Chapter Text
It’s a Tuesday morning, the sun is out, and Jamie is on his way to class when he spots a familiar face—or the back of a head, really, but he’d recognize that bowlcut anywhere. The unwitting object of his affections is sitting on a large grassy field dotted with trees, a little ways beyond the concrete path winding around campus. Objects from what looks to be an abandoned study session are strewn around him.
He turns to the side, and dappled sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves above him dance across his face. Jamie’s heart leaps to his throat—that’s Will Byers, alright.
Will Byers is the boycrush of the art club. He has incredibly fluffy hair, wears soft knit cardigans, and whenever he shifts his head the light reflects off two tiny, light-blue diamond studs on his lobes. One time he showed up to art club in a black leather jacket and everyone had collectively passed out. Jamie swears he heard the girl behind him gasp when Will walked in.
The two had initially met through an oil painting course last quarter, though they didn’t really talk; Will was always immersed in his work, earbuds in, and rarely spoke even during art critiques. Jamie had almost found him intimidating at first, when his only impression of the other boy was a tired-looking mess who slumped into their morning class with dark eyebags and a sleepy frown.
But then they just happened to set up their easels next to each other, and whenever Will painted his whole face seemed to soften. It left Jamie stunned, the first time he saw that look, and he couldn’t help staring until Will glanced over and he immediately averted his eyes.
So maybe Jamie had developed a teeny, tiny crush, and maybe he always looked forward to seeing Will two times a week for their oil painting class, even if all they did was sit next to each other in silence for three hours. And who could blame him?
For their final project, Will had painted an absolutely angelic portrait of a boy with curly black hair, lovely cheekbones, and a strong nose. All his features were strikingly beautiful, but his eyes— oh, the look in the boy’s eyes--
It was the tenderness of a warm hand against soft cheeks, sleepy murmurs under morning light, secret laughter that echoed like wind chimes.
It was the love of hope persevered through lifetimes, of two stars among millions forever in orbit around one another.
It was the same look Will had on his face while painstakingly rendering his soul onto canvas, and Jamie can’t help but wonder if it’s Will’s own affections that are reflected in the eyes of the painting. In the end, he’s too afraid to ask.
Jamie had always been discomforted by the thought of others looking at him, by knowing that they were watching him through thoughts and preconceptions he had no control over. Looking at the painting, he understands a little more about what it means to be seen; he thinks he wouldn’t mind if Will was the one who perceived him.
Needless to say, Jamie was extremely excited when he finally found the time to attend art club meetings after an overwhelming first quarter as a transfer student, and he found that Will was a board member.
This was when they finally started to talk. He slowly discovered little snippets of Will’s personality throughout the weeks, like tiny seashells washed ashore and buried under fine sand.
A beautiful Tulip shell: he learns that the broodiness Will seemed to emanate during art class is really just awkwardness-- it’s surprisingly endearing. Will is actually incredibly dorky, sarcasm and snippy remarks falling from his mouth uninhibited when he’s around friends.
A lovely Sunray Venus: he learns that Will’s humor can occasionally turn incredibly dark. It feels like someone’s wacked him upside the head with a baseball bat when he hears Will joke about his brother looking for his corpse in their father’s car trunk after going missing for a week, then immediately moves on to talk about brush-cleaning techniques.
(He never elaborates on this tidbit and Jamie has an awful suspicion that he wasn’t joking. The other art club members tell him that apparently it’s pretty normal for Will to offhandedly drop horrifying pieces of what could easily become his villain origin story if only he knew how to accept that it was unfair for others to wrong him).
A delicate Sand Dollar: he learns that somehow Will has no idea how popular he is in the artist circles around campus. Underclassmen flock to the third-year like lovestruck moths to the moon, telling him “oh, this is so pretty!”, “I brought you a coffee, it’s on me, of course,”, “can we meet, in private? So you can give me, um-- art advice!”. Sometimes Will seems surprised at the attention, as if he can’t believe that anybody would find interest in any part of him.
Jamie holds all these tiny discoveries tightly to his heart, as if they could be carried away by crashing ocean waves any minute.
Anyway, he’s understandably elated when he sees the chance to interact with Will free of the others that usually surrounded him. Trying to calm his thumping heart, Jamie starts to walk over--and then promptly stops in his tracks when he realizes that there’s someone laying in Will’s lap.
He suddenly has the sinking feeling that he’d be intruding, and is just about to turn away when Will catches his eye. He automatically smiles, raises his hand to wave Jamie over. As if tugged forward by an invisible string, Jamie clutches tightly onto the straps of his messenger bag and makes his way over.
