Chapter Text
A beam of sunlight settles across Mike’s face, pale and barely warm, the kind you only find in the beginning of Autumn. Mike squints as he slowly opens one eye, his room gradually coming into focus. He groans as he stretches beneath his covers. Each limb contorts at a strange angle, in a half-hearted attempt to relieve any built-up tension. His eyes flutter shut again for a few more seconds.
Just a few more seconds of peace and quiet.
Mike can faintly hear birds chirping from outside his windows, and the sun leaking onto his cheek brings in an unusual sense of ease.
However, that moment of rest doesn’t last long, as Mike unwillingly forces himself upright.
The quicker the better, he thinks.
His legs swing over the side of the bed as he rests his elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. Boxes and bags crowd the room no matter where he looks. A shallow sigh slips past his lips as he begrudgingly stands up and drags his feet towards the bathroom.
Today is Saturday the 1st of September 1990, and in two hours, Mike will be leaving for the University of Michigan. ‘A fresh start’ as his mom likes to call it.
In hindsight, Mike wishes he had applied to universities back in 1989, he wishes he never let his - quite frankly - useless father convince him that a gap year would be good for him. It hadn’t been. If anything, it had been the complete opposite. His gap year was potentially one of the worst decisions he had ever made.
All his friends left Hawkins last year. They’d succeeded in getting out of this shithole the moment the opportunity presented itself. All of them except Mike.
For the past year, he’d been stuck, isolated, restless and probably the unhappiest he’d ever been. He’d like to blame his dad for that too, but in truth, it was him who was at fault.
Following their graduation, something ugly had settled in his chest. A mix of jealousy and resentment he never thought himself capable of. Watching the people he cared about most plan to leave so suddenly had knocked the breath clean out of him. Mike Wheeler was like a deer in headlights.
Who was he if not with The Party.
He didn’t know, and evidently didn’t want to.
So, he did what he does best. He pulled away.
Looking back on it now makes his stomach churn. Mike reckons he saw them maybe a handful of times during the summer of ‘89, even that feels generous. Bile threatens to rise in his throat at the memory. Mike can’t even pretend that they’d let him. No, they called. They showed up at his house. Then they called some more.
Eventually, Dustin left for Yale, Lucas and Max moved to sunny California, and as for Will, well, he doesn’t actually know where Will went.
The last he’d heard, Will had been aiming for a spot at NYU.
Mike's pull away from Will had started earlier than his pull from the rest.
Now that was beyond him. That part was harder to sit with. Harder to understand. There was no reason for it, nothing he could cling to. The thought kept him awake more nights than he cared to admit.
Not only had Mike damaged all his friendships. He had completely eradicated the one that meant the most to him.
Mike stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes dull, mind impossibly far away.
A voice cuts through the quiet.
“MIKE! BREAKFAST!” Holly calls from the bottom of the stairs.
Mike lets his head fall back, his eyes skittering aimlessly across the ceiling.
Holly’s voice sounds again, “MIKE!”
His head lolls towards the doorway, “Coming!” he calls back, dragging the word out.
He splashes cold water onto his face, rubbing it over his eyes and dragging it through his hair. When he steps back out into the hallway, he glances towards his bedroom, briefly debates grabbing a pair of pants, then decides against it. The hallway feels longer than it should, his bedroom farther away than it has any right to be.
Boxers it is.
His feet thump down the stairs and he turns into the dining room. The smell of bacon hits him immediately, thick and greasy, his face scrunches as nausea curls up in his stomach. As Mike drops into the chair beside Holly, his father’s eyes peer over the top of his newspaper.
“Couldn’t have put some trousers on, Michael?”
Mike only manages a short grunt in response.
From the kitchen, Karen’s voice chimes in, “Give him a break, Ted. He has a big day ahead of him.” She appears with a plate of waffles, Eggo’s, to be exact, and sets them down in front of him.
Quite literally the last thing he wants to see today.
She rests a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling Honey? Excited, I hope?”
Was Mike excited?
Yeah. He supposes a part of him must be.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I am.”
His mom beams, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Glad to hear it.”
Holly reaches for the maple syrup, absolutely drowning her breakfast in it. Mike watches on with mild disgust.
She sets the bottle down and turns to him. “What are you studying again? How to be a loser 101?”
Mike can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips. “No, idiot.” he says, bumping her shoulder. “And English Literature isn't for losers.”
