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Will has limited experience with being someone’s boyfriend, but he’d say that, at least so far, he’s off to a pretty good start.
This is probably not entirely to his own credit, though, because he’s dating Mike Wheeler, aka his best friend of thirteen years and quite possibly his favorite person of all time, so Will doesn’t even have to try all that hard at being a good boyfriend. All he has to do is act as completely, disgustingly gone on Mike as he actually is, and Mike seems entirely pleased with it. They’ve always had a sort of ease with each other, and more than one of their friends has pointed out the fact that they acted like they were dating even before they actually were, so Will’s behavior toward Mike hasn’t changed all that much - except that these days, he’s stopped second-guessing it. Some of the credit must also go to Mike, too, because he’s matched Will’s sappiness on every count, and Will knows that they’re both acting like lovesick idiots and still can’t bring himself to mind. After spending the better part of his life convincing himself Mike could never love him the way he wants him to, he’s thoroughly enjoying being proven wrong.
“Read me the crazy together one again,” he’s saying now, grinning widely as he tosses his legs over Mike’s lap, ignoring Mike’s yelp of protest as he moves his notebooks aside to make room for him, and flops backward onto the pillows. They’re in Mike’s dorm room, where Mike had been attempting to do homework, and Will is unabashedly distracting him, not that Mike seems to be complaining. He likes this comfort they have, even through the ups and downs and butterflies that come with the early weeks of dating someone. Mike is still just his best friend, the boy Will knows better than he knows himself. The main difference is that he gets to kiss Mike now, which- hey, Will’s not complaining.
Mike glares at him, but the upward twitch of his lips betrays him as he pointedly turns back to his notes and jots a couple keywords down in the margins of his book. “No,” he says flatly, failing to hide the note of amusement in his voice as Will uses a socked foot to nudge Mike’s book further away. “You’re going to mock me.”
Will gasps, feigning offense. “I would never,” he says, which, generally speaking, is a flat-out lie, but in this case is actually true. Ever since they first got together a little over four weeks ago and Will found out about the sheer amount of poetry that Mike has written about him, he’s been making requests like this daily, and for all Mike’s griping, he always meets said requests gracefully.
And he’s telling the truth - Will never makes fun of him for it. On the contrary, he’s entirely endeared by it, always blushing and sometimes tearing up when Mike shyly reads his poetry out loud for him. It’s just- it’s nice, okay? It’s nice to know that Mike cares about him this much, thinks about him this much, matching the way Will feels for him in a manner that Will could never have predicted.
Mike presses his lips in a thin line, feigning annoyance even though they both know he’s going to cave. “No. I have to finish my homework.”
Will whines in protest, and then he’s squirming around, struggling to sit back upright as he swings his legs around and promptly climbs on top of Mike, landing against his chest with a faint oof . “Please?” he asks, pouting exaggeratedly and hooking his arms around Mike’s neck, blinking innocently at him. “You can pick whichever one you want, even.”
Mike visibly presses down a smile, clearly endeared, and something giddy settles in Will’s chest, pleased to know that Mike Wheeler is endeared by him, likes him, writes poetry about him in his spare time just because he wants to. It’s an entirely foreign concept that twelve-year-old Will or sixteen-year-old Will or even the twenty-year-old Will of four weeks ago would never have dreamt of in a million years. He feels like he’s won at life.
“Fine,” Mike sighs dramatically, as Will grins happily and presses his forehead against Mike’s, blinking into his eyes. “Just one, though.”
“Deal,” Will says, and all fake-annoyance fades from Mike’s body as he leans in and presses his lips to Will’s.
Will hums appreciatively, squirming closer as Mike wraps his arms around his waist, and he feels a rush of content, a warm feeling spreading from his chest all the way through his body. He gets to have this. He gets to hold Mike close and kiss him stupid just because he wants to, and it’s only been a few weeks but Will already knows that he wants this for the rest of his life. That should be a terrifying notion, but it isn’t. Not even a little bit.
Will leans back after a few moments, swiping his thumb over Mike’s jawline and patting his cheek gently. “You’re so cute,” he murmurs, and Mike flushes cherry red as he chases Will’s lips for another quick kiss.
