Chapter Text
Standing in the middle of a quiet street he doesn’t recognize, the sky stuck in that in-between glow of sunset that never quite fades. There’s a house in front of him—dark windows, unfamiliar, but something about it pulls at him, like he’s already been inside. A basketball thuds somewhere nearby, steady and rhythmic, echoing too loudly in the stillness. When he turns, there’s a figure at the end of a driveway—tall, broad-shouldered, spinning the ball effortlessly on one finger. Will can’t see his face, no matter how hard he tries, just the outline of a smile that feels knowing. The ball stops. The figure looks straight at him. Then it tips off his finger and rolls toward Will on its own, slow and deliberate, bumping against his shoe—and just as he looks up again, heart stuttering, that he—
“Will!”
Making an embarrassing snorting sound, Will’s head shot straight up, hitting the back of the car seat headrest a little too hard.
“Uh— what?” He mumbled, sleep laced in his voice.
“I yelled your name like three times. We’re here.” Jonathan said, all while putting the car in park, letting go of the hand break, and taking the keys out of the ignition.
Will sat up a bit straighter, feeling the dull pain at the top of his spine from the awkward position he had been in for the past couple of hours. Looking around, he realized where they were—well, he didn’t know exactly where they were—but he knew that it was the new neighborhood that he would call home. Fine Range Estate’s or something pretentious like that. He had no idea how his parents had enough money to live in a gated community like this one—but he wasn’t technically mad.
Shit. He thought to himself while he pushed open the car door, swinging his legs out the right, planting them on the ground. Only when he tried to stand did he realize both his legs had fallen asleep. Leaning on the car door he tried to shake off the feeling of pins and needles in his feet.
“Get the door please, sweetheart!” Will heard his mom call—likely to his brother or one of the movers. He only had a quick moment to take in the house before he was nearly tackled to the ground.
“Will!” Said the voice he could recognize anywhere. It was his sister, Jane. She was beaming when he finally straightened to look at her. “You’re finally here! The house has been so quiet and boring with just me and Hop. We already went grocery shopping. I asked him to buy some of your favorite snacks just in case you were hungry when you got here. I can’t wait to show you my room! It’s right across from yours! Yours has a really cool window bench thingy, I think Hop said it was a “gay window” or something like that—” Will smiled while she rambled on and on.
Jane was dressed in a way that felt effortlessly put-together without trying too hard, like she’d just thrown things on and somehow made it work. An oversized, chunky-knit sweater hung off her frame, the soft blend of purples, teals, and pinks giving her a washed, dreamy kind of look. It slipped slightly at the sleeves, bunching at her wrists as she moved. She’d paired it with sheer black tights dotted with tiny, glittering specks that caught the light when she shifted, subtle but noticeable if you were paying attention. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, secured with a simple scrunchie, but she’d added little details—star-shaped clips scattered along the side and a black ribbon tied into a bow—that made it feel more intentional, more Jane. Even her earrings, small and dangling, jingling as she talked, adding just enough movement to make the whole look feel alive.
Will was always a little envious of how cool Jane looked. She clearly was slipping into the Californian life-style with ease. For himself—he assumed it would take a little longer, looking down at his khaki pants and flannel shirt.
After Jane finished her little spiel and followed Joyce inside, Will lingered in the road for a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking up the the house before him.
It was… nice. Big, but not obnoxious about it. Pale siding, dark trim, a sloped roof that made it feel a little less like a copy-paste suburban blueprint and a little more like something someone actually chose. The windows caught the fading light of the—now setting—sun, glowing a faint gold,
For a moment, something in his chest tightened. He didn’t like change. Never did. But he knew it was a fear he had to get over cause life was all about that. Change. The feeling wasn’t necessarily bad though. Familiar, definitely.
“You coming or are you planning to sleep in the driveway?” Jonathan’s voice pulled him out of his temporary trance, calling from halfway up the front walkway, hauling a box toward the front door.
Will blinked, the feeling slipping away as quickly as it had come. “Yeah—hold on.” He pushed off the car, finally steady on his feet and grabbed one of the lighter boxes from the trunk. One labeled BOOKS (WILL) in his mom’s handwriting. Of course. The front door was already propped open, warm light spilling out onto the driveway the more the sun dipped behind the palms that lined the streets. Voices overlapped inside—his mom directing one of the movers, Hopper saying something in that gruff, half-muttering way of his, Jane still talking a mile a minute, talking to Jonathan about this huge book store she wants them all to go to.
It hit him then, standing on the threshold. This was it. Not Hawkins. Not temporary. Permanent. Or—as permanent as anything ever seemed to be.
Will stepped inside. The house smelled new. Not in a bad way—like fresh paint, clean wood, something faintly citrusy. The floors creaked softly under his weight as he walked in, adjusting the box in his arms.
“Upstairs, first door on the left!” Joyce called from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Got it!” He answered.
The staircase curved slightly, the railing smooth beneath his fingers as he climbed, the box digging into his hip so it didn’t slip. His legs still tingled fainly from earlier, but it was manageable now. Each step felt a little heavier than the last—not physically, but in the internal way that he couldn’t really put into words.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out in both directions, soft carpet muffling his footsteps. First door on the left. He nudged it open with his shoulder and stopped. “Hm.” His eyes scanned it. The room wasn’t fully set up yet—just a bed frame, a mattress, a couple of stacked boxes—but the window.
Jane hadn’t been exaggerating.