Ted Wheeler mutters from behind his newspaper, “Trust our son to choose the major full of queers.”
Mike's head snaps up. Dickhead.
It’s sometime around 9:00 a.m., and Mike has finally finished lugging all his belongings into the boot of his car. He’d gotten the car as a graduation gift, though it had hardly been used until now. He slams the boot shut, probably harsher than necessary.
He turns to find his family standing side by side in the garage. Holly wears a slight frown, his mom is already crying, and his father looks indifferent, as expected.
God, this is grueling.
Mike walks slowly towards his mom, opening his arms as he goes. Karen pulls Mike into a deathly tight embrace, then cups his face in her hands and presses a kiss into the middle of his cheek.
“Good Luck, Honey.”
Mike knows that if she tried to say anything else, the floodgates would open up and he doesn’t trust himself to help her stop them.
As she steps back, Holly launches forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Mike rests a hand on the top of her head as she speaks into his chest, voice slightly muffled.
“I’m gonna miss you, idiot.”
He huffs a small laugh, rubbing her head. “Likewise, idiot.”
Holly lets go and moves back beside their mom, grabbing her arm. Ted clears his throat, drawing Mike’s attention. He barely steps forward and places a hand on Mike’s arm, then pats it twice.
“Be good.”
Mike’s lips press into a thin smile, offering his father a single nod.
He turns back to the car, climbs into the driver's seat, and gives one last wave through the rear view mirror before turning the key in the ignition. His car hums to life, and before he knows it, his house is already far out of view. Mike tries to pin down how he feels, but the words won’t come. He’s leaving the only place he’s ever known. Granted, he’s spent a few days in California, Nevada and Utah but he doesn’t count that as knowing somewhere new.
As he drives through town. Mike refuses to let himself linger on the memories stirred up by the familiar streets. Still, he can't stop the sharp pang that hits the center of his chest as he passes the brown, half-assed sign that reads: LEAVING HAWKINS - COME AGAIN SOON.
It’s a four-hour drive to Ann Arbor, give or take. Mike switches on the radio, and music fills the car softly. He recognises it immediately as Enjoy The Silence by Depeche Mode. A sigh slips from his lips, something that’s become an uncomfortably frequent habit.
He thinks about Michigan. About the university. About his course. Truthfully, he can’t even remember why he chose the University of Michigan in the first place. Maybe his father had said something. Then again, not only does that man hate his major, he seems to hate just about every decision Mike has ever made.
Mike isn't even sure The Party knows where he’s headed. That he too had finally escaped. Does he reach out and tell them?
Well, Nancy knows. And Nancy probably told Jonathan. And Jonathan must’ve told Will. And Will surely would’ve told the others.
So yeah. They probably do know.
As the drive stretches on, Mike does his best to keep his thoughts away from them, but it's pointless. No matter where his mind wanders, it always circles back. Every road leads there.
He turns the radio up instead, and tries not to think at all.
Mike arrives in Ann Arbor, just after one o’clock.
It's pretty, he decides. In a way that’s almost unsettlingly familiar. Reminiscent of Hawkins, but softer somehow - less claustrophobic.
He drives around aimlessly for a while. A poor attempt to familiarise himself with his new surroundings. He drives past diners and bars, small storefronts and a movie theatre at the bottom of town. Streets are lined with trees, flashes of green and auburn blurring past his windows.
Eventually, Mike stops procrastinating and directs himself towards his residence hall.
He parks along the pavement, and steps out of his car, craning his neck to look up at the new building that’s meant to be home now. He digs a half-crumpled letter from his pocket and glances down at it, his eyes catching on two words.
Room 107
He slings his backpack over his shoulder, and heads for the entrance. Just outside, a student sits at a fold-out table, room keys spread out neatly in front of her. As Mike approaches, the sound of his footsteps cause her head to flick up.
Her name tag reads Delaney. She smiles at him, wide and easy.
“Hi! Here for your room key?”
“Uh- yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“Perfect!” She’s painfully cheerful. “Can I see your letter?”
He hands it over, nodding awkwardly. Delaney scans the page, her finger hovering over the rows of keys.
“Room 107…” she murmurs, then brightens.”Ah! Here we go.”
She looks back up at him. “Michael Wheeler?”
“Yeah.”
“Michael.” She places the key in his palm. “First floor. To the left.”
The key feels heavier than he expects. Cold.
“Thanks,” he says, managing half a smile.
