right away, pretending to check something in his backpack. He isn’t sure why he does it. Maybe to avoid walking right behind him. Maybe to avoid that awkward moment in the hallway where neither of them knows whether they’re supposed to talk or not.
“Will. We’re going to Lucas’s place. You coming? El might come too,” Dustin asks, appearing in the doorway alongside Lucas.
Will shakes his head almost immediately, as if he needs to clear his thoughts before they can catch up to him.
“You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”
Dustin nods and turns to leave.
Julie stays by his side.
“Are you okay?” she asks quietly, once the classroom is almost empty.
Will nods without thinking.
“Yeah.”
He knows she doesn’t believe him. Julie has that calm way of looking at him that makes small lies feel pointless.
They step out into the hallway together. The noise of the school wraps around them at once—overlapping voices, laughter that’s a little too loud. Will adjusts the strap of his backpack on his shoulder and walks a few steps behind Dustin and Lucas, who are moving along beside Mike, talking about something they clearly find hilarious.
Julie walks beside him in silence for a while before speaking again.
“It’s colder today than yesterday, huh,” she says, like she’s just commenting on anything at all.
Will shrugs.
“Yeah. A lot colder.”
Julie nods, as if that explains everything. They walk a little farther. Ahead of them, Mike leans toward Dustin as he talks, gesturing more than usual. Julie tilts her head in his direction.
“I remember you used to talk to him more last year,” Julie says, without emphasis, like she’s pointing out something she noticed without attaching too much weight to it.
The comment lands like an uncomfortable brush against Will’s skin—not painful, but lingering. He doesn’t slow his pace.
“Yeah… we talked more back then,” he corrects, almost automatically.
“Yeah,” she replies. “That.”
There’s no judgment in her voice. No unhealthy curiosity. Just a calm observation, said at the right moment. Will appreciates that, even if he’s not entirely sure why.
They take a few more steps through the noise of the hallway. Julie waits a bit before speaking again, as if she’s choosing her words carefully.
“I’m sorry, Will,” she starts, “but I wanted to ask you something. Just out of curiosity… did you two have a fight?”
The question sounds simple, almost trivial, like she’s asking whether someone failed a test or if something minor happened.
“No,” Will answers immediately. “Not exactly.”
He doesn’t add anything else. Julie doesn’t ask him to. She nods slowly, accepting the answer as it is.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “sometimes people drift apart without even realizing it.”
“I guess,” Will murmurs.
Julie slows her pace a little, staying level with him without getting too close to the group walking ahead. Dustin laughs again at something Mike says. Will doesn’t look up.
“If it helps at all,” she adds, “Mike is always looking for you when you’re not around.”
Will turns his head toward her, surprised.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Julie says quickly, like she’s afraid she’s said too much. “Just… something I’ve noticed. When you’re late, he always checks your desk. And when we’re in the cafeteria…” She shrugs. “He always looks at me, like he’s expecting to see you next to me.”
Will doesn’t answer. For a few seconds, he focuses on the floor, on keeping his steps even, on not thinking too hard about what he’s just heard.
“Maybe it’s just habit,” he says finally, without much conviction.
“Maybe,” Julie agrees, though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
They reach the intersection of the hallway and Julie stops. Will does too, though he’s not sure why. She looks at him for a second longer than usual.
“But I don’t think Mike does it out of habit, Will,” she adds. “I think you two need to talk. Whatever happened, it doesn’t seem big enough to break a friendship that’s lasted this many years.”
She doesn’t say it like a warning or advice—just like something she’s thinking out loud.
Julie gives him a small wave and walks away. Will stays there for a few seconds before moving again, left with the uncomfortable feeling that there are things other people can see long before he can.
Ahead of him, Mike turns toward Lucas for a second as he talks. Will looks away before their eyes can meet.
He takes a deep breath and walks the rest of the hallway without saying anything else, trailing behind them, careful not to draw attention to himself. He feels the cold seep back in beneath his clothes, sharper than before. He isn’t sure whether it’s the winter—or that constant feeling of losing something without knowing exactly when it started happening.
Dustin laughs again. Lucas bumps Mike in the shoulder. The sound is close, familiar… and yet it feels like it belongs somewhere else.
Will and Jonathan live at the Wheelers’ house now. After selling their old place at the end of last school year, when Joyce decided to move to California, they never really had a home of their own in Hawkins again. And when, after everything that happened, they chose to stay, there weren’t many options.
The Wheelers didn’t hesitate to offer them the basement—the only space they had free.
Will and Jonathan share the room that once was a refuge, a place of games and endless campaigns. Now it feels emptier. Colder. Jane lives with Hopper, and Joyce stays with them, so the basement is just for the two of them.