The bay window jutted out from the far wall, wide and open, the built-in bench beneath it already piled with a couple ugly throw pillows that someone must’ve tossed there earlier. The glass stretched across three panels, giving him a clear, unobstructed view of hhe neighborhood below.
It was… kind of perfect.
Will set the box down near the wall, almost absentmindedly, already drifting toward it. He sat on the bench, testing it, hands pressing lightly against the cushion. Yeah, he thought. This was his spot. He leaned back slightly, letting his head rest against the frame, eyes wandering over the street outside. The sun was lower now, the sky shifting into deeper oranges and purples than before, shadows stretching long across the pavement and neat lawns.
Not long after settling into a comfortable position, he was called back downstairs.
“Will!”
He groaned quietly, letting his head tip back against the window frame for a second longer.
“Yeah?” he called, not moving.
“Get down here and eat before the boys inhale everything!” Joyce shouted back.
Will huffed a soft laugh under his breath. “Coming!”
He gave the window one last glance—not searching for anything, not really—just.. taking it in. The street, the houses, the way everything felt so still. He then pushed himself up and headed downstairs.
಄
Dinner was loud. But the comforting kind of loud. Not chaotic—just full. Will’s eyes glanced around their new dining room. Half-unpacked boxes shoved against the wall, a nice rectangular dining table, and an expensive looking and easily breakable chandelier hanging in the middle. Takeout containers spread across the table because, obviously, none of them were willing enough to cook on moving day.
Hopper sat at the head of the table like he belonged there, grumbling about traffic and “city planning that makes no damn sense,” while Joyce nodded along, only half listening as she kept getting up to grab things no one had asked for.
Jane was talking. Again.
“...and there’s this bookstore like twenty minutes away, but it’s huge—like, actually huge, not Hawkins ‘we have three shelves’ huge—and they have a whole art section, Will, you’d love it—”
“I’m sure he would,” Jonathan cut in, reaching across the table to steal one of Will’s potstickers.
“Hey—” Will nudged his hand away, but didn’t bother grabbing it back. He was only half paying attention after all. His gaze kept drifting. Not out the window—there wasn’t a clear view from where he sat—but toward the idea of it. Toward upstairs. Toward that room that already felt like his than anywhere else had in a while.
“...Will?”
He blinked.
“Yeah?”
Jane was looking at him expectantly. “I asked if you wanted to come tomorrow,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Were you even listening?”
“Yeah,” he lied easily. “The bookstore, right?”
She lit up instantly. “Yes! Good you were listening.”
Jonathan snorted, earning a light under-the-table kick from Will.
“Yeah, sure,” Will added, softer this time. “I’ll go.”
“Yay! Good.” Jane said, satisfied, already moving on to another topic.
The conversation carried on around him, but Will let himself drift again, picking at his food. Tomorrow. A day to settle in, to unpack, to pretend this all felt normal—It’ll feel normal soon enough, he hoped—and then, Sunday. And then—School.
The thought sat heavy in his stomach, dull and dreadful. New place. New people. New everything. He swallowed, pushing it down. One thing at a time.
಄
By the time everything quieted down, it was late. Boxes had been moved—or at least shoved out of the way—dished left for “tomorrow,” lights dimmed one by one as the house started to settle. Will had made his way upstairs, slower this time. A little more aware.
The hallway was different at night. Quieter. The kind of quiet that made every small sound stand out—the soft creak of the floor, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the faint rush of wind that rustled the palm leaves outside.
He reached his door, pausing for just a second before pushing it open. The room greeted him the same way it had before—half-finished, a little messy.
And the window drew him in all over again. He didn’t know why, but he was obsessed with it. He loved it.
He crossed the room without thinking about it, dropping onto the bench with a quiet exhale.
Outside, the sky had deepened into that rich, inky blue, the last traces of sunset long gone. Streetlights had flickered on, casting warm pools of light onto the pavement below. Everything felt softer at night. Less sharp. Less real.
Will pulled his knees up slightly, resting his arms against them as he started out. Most of the houses had their lights on now. Glowing windows, hints of movement behind curtains, silhouettes passing by for a second before disappearing again. Lives already in motion.
He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to just.. Fit into one of them. To not feel like he was standing just outside everything, looking in. His gaze drifted to the house directly beside his. The one that matches theirs—and every other house down the road—almost exactly. The second-floor window was dark, curtains half-drawn. Nothing visible.
Still—Will found himself staring at it longer than he meant to. Something about the alignment of it—how perfectly it mirrored his own—made it feel.. important, even if he didn’t know why. He let out a slow breath, pressing his shoulder lighty against the side of the frame.
“Monday,” he murmured to himself. First day of senior year. New start. Or… something like that.
The word echoed strangely in his mind and chest, like it was carrying more weight than it should’ve. But he was probably just being dramatic. He shook his head slightly, pushing the thought away.
“You’re being weird,” he muttered. Tired. That’s all.
He shifted, reaching over to flick off the small lamp beside the bench. The room dimmed instantly, leaving only the soft glow from the streetlights outside, filtering through the glass.
For a second—just a second—his reflection stared back at him. And behind it—the faint outline of the house across the way. Perfectly aligned. Still. Waiting. Will looked away first.
He didn’t notice how long he sat there after that. Only that, when he finally dragged himself to bed, the image of that window—and the feeling from the dream—followed him. Somewhere, just at the edge of sleep—he swore he heard it again. A soft, distant thud.