When they’re finally at speaking distance, Will apologizes.
“Sorry for making you walk all the way over,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake him up.”
Him. He gestures to the boy currently using his legs as a makeshift pillow, and when Jamie follows the movement he sees that the other boy’s fast asleep. He also seems… familiar.
The first thing Jamie registers is the boy’s black leather jacket—it’s the same one Will wore to art club that one time, and he realizes who exactly Will must have borrowed it from. He notes that more patches have been sewed on since the last time Will wore it. Or the last time Jamie saw Will wearing it, anyway.
The next thing that strikes a chord of recognition is the hair- those familiar loose curls, spilling down to his shoulder. He’d seen Will carefully painting every curl and flyaway for weeks.
Now, one of Will’s hands idly comb through the dark strands.
Still asleep, the boy shifts slightly so his face is no longer buried into Will’s stomach. Jamie’s almost afraid to look, but he can’t stop his eyes from drifting down to rest upon a set of straight brows, relaxed in repose, then a high nose, sharp cheekbones, full lips.
All this, he recognizes- had glimpsed their careful recreation on canvas over several weeks without knowing who they belonged to.
He suddenly comes to the startling realization that he somehow already knows what it’s like to love all these features, solely through the eyes of another; the boy probably doesn’t even know that Jamie exists, and yet Jamie knows that he is loved, how he is loved.
His eyes are closed, but Jamie can picture the dark brown pupils perfectly—or maybe the dark-haired boy would wake, and he’d see that they look completely different when gazing upon anyone but their painter.
He remains asleep, dozing peacefully in the lap of the boy who’d been occupying Jamie’s thoughts for months, but Jamie thinks he knows what the answer would be. It makes his heart drop, his throat constrict. The heaviness of his emotions surprises him. It’s not like he knew Will well enough to truly fall in love, and good thing, too; it’s clearly a hopeless endeavor.
Belatedly, he realizes that he should probably say something back.
Jamie clears his throat awkwardly. “No, it’s—it’s fine.”
He tries not to stare, but Will catches on anyway.
“Oh! This is my boyfriend, Mike. Sorry he’s not awake to say hello.” He sounds bashful, almost shy to admit it out loud. Jamie kind of wants to scream.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies instead, and desperately hopes that his face isn’t giving anything away.
“Have you been—”
“I should go—”
Jamie cringes at the interruption and hurries to finish.
“—go to class, I mean! I have a vis course in five minutes.”
If he didn’t know better now, Jamie would think that Will looked disappointed--? Nope! stop! Don’t think about it!
If he was disappointed, Will doesn’t show it.
“See you at art club, then?”
“Yes! Yeah-- see you.” Without another word, Jamie turns tail and flees. As he speed-walks away, he can’t help but wonder if the boy—Mike—knows just how lucky he is.
Alone together again, Mike opens one eye to peek up at Will. A teasing grin spreads across his face.
“Oooh, did you just call me your boyfriend?”
Will isn’t surprised to see him awake, and pokes him on the cheek in retribution. He feels pleasantly warm under the tingling patches of sunlight, comfortable under the weight of his boyfriend’s head on his lap, indulgent to his teasing.
“Should I have called you something else?” he asks, amused.
“Nooo I’m kidding. It’s fine—it’s perfect. I like hearing you say it. You should say it more.”
“I call you my boyfriend all the time.”
“Clearly not enough!”
Will frowns a little, and bats Mike’s hand away when he reaches up to try and poke the furrow between Will’s brows.
“What do you mean?”
Mike gives him a look, and adjusts himself on Will’s lap so he’s fully facing up.
“Will, the guy you just talked to literally has the fattest crush on you.”
“Don’t be mean,” Will scolds.
“No, seriously.” It’s Mike’s turn to frown now, as if personally offended by Will’s obliviousness. Which—considering his past history of interacting with Will, is really just a little hypocritical. In Will’s opinion.
“First of all, it’s not mean to say that someone has a crush on you. Second of all, the awkwardness? The running away? The signs are all there!”
Will raises a single brow. “Awkward and running away? So, like, you in high school?”
He means it lightheartedly; the two of them have been dating for nearly four years now, any past fractures between their relationship carefully filled in by months of relearning each other as partners. He’d long forgiven Mike for their awkward teenage summers despite Mike’s insistence that he shouldn’t.
As expected, Mike easily takes the comment in stride.