Will often thinks it’s strange to be sleeping there again. Not because of the place itself, but because of what it represents. The Wheeler basement used to be the center of everything… and now it’s just somewhere to try to rest without thinking too much.
And in the end, Will doesn’t go to Lucas’s house.
He knows he could. He knows Dustin wouldn’t ask too many questions, that Lucas would just give him a look and motion for him to sit down with them. He even knows that Jane went—despite Hopper forbidding it—that she’s there right now, half-listening, eating slowly.
But Mike is there too.
And Will doesn’t have it in him for that.
He’s not in the mood to deal with the group, with the loud laughter, with the jokes that sometimes slip out without meaning to. Much less to deal with Mike—with his presence that feels both too close and completely out of reach at the same time. Not when he knows that, whether he wants to or not, he’ll see him later. At home. At dinner. In that shared space he can’t escape.
He thinks it would be worse to sit across from him twice in the same day.
By the time he finally leaves the school building, the cafeteria is already behind him. Will takes the way home without looking in that direction. The cold hits him full force, and he welcomes the sharpness of it—something solid to hold on to. He walks with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, running through what he’d say if anyone asked why he didn’t go.
Nothing.
He wasn’t hungry.
He didn’t feel very well.
Any of them would work.
Jane did go. Will knows it without needing to see her. She always tries to keep things together, even if she never says it out loud. He imagines her sitting at the table, listening to Dustin talk and Mike laugh, and maybe noticing his absence without commenting on it.
When he reaches the Wheelers’ house, that certainty settles back into his chest: no matter how much he tries to avoid it, Mike is still part of his day. His routine. His space.
He leaves his sneakers by the door and moves slowly down the hallway, as if he’s afraid of making noise even though he knows there’s no one on the first floor. The air smells like detergent and something warm drifting from the kitchen—maybe a soup someone made before leaving. Will doesn’t stop to check.
He heads down the stairs to the basement carefully, one hand brushing the wall. The light switch clicks sharply, and the yellow glow fills the familiar space. The same old couch. The same low table. The shelves lined with games no one ever takes out anymore.
Jonathan is sitting on the makeshift bed, his back against the wall, headphones on. He looks up when Will comes in and pulls them off.
“How was your day?” he asks.
Will shrugs as he drops his backpack onto the floor.
“Normal.”
Jonathan nods, like he understands that normal can mean a lot of things at once. He puts his headphones back on, but he doesn’t turn the volume up. Will is grateful for that. He doesn’t feel like talking—but he doesn’t want to be completely alone either.
He sits down on his bed and stares at the floor for a while. The basement is colder than the rest of the house, and the silence weighs differently down there. Will thinks about how many entire afternoons he’s spent in that same space, laughing, imagining worlds that now feel impossibly far away.
He pulls his legs up onto the bed and wraps his arms around his knees.
From upstairs comes the sound of a door closing. Voices. Muffled laughter. Will recognizes one of them instantly. He doesn’t need to hear a name to know.
The sound cuts through his chest with uncomfortable precision.
Jonathan glances at him, but doesn’t say anything. Will is grateful for that too, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly, the way he’s learned to do when everything starts piling up too fast.
He thinks maybe the day is already over.
That nothing else is going to happen.
But even in the quiet of the basement, with the house separating them, Mike is still too close.
And Will doesn’t really know what to do with that.
Later, dinner starts the way it usually does these days: with Karen setting the plates on the table and trying to get everyone seated before the food gets cold. The dining room is lit by a warm light that doesn’t quite manage to chase away the chill that seems to have settled into the house.
Will sits between Jonathan and Holly. Across from him, Mike takes his usual seat. Will takes a second to settle in, to decide where to put his hands, what to do with the napkin. He makes an effort not to look up too quickly.
“Well,” Karen says once everyone is finally seated. “How was your day?”
It’s a simple question, asked casually, as if it carries no weight beyond filling the silence.
“Good,” Jonathan answers first. “I spent most of the day developing photos.”
Nancy nods as she cuts into her food.
“I was at the library all afternoon. I needed to make progress on a paper.”
Ted comments on the cold, on how it seems to arrive earlier every year. Holly chimes in to say they painted with watercolors in class and that hers “didn’t turn out too bad.” Karen smiles and asks her another question, encouraging her to keep talking.
Will listens, nodding now and then, feeling slightly on the outside—but not completely shut out.
“We were at Lucas’s place,” Mike says. “Just hanging out for a bit. Nothing special. El came by too.”
He speaks easily, like it was just another ordinary day. Like there hadn’t been awkward silences in the hallways or avoided looks. Like everything was still exactly where they left it.