Delaney returns it before turning to the student who’s appeared behind him. Mike grips the key a little tighter as he pushes through the entrance doors.
The stairwell smells faintly of dust and something industrial. He climbs slowly, turns left, and lets his eyes skim over the dorm numbers until they stop short.
107.
He takes a breath, then knocks.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. Right.
Mike tries the key. The door clicks, then creaks open, sunlight spilling out into the dim hallway, as he steps inside.
The room is larger than he expected.
His gaze drifts immediately to the closest side - unmistakably occupied. Footballs stacked on shelves. Clothes slung over a chair, tossed across the bed, abandoned on the floor. Playboy posters peeling slightly at the corners and one solitary textbook sitting on a desk.
Mike exhales
Seems like a real charmer.
He drops his backpack on the empty bed and sinks down beside it, the mattress dipping under his weight.
It’s fine, he tells himself.
Everything is fine.
The thought alone that he still has to unpack his whole life makes him exhausted. Still, Mike manages to drag himself back outside, back towards his car.
He opens the boot and stares at the mess inside.
There isn’t much, really. A couple of boxes. A duffel bag. An old suitcase wedged awkwardly between them. Even so, the idea of hauling it all inside makes his shoulders tense.
He reaches in and drags the first box towards himself. It scrapes against the edge of the boot, cardboard groaning in protest. Mike braces his feet, leans back, and manages to pull it free with a small, undignified grunt.
He pauses, breath already shallow.
Pathetic, a voice in his head offers helpfully.
Mike shifts the box against his chest and starts towards the building. The weight isn’t unbearable - it’s awkward and uneven. His arms tremble as he walks, grip tightening as if the thing might slip from his hands and shatter on the pavement.
He’s fought monsters from the Upside Down, and yet here he is, struggling with a box.
The thought makes his jaw clench.
He’s never been particularly strong. He knows that. He’s never pretended otherwise. Yet, struggling with something so ordinary makes the heat creep up the back of his neck. Like someone’s watching. Like they’re noticing.
By the time he reaches his dorm, his arms ache and his breathing has gone slightly out of sync. He sets the box down harder than he means to and flexes his fingers, trying to will the feeling back into them.
Get a grip, Mike.
The second box is worse. He has to brace it against his hip, stopping halfway across the pavement to adjust his hold, pretending to check his footing while his pulse settles. He keeps his eyes down, certain that at any moment someone taller, broader, more capable will pass by and make a quiet assessment.
When the boot is finally empty, Mike’s shoulders are sore and his hands faintly red. He stands there for a moment, staring at the car, catching his breath.
It’s stupid, he knows. None of this should matter.
He straightens his spine before heading inside, as if posture alone might make up for everything else.
Mike kneels on the grimy, threadbare carpet, and drags the first box towards him. He tears the tape free and tosses it aside before folding the cardboard flaps open.
There is a lot inside.
Novels with cracked spines. D&D figurines carefully wrapped in old socks. Pens, pencil, notebooks stuffed full of his writing - stupid thoughts, abandoned stories, things he never showed anyone. Well, except for one person.
He stares at everything inside. Pieces of his childhood laid bare. Pieces of himself. Who he was. Who he still is.
He unpacks slowly, one object at a time, setting things down where they feel right. The alarm clock goes on his bedside table beside a lamp he’s pretty sure his parents bought sometime in the late sixties. His favourite books are stacked on the shelf above his twin-sized bed, arranged by colour without him quite meaning to. Notebooks piled neatly in the corner of his desk.
Next comes his wardrobe. He folds his clothes with more care than he normally would, trying - and failing - to make them as neat as his mom would. Laying them out like this, examining his clothing piece by piece, he realises how dull everything is.
How reminiscent of his father everything is.
Not him.
He exhales through his nose and shuts the closet.
A problem for another day.
The last box sits untouched near the foot of his bed. Mike frowns, unable to remember what he packed inside. He opens it and finds photographs, loose and curling at the edges, along with a handful of posters rolled tight.
He reaches for the first poster and carefully unrolls it.
Oh.
Right.
Something heavy settles in his chest. A sad smile pulls at his mouth before he can stop it.
Will’s painting.
Well, actually El’s painting? I mean she commissioned it.
Mike shakes his head. It doesn’t matter.
He gets to his feet, grabs the discarded tape, and leans over his bed to stick the painting up beside the window just above his desk. Mike steps back and studies it, tilting his head slightly.