“Okay,” Mike says when they part again, Will’s arms still draped lazily over his shoulders, and he leans over to shuffle through his notebooks to find his poetry. “Poems for the cleric.”
Will laughs, settling more comfortably on Mike’s chest and tucking his face away against his shoulder. “You’re a dork,” he proclaims, as Mike locates his notebook and settles back against the wall adjacent to his bed, wrapping an arm around Will’s waist and holding him gently in place. He smiles, poking a finger into Will’s face, and Will lifts one hand from where it’s resting against Mike’s collarbone to flip him off.
“This is a new one,” Mike says quietly, and Will’s entire demeanor instantly relaxes, all teasing gone from his expression as he glances up at Mike, shy and anticipatory and ridiculously in love. Mike clears his throat, and Will can feel the motion from where his hand is placed over his chest. “It’s, uh, kind of short, but-”
“Mike,” Will interrupts, smiling and curling his hand gently around Mike’s shirt, grounding him a little, “It’s okay.” Mike is always so flustered in these moments, so nervous, like he’s afraid Will might judge him, as if Will would ever have anything negative to say about Mike when he’s speaking from such a raw, vulnerable, sweet place, as if Will has ever had anything negative to say about Mike ever . Even when they were fourteen and yelling at each other every ten minutes, in between battles with interdimensional monsters, Will’s never been able to hold on to any real anger toward Mike for more than a day or two. Still, Mike’s shyness, as he flips through the crinkled pages covered in his scratchy handwriting, blushing furiously - it’s kind of adorable. Will is kind of obsessed with his boyfriend.
Mike takes a breath, reaching up to run his fingers gently through Will’s hair. “Warm eyes, a steady gaze,” he reads off softly, smiling a little to himself, and Will has to work to focus on the words lest he get lost in Mike’s expression, so fond and delicate, “Staying close when I don’t expect it. Never cruel, never questioning. There is understanding in the silence.”
He falls silent, biting his lip as he stares down at the page, and Will follows his gaze, a warm sort of feeling washing over him as he looks over the words. He wonders when Mike wrote it, what possessed him to write such beautifully simple things. His writing isn’t always so uncomplicated - Mike has a tendency to word-vomit, to over explain, easily defensive, but since they started dating his poetry has gotten a little bit- calmer, maybe, is the word, even if it feels sort of reductive to put it that way. Like Mike is just as happy as Will is.
It’s certainly different from the first poem of Mike’s he’d read, the day they got together, which- had been sweet and perfect and beautiful , obviously, because it’s Mike and he’s all of those things all the time without even trying, but the pining had been palpable from the paper. Even Will, who’s spent years of his life convincing himself that Mike could never love him the way he wanted, hadn’t been able to explain that one away. He’d just known. Friendly, Mike had claimed as he handed it over. Yeah, right.
“Mike,” Will whispers, shifting around to peer up at him with wide, wet eyes. “You- that’s incredible.”
Mike flushes, flipping the notebook closed and clearing his throat. “Yeah, well,” he says, like a denial, and Will gives him a look, “I wrote it in, like, ten minutes in the middle of the night and it’s super short but-”
“Mike,” Will says again, laughing a little and placing a placating hand over his chest, “Stop doing that. You’re a good writer. Full stop.”
Mike peers down at him, a pleased smile stretching across his face, and Will smiles serenely back at him, steadfast. Steady gaze , the words echo in his brain, accompanying a rush of affection, a little thrill at the fact that Mike sat down and wrote those words about him , just because he wanted to, just because he was simply feeling that much. “You think?”
Will nods, pressing a kiss to Mike’s cheek, letting his lips linger for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “I do. But,” he adds, smirking a little, because he can’t resist, “You know, it’s about me, so I’m a little biased.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Okay, don’t make me regret showing you these-”
“See, I think it should be a given considering they’re about me- ”
“Yes, Will, I’m super into you, we get it.”
Will cackles happily, ridiculously pleased at the confirmation, and he reaches up and puts a hand on Mike’s jaw, guiding his face down into another kiss. Mike laughs against Will’s lips, shifting to angle his head closer, and Will almost wishes he was as good with words as Mike is, just so that he could begin to fathom how to describe the way Mike makes him feel, even if he has a sneaking suspicion that there aren’t enough words in the world. Mike is warmth and sunlight and laughter on early mornings, a strong and grounding presence in Will’s life, he’s- he’s everything.