“Did you stay long?” Nancy asks.
“About the usual,” Mike replies. “Until it got too cold, started getting dark, and we decided to head back.”
Ted makes a comment about the heating. The conversation drifts on for a few more seconds, light and unburdened.
“They said on the news it might snow in Hawkins tomorrow,” Ted adds, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “Maybe the kids can take Holly out to see the snow.”
“That would be wonderful!” Karen exclaims, smiling. “Holly’s never seen snow before.”
“Neither have I, Mom,” Mike says, his mouth half full of spaghetti.
The comment strikes Will as unexpectedly sweet, and though he doesn’t say anything, he thinks that he’s never seen snow either.
Karen then turns to him.
“And you, Will?” she asks. “How was your day?”
It feels like every pair of eyes lands on him at once, even though he knows that isn’t entirely true. Still, the tight knot in his chest appears without asking permission.
Will lifts his gaze before he can stop himself. For a brief moment, his eyes meet Mike’s—fragile, fleeting, gone too quickly for anyone else to notice. Mike looks away immediately, like he’s touched something that burns.
The gesture leaves an uncomfortable feeling twisting in Will’s stomach. He doesn’t know exactly why, but he reads it as a distance he can’t seem to close. He thinks maybe Mike avoids looking at him because there’s something about him that’s too obvious, something that shouldn’t be seen too closely. Maybe he knows. Maybe he suspects. Maybe it just makes him uncomfortable.
Will doesn’t fully understand what it is—only that Mike’s gaze never stays.
And that’s enough for him to look away too, focusing instead on Mrs. Wheeler, as if that might help him hide whatever he thinks shows too much.
“Good,” Will says. “Normal.”
The word hangs between them for a moment. Karen nods, satisfied, as if it’s a good enough answer.
“I’m glad,” she says. “With how strange everything’s been lately.”
Will lowers his gaze to his plate again and keeps eating slowly. The conversation carries on around him—voices rising and falling, small laughs, unimportant comments.
From the outside, the scene looks calm. Almost perfect. But from the inside, Will feels like something is slightly off, like he’s sitting at a table he recognizes, surrounded by familiar people, yet shifted just a little out of his own place.
And still, he doesn’t say anything.
Not long after dinner, the basement is quiet, except for the music leaking faintly from Jonathan’s headphones.
Will sits on the floor with his back against the old couch, his sketchbook resting on his knees. The pencil moves slowly, confidently, like it knows exactly where it’s going. He doesn’t look up much, but every now and then he glances at his brother, stretched out on the makeshift bed, one arm above his head, eyes closed.
Jonathan doesn’t realize he’s being drawn.
The yellow light of the desk lamp falls over the page and over Will’s focused face. The basement is still cold, but down here the silence feels different—easier to live with. There’s something comforting about the shared routine: Jonathan listening to music, Will drawing, each of them absorbed in their own thing without needing to talk.
Will pauses for a moment, tilts his head, and adds a soft shadow beneath Jonathan’s eyes, the angle of his jaw, the relaxed shape of his body. He likes capturing moments where no one is trying to be anything other than what they are.
When he’s finished, he blows gently on the paper and studies it for a few seconds, weighing it with a mix of pride and doubt. Then he stands and walks over to the bed.
“Hey,” he says quietly, giving Jonathan’s arm a light tap.
Jonathan opens his eyes slowly and slips one earbud out.
“What’s up?”
Will holds out the sketchbook, turning it so he can see.
“I was drawing you.”
Jonathan pushes himself up a little, resting on his elbows as he studies the drawing carefully. A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Wow,” he says. “Will, this is… really good. Seriously.”
Will shrugs, though he can’t quite stop himself from smiling.
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“It is,” Jonathan replies. “Honestly, you keep getting better. Can I keep it?”
Will pretends to think it over, frowning dramatically.
“That depends.”
Jonathan raises an eyebrow.
“Depends on what?”
“On whether you’ve got a few dollars,” Will says, half joking. “I don’t work for free.”
Jonathan lets out a short laugh and shakes his head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s a yes,” Will says.
They both laugh. Will carefully tears the page out and hands it to him. Jonathan holds it like it matters, then sets it on the table, safely out of the way.
“I’m keeping it,” he says. “Thanks.”
Jonathan gets to his feet and stretches, gathering his headphones.
“I’m going upstairs for a bit,” he adds. “Nancy’s up there.”
Will rolls his eyes automatically.
“Of course she is.”
Jonathan laughs as he climbs the first few steps.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’ll try,” Will replies—though they both know he doesn’t always manage it.