He then returns to the box, removing the last few items.
At the very bottom lies his ONE WAY sign. He vividly remembers the day he stole it. Him and Lucas messing around one winter evening in 1985, laughing as they wrestled it free from a street pole. He sets it aside, making a mental note to find some nails he could use to hang it properly.
By the time Mike finishes up, a dull ache has settled behind his eyes. The room feels too bright, even with the curtains half-drawn. He drags a notebook onto his desk and flips it open, stares at the blank pages for a moment too long before forcing himself to write something, anything. Nancy had once told him it helped - putting things down when your life was changing too fast to keep up with. At the time, he’d rolled his eyes at her, now he tries anyway. The words come out clumsy and uneven, half-thoughts scratched into the paper, but it’s better than letting them rattle around in his head.
When he looks back over the page, everything blurs together, the lines swimming uselessly. With a quiet sigh, Mike reaches up and slides his glasses off, he rubs at his temples and drags a hand down his face.
He’s just about to give up when the door flies open.
“Holy shit! Hey, man!”
Mike jolts upright in his chair, heart leaping violently into his throat. He spins around just in time to see a redhead barreling into the room - tall, broad and loud.
“You must be Michael, right?”
Mike pushes himself to his feet, disoriented. “Uh… yeah. James?”
James grins brightly. “That’s the one!”
Before Mike can react, James steps forward and wraps him in a sudden, crushing hug. It’s quick but tight, the kind that knocks air from his lungs.
Mike stiffens, then awkwardly pats his shoulder. “Cool,” he manages.
James pulls back like nothing unusual has happened and immediately starts moving again, his energy bouncing off the walls. He drops to one knee, rummaging under his bed.
“Okay, so-” he says, popping back up with a few beers in hand, “-there’s this huge party tonight. One of the frats. You should totally come.”
He tosses the beers onto his bed and keeps talking, barely pausing for breath.
“I know you’re a first year and all, but it’s chill. Good way to meet people. Maybe get lucky.” He raises his eyebrows, already halfway across the room again.
Mike shakes his head, the motion making his head throb. “Oh, uh, I’m alright. I think I’m gonna stay in.” He gestures vaguely at his desk. “Write. Probably sleep.”
James stops, considering Mike’s words for half a second.
Then he shrugs, easy. “No problem, man.”
He gives Mike a friendly smack between the shoulder blades - way harder than necessary - and is out the door before Mike can say anything else.
The room falls quiet again.
Mike, now overwhelmed, exhales slowly and sinks back into his chair, pressing his fingers into his eyes until darkness blooms behind them. His head still hurts. His eyes still burn.
He stares at the open notebook on his desk, the pages waiting patiently for him to do something with them. Instead, he closes it.
Mike leans back in his chair, letting it tilt off the ground as he laces his finger behind his head. He looks out the window, past the glass into the growth of trees just outside. It’s colder than usual for the start of September. The sky hangs low and overcast, hovering at that point just before rain starts to threaten.
His eyes drift back around the room - lingering on the painting, then his books, his bed, his Converse tossed haphazardly on the floor. His gaze stays fixed on them. They’re dirty, scratched and soft from how often he’s worn them.
He looks back to the window. Then to his shoes again.
Maybe a walk would be nice.
Mike reaches for his glasses, slipping them on and nudging them up the bridge of his nose, his eyes adjusting as he blinks. Standing up, he moves to collect his shoes, and hops stupidly on one foot as he wrestles them on. Keys. Jacket. Door
His dorm room had been warm - too warm - so when he steps outside, the air feels ten degrees colder all at once. He shivers slightly, the feeling quickly crawling up his spine. The air is thick, sticky and clinging to his skin in a way he immediately hates.
It reminds him too much of the Upside Down.
Mike walks past Delaney, who’s still seated at her fold-out table, and gives her a brief wave. He doesn’t know why he waved. Was that awkward? Was that weird? She didn’t wave back - did she? Did she think it was strange?
Is he strange?
Stop it Mike! It doesn’t matter!
He groups his gaze to the gravel beneath his feet, his long legs taking uneven strides. When he looks up again, he takes in his surroundings properly for the first time.
Michigan. Ann Arbor.
He’d never visited the university before applying. He figured it couldn’t be that bad - the school was highly rated, and he’d never heard a bad word said about the place. In fact, not only did he not visit the campus, Mike hadn’t even attended orientation week. Which now feels… stupid. He has no idea where anything is, no idea how anything works, and most worryingly - no connections.