He’s also entirely distracted right now, if the absentmindedness in his movements is any indication, and Will pulls back a little to smirk at him. “You want to write a poem right now,” he teases, hands still resting on the sides of his face, “Don’t you?”
Mike blushes. “Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, and tugs Will back into another kiss. Will laughs again, falling back against the bed, and Mike climbs on top of him, hooking his arms under Will’s shoulders and biting at his lip. Will shivers, melting into the solid weight of Mike against him. He feels a little possessive of it, if he’s honest, these good things he has with Mike. The words scrawled on the page beside them, the feeling of Mike’s lips against his own, Mike’s sleep-rumpled hair in the mornings when he stays over, arms looped loosely around Will’s waist and sunlight streaming in through the window- good things, all of them, Will’s . Maybe it’s a little selfish, but Will thinks after nearly a decade of angst and pining, he deserves selfish, a little. Particularly because Mike gives him these things so willingly.
“Hey,” Will says between kisses, hazy and kissed red as he blinks up at Mike, a memory resurfacing. That art show, next week, that showcase that’s supposed to be all fancy and shit, the type of thing you’d bring a date to, and Will- Will has one of those, now- “Speaking of art,” he starts, and Mike groans, rolling his eyes and cutting Will off with another kiss, and Will whines indignantly even as he pulls Mike closer by the front of his t-shirt.
“Mike,” he huffs, breaking the kiss again, and Mike whines in protest and continues peppering his jaw with kisses. Will is- not distracted by this, not even a little bit. (He is. Mike Wheeler is the single most distracting person he’s ever known, and that’s even before throwing in the- the kissing aspect of things.) “I’m not making fun of you, I was just gonna ask- uh.”
Mike leans back, blinking down at Will, who’s suddenly and inexplicably shy. He blushes, resisting the urge to pull Mike back into him and forget all about it, and Mike’s brow furrows in vague concern.
“You okay?” he asks, tapping a fingertip against Will’s nose, and he scrunches up his face at him.
“Yeah,” Will says, still blushing, Mike’s finger trailing over his cheekbones now, making his brain go a little fuzzy around the edges, “Yeah, I just- I have an art show next week and I was gonna ask if you wanted to come with me. As- um. As my date.”
Maybe it’s a stupid thing to ask, considering that Mike hasn’t missed a single one of Will’s art shows ever, or any event Will’s ever wanted to go to, seemingly content to be the loyal best friend who tags along to everything, genuinely interested in anything Will is interested in. And he- he knows he’s dating Mike, okay? They meet for lunch almost every day between classes, and Will spends half his life sprawled out in Mike’s dorm room just like this, blushing and sweet and kissing Mike stupid over poetry. But- going to events together, as boyfriends- there’s something unknowably thrilling about the concept.
And if the look on Mike’s face right now is any indication, he feels the same way. He leans in and kisses Will once, twice, grinning widely and blushing a pretty shade of pink. “I’d love to.”
Will grins back, flushed and pleased, and he still feels absurdly shy as he reaches up and trails a fingertip over Mike’s jawline. “Yeah?”
Mike laughs lightly, kissing the tip of Will’s nose. “Yeah, ‘course.”
Will settles more comfortably onto the bed, pulling Mike further down on top of him, chests bumping. “Dork,” he says, deflecting away the embarrassing giddiness still brewing in his chest at the confirmation that Mike wants this as much as Will does, even though he’s pretty sure Mike knows anyway.
To his credit, though, Mike doesn’t make him say it. “You’re the dork,” he argues good-naturedly, tucking his face away against Will’s shoulder and kissing lazily over his collarbone.
Will reaches up and trails a hand through Mike’s hair, smiling as Mike’s lips trail over his neck. “Call it even?”
He can feel Mike’s smile against his skin. “Deal.”