When Jonathan disappears, the basement falls silent again. Will picks up his sketchbook and slips it carefully into his backpack. He stays seated for a few seconds longer, breathing slowly, letting the weight of the day settle over him.
He decides it’s time.
He changes right there, moving calmly as he pulls on his pajamas. Then he heads up the stairs carefully, trying not to make any noise. The hallway is dimly lit. He goes into the bathroom, washes his face, brushes his teeth without rushing, catching his reflection in the mirror without lingering on it for too long.
He turns off the bathroom light and steps back into the hallway.
The house is completely dark. The only light comes from the window at the far end, a pale strip that doesn’t quite reach far enough to illuminate the corridor. Will takes a careful step forward, still feeling the chill of the water on his face, when he runs straight into something—into someone.
“Shit—”
The sound slips out of both of them at almost the exact same time.
Will stumbles back a step, startled, his heart hammering hard against his ribs. It takes him a second to make out the figure in front of him, but not long enough to need to ask.
“Mike,” he says—more an acknowledgment than a greeting.
“Will,” Mike replies, just as quickly.
They stand there, frozen, too close. Will feels the warmth of him in sharp contrast to the cold air of the hallway. The silence settles again, thick and awkward, like neither of them knows what to do next.
“Sorry,” Mike says after a moment. “I was going to… the bathroom.”
Will nods, even though he’s not entirely sure why.
“Oh.”
He shifts slightly to the side to give him room, but the hallway is narrow, and the movement only makes their arms brush lightly. Will tenses immediately and steps back farther, his shoulder pressing against the wall.
“Don’t worry about it,” adds, without looking at him.
Mike stays there for another second. Will can tell by the way he doesn’t move right away, by how he seems to hesitate before doing anything. The air between them feels heavy, different, like something invisible has been left hanging in the space between them.
“I…” Mike starts, then stops.
Will looks up without thinking. The darkness doesn’t let him see Mike’s expression clearly, but he does notice the way Mike lowers his gaze almost immediately, like it’s an automatic response.
“Good night,” Will says at last, his voice softer than he means it to be.
“Yeah,” Mike replies. “Good night.”
He finally moves, slipping past Will to go into the bathroom. Will presses himself a little closer to the wall to give him room, and for one second too brief to make sense of, he feels the brush of Mike’s shoulder, the warmth he leaves behind as he passes.
The bathroom door closes quietly.
Will stays still in the hallway, his pulse still racing and a strange feeling twisting in his stomach that he doesn’t quite know how to name. He takes a deep breath—once, twice—until his body starts to listen to him again.
Then he goes back down the stairs without looking back.
Will lies down on his bed, his body still tense.
He turns onto his side, then onto his back, then rolls over again, like no position quite fits. The basement ceiling is the same as always, with the shadows the streetlight casts across it now and then, but tonight it feels unfamiliar. He has the sense that the day hasn’t fully closed, that something has been left unsettled.
He closes his eyes.
The hallway comes back to him without asking. The darkness. The collision. The muted sound of Mike’s voice saying his name. Will wonders when everything started to feel like this, when it stopped being easy. He tries to replay every gesture, every word, looking for a specific mistake—something he can point to and say, here. But he doesn’t find anything clear.
What did I do wrong?
The question hangs there, unanswered.
He thinks of Mike avoiding his gaze at the table, in the school hallway, even now, just a few meters away, separated only by walls and floors. He thinks maybe there’s something about him that shows too much, something he doesn’t know how to hide properly. Maybe Mike knows. Maybe he’s always known. Or maybe there’s something Will doesn’t understand—something he keeps missing.
He presses his hands into the mattress.
He wishes he could ask him. He wishes it were as simple as it used to be, back when everything seemed to be said without words. But now he doesn’t even know how to start a conversation without feeling like he’s about to break something.
He turns over again and pulls the covers up to his chin.
From upstairs comes the distant sound of the bathroom, a door opening, soft footsteps. Will stays perfectly still, holding his breath, as if that might make him invisible—even inside his own head.
He closes his eyes again.
He thinks about the snow.
About how Ted said it might snow tomorrow. About the idea of Hawkins covered in white—quiet, clean. He imagines lying down on it, feeling the cold seep through his clothes, his back going numb, his mind empty. He likes thinking that snow doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t expect explanations—that it simply exists.
He’s always wanted to see it fall for real.
That thought—small and simple—feels surprisingly comforting. He holds onto it like a promise. Tomorrow, maybe, everything will be different. Or at least it will be covered in white.
With that image in mind, his body slowly begins to relax.
Sleep comes quietly, without a sound—like the snow that hasn’t fallen yet.