Mike knows no one.
Well. Except for his roommate, James. But does that really count? He highly doubts they are going to be the best of friends.
It’s not that Mike thinks he’s bad at making friends. The problem is - how does one make actual connections when they could never even know the half of what you’ve been through, let alone understand it.
The thought alone makes his head spin.
Sure, Mike could find people who like D&D, or writing, or comic books and Sci-fi films. And he could learn everything about them, their ins, outs and in betweens. Yet, they'd never know him. Not really.
He could lie. Alter the story. Change a few names.
But what good is a friendship if solely based on a twisted truth.
Mike wants his friends back.
No - needs them back.
He needs to be buried deep in a bookstore with Dustin, freaking out over Spider-Man #1. He needs to be doubled over next to Lucas, laughing until his sides ache. He needs to be hiding a smile from Max, as they bicker back and forth. He needs to be stretched out on El’s bed, as they listen to records. And, he needs to be tucked somewhere quiet with Will, watching intently as the boy sketches away on paper, completely absorbed.
But he isn’t.
Instead, Mike is slouched on a bench in a courtyard he doesn’t know the name of, staring up at the clouds as they grow darker.
He sits there until late into the evening, just thinking, completely detached from reality. When the night air finally turns unbearable, Mike drags himself to his feet and retraces his steps. Back past benches and buildings, through courtyards and archways, each one melting into the next.
By the time he reaches his residence hall, Delanely is long gone, and the only light left comes from the warm glow spilling out the windows of occupied dorm rooms.
Inside, his own room is deathly quiet. James’s side is empty - still at the party, he assumes. Mike kicks his shoes off, sheds his clothes, and crawls into bed without bothering to shower or brush his teeth. He knows he should. He just can’t bring himself to care.
He turns onto his side, pulls the covers closer, and wills sleep to come. Instead, a heavy sinking feeling washes over him, settling deep in his chest - the kind that provokes tears without warning. Mike squeezes his eyes shut.
Not now.
Not today.
Mike has a pounding, head splitting headache. Whether it’s from yesterday or his lack of sleep, he isn’t sure.
By the time he finally drifted off last night, James had stumbled into the room, drunk and doing an awful job of trying to be quiet. Mike had then been kept awake for another two hours as his roommate struggled - loudly - to throw up in the bathroom. And when James had finally passed out and Mike attempted to sleep again, the sun had already begun to rise.
All in all, he’d been granted a generous three hours.
Mike turns his head towards the other bed. The redhead is completely knocked out, soft snores slipping from his mouth.
Today is Sunday, the 2nd of September. Which means tomorrow is Monday. Which means lectures start. Which means Mike can no longer do nothing with his life while moping around like a self-pitying idiot.
He stares at his clothes from yesterday, scattered on the floor near his desk.
So much for keeping the place tidy.
The smell of coffee drifts in from under the door - presumably from another student's dorm. Fuck, Mike thinks. he would kill for a cup. The thought alone is enough motivation to get him moving.
He pushes himself out of bed, and takes too short of a shower as he simultaneously brushes his teeth. He picks up yesterday’s clothes, gives them a quick sniff, then shrugs. Good enough. He pulls on his black jeans, his brown sweater, and once again wrestles with his converse. He grabs his glasses, notebook and a pen, feels for his wallet, and is out the door in under a minute.
Mike doesn’t know where to find a coffee shop, but he vaguely remembers passing one when he drove in yesterday. Somewhere around the corner - maybe the first turn, maybe the second. He'll find out.
He walks along the neat pavement, peering down each street as he goes. On the third, he spots it.
A quaint little storefront, a blackboard sign propped out front that reads: Mark’s Coffeehouse.
He figures it’s a good way to clear his head. Some coffee, some writing, some quiet. What more could you ask for?
Mike glances down at the dark blue notebook in his hand. The one that - quite literally - holds more than anyone would ever expect. He has others just as private, but this one is sacred. Stories and poems, intrusive thoughts that can never see the light of day. Short pieces. Long pieces. Cut-outs from novels, margins packed with endless annotations.
If anyone ever got hold of it, Mike is convinced he’d simply have to die.
He takes a seat at a table outside. The weather is nice enough to avoid being stuck indoors. He crosses one leg over the other and leans the notebook against his thigh, shielding the pages from anyone passing by. He taps his pen against the paper when a waitress suddenly appears at his table.