“Yes, exactly like me!” he says, with a little too much pride for what he’s admitting to. He throws his arms out in exclamation and Will has to tilt his head back to avoid being wacked.
“Well, I’m glad you’re finally self-aware.”
“However,” Mike continues, as if he didn’t hear Will at all, “unlike that person—” (“he has a name, Mike”) “—I am your boyfriend!”
“Okay...”
Mike presses an impatient finger against Will’s lips to shush him.
“And you might not think that people have crushes on you but I am the expert in loving you and know every reason why someone would. Which obviously they wouldn’t know because only I’m allowed to but still!”
Will would laugh at the way Mike’s talking himself in circles, if only he weren’t so genuinely charmed by it all.
“Anyway I’m going to remind you of every reason why I love you, because you’re wonderful and amazing and you always forget it.” Oh--
“I love the way you can focus on a painting for hours at a time, and the way your hair looks in the morning.”
Will glances away in embarrassment, his face aflame. Mike sits up and gently turns Will’s face toward him with two hands.
“I love the sound of your laugh, and how you’re nice to everyone even though it makes you nervous.”
“Mike, okay, I get it!” Will slaps a hand over his mouth but Mike shakes it off like a petulant dog and continues.
“I love that you come to all my concerts, and that you make an effort to get to know my friends.”
Will resorts to using both hands to desperately try and shut Mike up by any means necessary, asphyxiation included, and Mike drops Will’s face as he attempts to fend off the other boy.
“I love the way you never give up on yourself—ow! Will-- and I—ack-- I love the way you make me feel!”
“Miiiike, enough already,” Will whines, and he knows their conversation is rising in volume but he can’t find it in himself to care-- his heart feels fit to burst.
At this point they’re both grappling on their knees like play-fighting children, giggling too hard to exert any real strength.
Every press of their hands against one another is exhilarating, leaves Will laughing breathlessly. Their childhood had been filled with its fair share of hugs and bed-sharing, but it’d been so incredibly distant between them for the two years before they started dating-- when Will had thought that it was time for him to finally draw away from his unrequited love, and when Mike slowly came to terms with how maybe his feelings for Will weren’t quite as platonic as he’d thought.
Even when they’d returned to semi-awkward hugs and sitting with their shoulders touching, legs pressed together on the packed couch in Mike’s basement, Will was torn by the knowledge that Mike wasn’t truly his to hold. The warmth between them would never mean what he yearned for it to be; he simultaneously wanted to recoil from the touch and reach toward it like a sunflower craning to find the sun.
It’d been a rough time, to say the least.
Now, with each touch between them easy and casual, Will is absolutely obsessed. He can reach over to brush away Mike’s hair, link their fingers together, press his lips wherever he wished, knowing the meaning behind each movement. Each connection between them, no matter how chaste, feels romantic. He’ll never get sick of it—can never get enough of it.
As if to prove him wrong, Mike suddenly licks the palm pressed over his mouth and Will jerks back with a screech of disgust.
He tries wiping the saliva off in the grass below him, but all that does is smear his hand with streaks of dirt. Will stares at his mucked-up hand for a second and then levels Mike with the most disgusted look he can muster.
Mike immediately flips his expression to look as apologetic as possible, though it’s obvious he’s just barely holding in a torrent of laughter. It threatens to spill out from the corners of his mischievous smile, like water boiling over and upending the lid of its pot.
“I’m sorry! I’ll treat you to coffee to prove my sincerity,” he offers, as if they don’t regularly buy drinks for each other already. Still, Will’s too high-spirited to continue feigning upset and he lets his lips quirk up in a smile-- Mike’s grin turns bright when he sees it. It’s unbearably charming.
Will tears his gaze away to check the time on his phone, and sees that classes started just a couple minutes ago; if they head to the campus café it should be relatively empty for the next hour. He starts throwing the stray pens and notebooks strewn about back into his bag, and Mike immediately follow suit. He stands up, brushing off the grass that'd stuck to his clothes during their little tussle, and extracts a dandelion leaf from Will's hair.
It’s only when they’ve packed up their things and are on their way off the field, Mike gesticulating wildly while he tells Will about his creative writing class, that Will realizes Mike’s tricked him into abandoning their studying for an impromptu date. Oh well- they weren’t really getting any studying done anyway.
He reaches out toward Mike, twining their fingers together, and Mike continues ranting without a pause. He swings their hands together, as if still itching to throw his hands about while speaking but unwilling to let go. Will’s whole body feels warm, content, and it has nothing to do with the sun.