Chapter Text
The dorm room smells like acrylic paint and the cheap pizza they had for dinner. Will's easel is wedged between his desk and the window, taking up more space than it should, but Mike hasn't complained once. The evening light slants through the open window, golden and warm, carrying the distant sounds of the city - car horns, laughter, someone's music playing too loud three floors down. Salt air drifts in from the bay, mixing with the smell of Mike's cologne and old books.
Will is adding details to a painting - abstract shapes in blue and gold that may or may not be forming into a figure - when he glances over at Mike.
Mike is hunched over his desk, chewing on his pen cap the way he always does when he's concentrating. His hair is a mess, sticking up where he's been running his hands through it, and there's an ink smudge on his cheek. He's wearing the Berkeley hoodie they bought together on move-in day, the one that's already too big on him, and his brow is furrowed in that way that means he's either deep in thought or stuck on a sentence.
Will's chest does that thing it's been doing for the past three months - swells with something so big and warm it almost hurts. He gets to have this. Gets to watch Mike work, gets to share this tiny cramped dorm room with him, gets to fall asleep every night knowing Mike is right beside him. Gets to wake up and see Mike's face first thing in the morning.
They've been here for two weeks, and it still doesn't feel real.
"Hey," Will says.
Mike looks up, and his whole face transforms when he sees Will looking at him. That smile; the one that's just for Will now, soft and private and full of affection. "Hey yourself."
"What are you working on?"
Mike gestures at his notebook with the pen. "Short story. Professor wants us to write about 'a moment that changed everything.' So, you know. Dramatic."
Will grins, sets his paintbrush down on the easel's ledge. "What are you writing about?"
A flush creeps up Mike's neck. "Maybe about a guy who wrote a bunch of letters he never sent."
Will's heart skips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mike's voice is soft, a little embarrassed. "I mean, it's fictionalized. Changed some details. But, uh..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.
Will crosses the small room - it only takes three steps - and leans down to kiss the top of Mike's head. Mike's hair is soft under his lips, smells like the shampoo they share because they forgot to coordinate who was bringing what. Mike tilts his head back, smiling up at Will with so much open adoration that Will has to kiss him properly, leaning down to press their lips together.
"You're distracting me," Mike murmurs against his mouth, but he's smiling.
"Sorry," Will says, not sorry at all. He straightens up, perches on the edge of Mike's desk. "How's it going otherwise? Nervous about classes starting tomorrow?"
Mike makes a face. "A little? I don't know. Creative Writing feels like... a lot. Like, I spent half of senior year fighting an interdimensional being instead of actually paying attention in English Lit. What if everyone else is way better than me?"
"They're not," Will says firmly.
"You don't know that."
"I know you." Will reaches out, pushes Mike's hair back from his forehead. "You're an amazing writer, Mike. You've been making up stories since we were kids. Remember that campaign you ran when we were twelve? The one with the dragon and the cursed amulet? That was incredible."
Mike's ears go red. "That's different. That's DnD, not like, literary fiction or whatever."
"It's still storytelling." Will nudges Mike's knee with his own. "You're going to be great. And if you need help, I'm right here. Literally." He gestures at his own desk, three feet away.
Mike's expression softens. "Yeah. You are." He catches Will's hand, laces their fingers together. They’re silent for a moment, both observing the simple beauty of their fingers intertwined.
"Still can't believe we're actually here, you know?" Mike offers after a moment. “California is so much cooler than I thought it was.”
"Me neither." Will squeezes his hand. "Did I tell you I found a comic book shop? It's like, six blocks from here. Way better than the one in Hawkins."
Mike's eyes light up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. They have this whole section of indie stuff, and the guy who runs it was super cool. He said they do signings sometimes, and there's a art collective that meets there on Tuesdays." Will's talking faster now, excited. "And my professors seem really good - I sat in on an intro session today and they were talking about color theory and composition and I actually understood what they were saying, and one of my professors has work up at SFMOMA, can you believe it? I can’t…"
He stops because Mike is looking at him like that again. Like Will is the most fascinating thing in the world. Like he's memorizing every word.
"What?" Will asks, self-conscious.
"Nothing." Mike's smile is soft. "I just like listening to you talk. You get this look on your face when you're excited about something. Your whole face lights up."
Will's cheeks heat. "Shut up."
"I'm serious." Mike tugs on his hand, pulls him closer. "I love that you're happy. That you get to study art properly now, with people who actually know what they're talking about. You deserve this."
Will leans down, kisses him again because he can, because Mike is his boyfriend now and they don't have to hide anymore. Mike makes a soft sound, his free hand coming up to cup the back of Will's neck, and for a moment they just stay like that - kissing slow and sweet in their tiny dorm room while the city hums outside.
When they break apart, Mike's eyes are dark and a little dazed. "Okay, I definitely can't focus on this anymore." He glances at his notebook, then back at Will. "You wanna go walk down to the bay? Maybe we'll catch some seals."
Will's heart swells again. This is their life now. They can just... do that. Can walk down to the bay whenever they want, hold hands in public, be together without fear or hiding or the weight of the world ending hanging over them.
"Yeah," Will says, and he's smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. "Yeah, let's go."
Mike saves his document - they got a fancy word processor for the room, split the cost - and grabs his jacket from where it's draped over his chair. Will puts his brushes in the cup to soak, wipes his hands on a rag.
As they're heading for the door, Mike pauses, glances back at Will's easel. "Is that... is that me?"
Will looks at the painting - the abstract blue and gold shapes that are slowly resolving into a figure with dark hair and a familiar profile. His cheeks flush. "Maybe."
"Will…"
"You're writing about us," Will points out. "I'm painting you. We're even."
Mike crosses back to him, frames Will's face with both hands, and kisses him thoroughly. When he pulls back, he's grinning. "Fair enough. But I want to see it when it's done."
"Only if I get to read your story."
"Maybe later," Mike says quickly. "Once it's finished. Once I've edited it like twelve times and it doesn't sound completely embarrassing-"
"Mike." Will cuts him off with another kiss, soft and lingering. "It's about me, isn't it?"
Mike's blush answers for him.
Will laughs, warm and bright. "You're writing about me and you're worried it's embarrassing."
"Shut up," Mike mutters, but he's smiling. "Come on, let's go before the sun sets completely."
They head out into the hallway, Will grabbing his key and Mike making sure the window is closed enough that rain won't get in but open enough to air out the paint smell. Their hands find each other automatically as they walk down the stairs, past other students' rooms blasting music or having loud conversations, out into the warm September evening.
The campus is beautiful in the fading light - old buildings and new trees and students everywhere, walking in groups or alone, studying on the grass or heading to parties. No one looks twice at Will and Mike walking hand in hand. No one cares.
They're just two college kids in love.
Will thinks about the letters Mike wrote, about all the years they wasted being scared. He thinks about the Upside Down, about Vecna, about how many times they almost lost each other. He thinks about finding those letters in Mike's room, about the way Mike's face had looked when Will said I love you too. And what a miracle it was to now live in a place where he could love Mike freely, and openly, like he deserved. Like they both deserved.
"What are you thinking about?" Mike asks, squeezing his hand.
Will looks at him - at Mike's profile against the sunset, at the soft smile on his face, at the easy way he leans into Will's space. "Just that I'm really happy."
Mike's smile widens. He brings Will's hand up to his lips, kisses his knuckles. "Yeah. Me too."
They walk down toward the bay, where the water sparkles gold and orange in the dying light, where seals bark on the distant docks, where the whole city spreads out before them full of possibility. They're eighteen years old and in love and free, and the world isn't ending anymore.
It's just beginning.