Will’s professor pulls him aside after class the next day, which has Will just about cracking in half with anxiety. He likes his art professor, he really does - a thin, balding man named Mr. Grimaldi, who reminds him of Scott Clarke, a little, if Scott Clarke was a gay art professor in Chicago rather than a middle school science teacher with an affinity for the dramatic. But being pulled aside after class, at least in Will’s experience, generally means words like I’ve noticed you’re being bullied again or why didn’t you get those assignments in, is something wrong at home or, in later years, Will, you’re a good kid, but math doesn’t seem to be your strong suit follow closely afterward.
Mr. Grimaldi does not say any of those things. “Hey, Will,” he says instead, shuffling some papers on his desk and smiling at him a little distractedly, “I just wanted to double check you have all the pieces you want in the art show next week.”
“Oh,” Will says, relieved, and glances at his watch. He’s supposed to meet Mike for lunch at the cafe across campus in ten minutes, and granted, Mike will almost certainly be late, but if Will’s late too then he doesn’t get to tease him about it, and it will be a whole missed opportunity. “Oh- just use the stuff in my portfolio, everything should be in there.”
Mr. Grimaldi bobs his head, pleased that he doesn’t have to spend time on a selection process. “Okay, if you’re sure,” he says easily, “Do you want to double check?”
“Uh- no, that’s okay,” Will says quickly, glancing at his watch again, “Just use whatever’s in there, there’s, like, four or five pieces, I think.”
“Perfect.” Mr. Grimaldi glances up, smiling, and adds, “Hey, nice work, by the way. I wouldn't have selected you for this if I didn’t think you were something special.”
Will, for the life of him, cannot contain his blush, suddenly understanding how Mike feels when someone compliments his poetry. Neither of them have ever been great at accepting praise. “I- thanks,” he says, flushed and embarrassed, and his teacher just grins at him. “Yeah, uh. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mr. Grimaldi bobs his head again and goes back to sorting his papers. Will catches sight of a watercolor he did last week and smiles to himself before promptly turning and rushing out of the classroom, checking his watch again.
Mike, shockingly, is already at the cafe when Will arrives, seated in their favorite booth in the corner and pretending to peruse a menu, as if they don’t spend the majority of their lives seated at this same table. He grins when he sees Will, waving happily, and Will’s residual anxiety and embarrassment over the art show subsides a little as he smiles back and slides into the seat across from him, leaning over to kiss his lips quickly before settling back against the booth and shrugging off his sweatshirt.
“Hey,” Mike says, looking ridiculously pleased to see him, and Will’s chest fills with butterflies, still unused to the concept of Mike Wheeler liking him so unabashedly.
“Hey,” he echoes, kicking Mike’s shoe gently under the table. “How was class?”
Mike makes a face. “Boring,” he says, which is a pretty standard response, even though he swears that he likes his major and Will knows that any inconvenience pales in comparison to Mike’s happiness at living out his fancy writer dream. “I haven’t understood any of the readings in, like, a month.”
Will raises an eyebrow. “Have you, like. Read any of them?” he pries gently. Mike Wheeler is a good student- in theory- but in practice is a bit of a procrastinator.
Mike pauses. “Well, no.” Will tilts his head back, laughing, and Mike grins sheepishly and kicks at his leg. “It’s not my fault! I’ve been a bit- distracted, recently.”
“Oh,” Will says, gaze softening and cheeks flushing pink. “You mean…” he taps a fingertip against his own chest, mouthing me shyly, and Mike grins at him again.
“Obviously,” he says, but it doesn’t sound sarcastic. “What, you want me to write a poem about it?”
Will blushes, picking up a menu and flipping through it idly. “Maybe,” he says evasively, something approaching flirtatious, something he’s getting better at doing lately, and Mike laughs softly.
“I will if you want me to,” he says easily, and even though he’s mostly teasing Will can hear the undercurrent of sincerity in his voice.
He bites back a gleeful, idiotic smile, and meets Mike’s eyes shyly. “I- well,” he huffs, flustered, “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Mike replies, grinning, and it’s good that the waitress shows up then, because Will is damn near close to melting, right there in his seat, just because his boyfriend is the sappiest person on the planet.
