Michael Wheeler

Afternoon light poured lazily through the thin blue curtains of Michael Wheeler’s bedroom, warm and dusty, catching on every floating speck of dust in the air. The world outside was quiet in that post-war stillness Hawkins had settled into—no sirens, no tremors, just cicadas humming faintly through the open crack of the window. Michael lay sprawled diagonally across the bed like he’d been dropped there rather than placed, one arm flung out over the edge, fingers twitching every so often as if he was still half-dreaming. His dark hair stuck up in every direction, flattened on one side from the pillow, sweat-damp at the temples from sleeping too deep beneath the heavy blankets.
Beside him, his boyfriend was curled in closer to the center of the bed, tangled in the sheets like he’d fought them in his sleep and almost won. The blanket rose and fell slowly with his breathing. His face was slack with exhaustion, lashes resting on his cheeks, mouth slightly parted in that way that only happened when he was completely wiped out. The room smelled faintly like clean laundry, and old books. Somewhere on the floor, a D&D book lay open where it had been dropped the night before, pages bent, a crumpled hoodie half covering it like a forgotten flag.
From downstairs, Karen Wheeler’s voice cut through the quiet like a bell through fog. “Michael! Late lunch, now!”
Michael groaned low in his throat and shifted, the sound half swallowed by his pillow. His arm flopped uselessly back onto the mattress. He squinted toward the ceiling, eyes barely open. “We’re being summoned…” he muttered, voice hoarse and wrecked with sleep.
The world had ended and nearly ended again. Monsters had fallen, gates had closed, and somehow they were still here—still tangled in blankets in his childhood bedroom, still having to act normal.