“Hey! Anything I can get for you? Coffee? Water?” she asks, notepad poised.
“Oh- uh,” Mike hadn’t been expecting her. “Just a cappuccino please.”
She nods. “No problem, you can pay up front when you’re ready.”
“Cool, Thanks.” Mike smiles, then looks back down at the page.
He wants to write. He wants to get the words out, scratch the urge deep into the paper. But his brain runs blank.
Which is unusual.
Mike always has something to say.
His coffee arrives a moment later. He takes a hurried sip and immediately jerks back - it’s piping hot. He forces himself to swallow it, the liquid searing down his throat. When he looks back at the notebook he sees it.
A spill. Not much, but enough to piss him off.
“Fuck.”
Mike swipes at it with his sleeve, then looks down at his sweater, and soon realises what he's done.
“Fuck!”
Mike closes the notebook, throwing it on the table with a thud, and sticks to coffee and people watching.
Mike finishes the coffee, tilting his head back along with the cup in an attempt to catch the last of the foam - an awkward task, when you’re wearing glasses. He sets the cup down with a soft clink, stands, stretches, and tucks his notebook under his arm while he fishes his wallet from his pocket.
Inside the cafe, the sound of overlapping conversation brings back his earlier headache. He waits at the till, towering over it - his height is something he tends to forget about himself. The same waitress from earlier teeters back over. Mike hands her a dollar and tells her to keep the change, feeling oddly proud of himself, as if a 40 cent tip is wildly generous.
He grabs his notebook from under his arm, opening it again to inspect the damage, and starts towards the exit, eyes glued to the coffee stain. He doesn’t notice the person heading for the door at the exact same
time.
They collide hard.
Mike’s notebook goes flying, pages that hadn’t been stuck in littering the space around his feet.
“Shit! Sorry!” the man blurts, immediately dropping to his knees to gather them, “I wasn’t paying attention!”
Mike crouches down too, hurriedly reaching for his book, “No, no- please. It was my fault.”
They straighten at the same time. The boy is a little shorter than Mike, but not by much. His dark, curly hair is slightly disheveled, blue eyes stressed as he tries to stack the papers neatly before holding them out.
“Here. Sorry again.”
“Thanks,” Mike says, waving a hand dismissively, “And seriously, don’t apologise. It really was on me.”
They step out together. The boy hesitates, then holds out a hand.
“Carlton.”
Mike takes it. “Michael- well, uh, Mike.”
“Nice to meet you, Mike.” Carlton nods towards the notebook. “You a writer? Sorry, I couldn't help but catch a glance at some of the pages.”
Mike glances down, then back up. “Oh- yeah. Yeah, I am. I’m actually studying English Literature- well no, sorry. About to study. I’m a first year… so I haven’t exactly started yet. In fact, I only arrived yesterday.”
He’s not sure why he’s just laid out half his life to a stranger, but something about Carlton feels… familiar.
“Nice man,” Carlton says easily. “Where you from originally?”
“Oh- Indiana.”
Carlton’s eyes flicker with interest. “Sweet, that's not too far. Where about? I know someone from there.”
Mike lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Just some small town. You wouldn’t know it.”
Carlton doesn’t push further. Instead, he shifts his weight. “Hey, um- I’m having a party tomorrow night. At my place, just down Rosewood street.” He points off to the right of him. “You’re more than welcome to come. There’ll be a good few people there - first years too.” He lifts his hands slightly. “No pressure. Just thought I’d invite you.”
Mike considers it. This doesn’t feel nearly as intimidating as whatever frat thing James went to last night. This could be good for him. He needs to make friends somehow.
Before he can overthink it, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’ll be there.”
Carlton grins. “Cool, I'll catch you then!” He turns already moving away, throwing a hand over his shoulder. “Cheers, Mike.”
Mike doesn't get a chance to respond before he’s out of earshot.
This is good. This is great.
You're going to be fine. Everything is fine.
Mike taps his notebook against his palm a few times before turning back in the direction of his dorm.
The Harlan Hatcher library is the largest on campus - and yet the most peaceful, well late on a Sunday that is. A vibrant yellow glow filters through the tall window as the sun sets outside, streaks of it spilling across tables and slipping between bookshelves. The sound of pages turning and pens scratching float around the space, occasionally a whispered conversation.
Will stands towards the back of the library, in the section dedicated solely to the most influential artists of the Renaissance era. His eyes scan the spines as he mutters under his breath.