The waitress takes their order, and Will relaxes a little into the familiar routine. He and Mike have been getting lunch at this cafe a few times a week since the start of the semester, even before they were dating, but now that they are, it’s- it’s the best part of Will’s day, honestly. He has this- he has lunch dates with his boyfriend, nearly every day now, and they’re playing footsies under the table and sneaking smiles at each other and not even bothering to be subtle about it, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
“How was your class?” Mike asks, drumming his fingers against the table as they wait for their food.
Will smiles. “It was- good,” he replies, “I finalized the pieces for the art show.”
Mike’s face instantly lights up. “Oh, I was going to ask you,” he starts, all earnest and bubbly, and Will presses down giddy laughter as he watches Mike bounce a little in his seat, a bit reminiscent of a caffeinated toddler, “Do you want to go out to dinner before the show? To, like, somewhere nice?”
Will’s face splits into an easy smile, because yes, abso-fucking-lutely he does, and why does Mike even need to ask, Will would gladly have dinner with him every night for the rest of his life, anywhere, anytime.
He clears his throat and says, with all the faux-casualty he can muster, “Oh, yeah, sure, I mean- if you want to.”
The teasing note in his voice must give him away, though, or maybe Mike can just read him that well, because he kicks lightly at his leg again under the table and grins goofily. “If I want to,” he repeats sarcastically, “Sure.”
Will rolls his eyes. “I mean, if it’s so important to you-” he starts, and almost immediately cuts himself off when Mike chucks a packet of sugar at his head, “Hey!”
Mike’s shit-eating grin does not change. “You like me,” he teases, pleased, “You like me real bad.”
Will rolls his eyes again, half-considering making some dumb comment about how Mike is supposed to be an English major and he’s pretty sure phrases like real bad aren’t supposed to be in his vernacular, but he’s blushing now, and he doesn’t even bother trying to be convincing when he replies, “Maybe a little.”
“Say it,” Mike prods, as the waitress reappears with two plates and sets them down in front of them, and Will’s blush deepens. “Say you like me.”
The waitress catches Will’s eye, smiling in unabashed amusement, and he huffs in a long-suffering way as he mumbles, fully aware that Mike is not going to let it go, “I like you, Mike.”
“There we go,” Mike says, all too pleased with himself, and adds to the waitress, “So difficult , this one.”
She laughs, unperturbed by the utter nonsense that is occurring at their table right now. “I know the type.” She disappears back into the kitchen, and Will shoots Mike a withering glare that has approximately zero malice behind it. He’s never been a very good liar.
“You are so embarrassing,” he huffs, which is entirely true, but they both know that he doesn’t actually mind.
Mike shrugs, grabbing a fork and setting about cutting off a chunk of his sandwich with it, because Mike Wheeler is a weirdo who refuses to just take a bite out of his sandwiches like a normal person. “You like me,” he points out again, shoving a bite of turkey into his mouth, and his words come out muffled when he continues, “No take-backs.”
Will smiles, watching Mike swallow and take a sip of water, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. “I wouldn't even if I could,” Will replies, and Mike’s answering smile is worth all the embarrassment in the world.
They’ve been at the art show for approximately fifteen minutes when things start to go spectacularly wrong.
The evening so far has been, in a word, perfect - Mike picked Will up a couple hours before the show, on time for once in his life, and had driven them to a restaurant that was, as Mike put it, on the “fancy side of town”. This is, of course, an entirely arbitrary statement, because when you’re college students that work part-time jobs at minimum wage, anything beyond, like, microwave ramen and cheap diner food qualifies as fancy, but Mike was so insistent on it that Will had no choice but to give in. He likes this, likes seeing Mike Wheeler so- flustered, so pleased with everything Will has to offer him, all dressed up in a blue button-up and the only pair of jeans he owns that don’t have grass stains or mud stains or ink stains on them. He’s so- well, he’s a little ridiculous, honestly, but that’s always been part of Mike’s charm. Will feels like his heart is glowing.
But then they get to the art show, and Will immediately feels like something’s wrong.
For one thing, everyone keeps looking at them, which Will would maybe expect in a place like Hawkins, where boys that get within three feet of each other at any point are instantly labeled as freaks of nature, but here- in Chicago, and more specifically, a liberal arts school where half of Will’s classmates have piercings and tattoos and dyed hair and partners of varying genders, it’s a bit out of place. Most of his classmates are here, and he catches more than a few of them watching Mike and whispering excitedly to each other.