“Vasari, Vasari, Vasari…”
He groans, rising on his tiptoes trying to peer at the higher shelves. Will knows there's a step stool around here somewhere - he just can’t be bothered to go looking for it.
“Come on Vasari,” he mumbles. “Where are you?”
He drops back onto his heels and moves farther down the shelf, closer to the end. Then he spots it.
Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects by Giorgio Vasari.
Will reaches for it quickly, as if someone might snatch it away before he can. He exhales in relief once it’s in his hands.
“There you are.”
He turns to head back to his table - only for a hand to clamp around his wrist and yank him sharply behind the bookshelf. Another hand covers his mouth before he can even think to scream.
Will is spun around, heart racing, eyes blazing.
And then he sees him.
Standing in front of Will with the cheekiest grin is his boyfriend, Carlton.
Will rips his boyfriend’s hand from his mouth with his free one. “Carlton!”
“What!?”
He smacks Carlton with the book, punctuating each word with a hit. “You. Scared. Me. Dip. Shit”
Carlton laughs, unfazed, and grabs Will by the waist, drawing him close. “Language, Will.”
Will hits him again, though a smile betrays him this time.
Carlton glances around before hooking a finger under Will’s chin and pulling him into a kiss. Will closes his eyes, sighing softly. This happens often - Carlton dragging them into hidden corners, half-concealed spaces. Will actually likes it. The adrenaline rush that comes with the risk of being caught.
It reminds him, oddly, of catching Robin and Vickie in the hospital back in ‘87.
What a monumental day that was.
Will pulls away first, stepping out of Carlton’s grasp. “Listen. I really do have to work.”
“Will.”
“Yes?” He’s already walking back to his table, Carlton trailing close behind.
“You can't be serious.”
Will pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Oh, but I am very serious.”
He drops the Vasari book onto the table beside his textbook and notes, swings his backpack off the chair, and sits. Carlton takes the seat across from him with a sigh.
“Will,” he says, “the term hasn’t even started.”
Will flicks his eyes up. “I know. But it doesn’t hurt to be ahead.” He flashes him a bright smile, tilting his head.
Carlton reaches over the table, dragging his fingers down Will’s face.
Will swats his hand away. “Ay! Watch it!”
Will flips open the book, already skimming the pages, when he feels a foot slide up the side of his calf. He looks up slowly, deadpan.
“Carlton.”
Carlton blinks innocently. “What?”
“Enough.”
Carlton throws his head back with a dramatic groan, sliding down in his chair until his chin rests against his chest. Will watches him with a fond yet somewhat concerned smile.
Carlton fidgets absentmindedly with his hands. “Are you still coming to the party tomorrow, or are you planning to study then too.”
Will kicks his shin under the table. “Yes I’m coming. Is that even a question?”
Carlton straightens immediately, grinning, leaning forward. “Are you staying over?”
Will sets his pencil down. “Would you like me to stay over?”
Carlton raises a brow. “Is that even a question?”
Will laughs softly. “Very funny.”
A few quiet beats pass before Carlton speaks again. “Oh, I actually met someone today! I invited him for tomorrow.”
Will keeps scribbling. “Met someone? What, you’re leaving me already?”
Carlton rolls his eyes, not even entertaining it. “He’s actually also from a small town in Indiana.”
Will huffs, unfazed. “I hope he got out of his town in a better state than I did mine.”
Carlton chuckles before he stands up and walks over to Will’s side, sneakily giving him a kiss on his head. “I’m gonna head home okay? I’ll come by before class in the morning. Sleep well tonight, I love you.”
Will hums in soft acknowledgement, already too absorbed in the words he’s just found. He glances up in time to catch Carlton’s figure disappearing around the corner, then looks back down at the page with a small smile.
He likes Carlton. He’s good to him.
They’d met on the first day of orientation last year, both shuffled into the Fine Arts group, and clicked almost instantly. Carlton had made all the first moves - easy, confident ones - and before Will had really thought about it, he’d found himself in a relationship.
It feels good. Good to be wanted in a way he’d never known. Good to be loved romantically, openly.
He is happy, really happy.
He also doesn’t think about-
Nevermind.
Will shakes his head, refocusing on his work. He reads until the light shifts, the warm yellow glow thinning out and fading into a muted blue. The library darkens around him, shadows stretching between shelves as the sun finally slips beyond the windows.