He and Mike spend the first few minutes wandering around looking at other people’s art- Will’s not entirely sure where his own exhibit is, and therefore isn’t able to lead Mike over there no matter how much he begs- and Will says hi to a few friends from class.
Then Mike excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and things start to go downhill.
The second Mike disappears from view, Kelly Jackson appears in front of Will, a vaguely manic look in her eyes. Will likes Kelly, he does- she’s another art major that he shares the majority of his classes with, and she’s always kind and welcoming and willing to lend him a paintbrush when he inevitably leaves his set back in his dorm. Will doesn’t make a habit of, like, actively seeking out friends, but of the few he’s made by circumstance, Kelly is by far his favorite.
That being said, she is also an incredibly peppy and gleeful sort of person, like Max Mayfield and Robin Buckley rolled into one, which is a frankly terrifying combination. “Will!” she chirps, clapping her hands excitedly. “You brought a date!”
“Um,” Will says, cheeks flushing on instinct, because while he’d been entirely thrilled to be doing just that- bringing Mike Wheeler as his date- he hadn’t really factored in, like, the public-ness of it all. Not that he minds , necessarily, but it’s certainly an odd thing, to have people he knows, his friends even, correctly peg them as a couple. “I- yeah, I did.”
Kelly’s grin widens, and Will, vaguely, feels a bit afraid. “Dude, this is so great,” she says, and Will- he agrees , but he’s failing to see why she would think so, because she’s not the one who gets to be all insanely into Mike Wheeler all the time. That’s just for him, the possessive part of Will thinks, and immediately feels guilty about. “We’ve all been dying to find out who this guy is.”
Will blinks. “I- huh?”
“Your muse,” a voice from behind Will says, and Marcus Jacobs, Will’s roommate and Kelly’s- well, Kelly’s something , judging by the look he gives her, grins at them both as he steps over to wrap an arm around Kelly’s waist. “That guy you’re always drawing?”
“My- you mean Mike?” Will squeaks, eyes going wider with every passing second, even though he knows full well what the contents of his notebooks are, the only possible muse he could have.
“His name is Mike!” Kelly squeals, as if this is a particularly groundbreaking thing and not a relatively normal name for a person to have- not that Will doesn’t like the name, but then again, he’s biased.
Is Mike his muse? Will’s never stopped to think about it, but he supposes Marcus has a point - he’s always sketching Mike, without entirely meaning to. Vague silhouettes always tend to turn into images of a certain curly-haired boy. Landscapes inevitably contain hidden clues about their relationship, things that remind him of Mike - a small swingset tucked away on a hillside, a D-20 painted on the corner of a page, and years ago now, a heart painted on chain mail in one of the most daring acts of Will’s life. Even before they started dating, Mike was always lingering in the back of his mind.
“Dude, are you okay?” Marcus laughs, significantly more calm than Kelly, who appears to be vibrating with excitement. Will is once again reminded of Robin Buckley, and makes a mental note to congratulate Steve and Vickie on putting up with her for so long. “You’re, like, bright red.”
“I am not!” Will defends, flushing even redder and directly contradicting himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Marcus grins, making eye contact with Kelly. “Byers has a secret,” he observes, far too gleeful. Which doesn’t even make sense, because it’s not a secret, and sure, Marcus has never actually met Mike, mostly on account of that thing about Will wanting Mike all to himself all the time forever and ever, and therefore making a point to only invite Mike over to their dorm when he knows Marcus will be out, but it’s not like Will was hiding Mike. He was just- enjoying Mike, that’s all. Probably a little too much.
“It’s not a secret, ” Will splutters, and if he wasn't red before, he certainly is now. “I just- uh, I don’t think he’s necessarily my muse -”
“He totally is!” Kelly interrupts. “He’s in all your sketchbooks, and you did that painting of him, remember? It’s literally hanging up over there.” She points across the room to what is, apparently, Will’s section of the exhibit, and to his horror, she’s entirely right. There are five pieces pinned to the board housing his work, and at the center of them all is a detailed portrait of one Mike Wheeler.
“Oh,” he says faintly, as Marcus and Kelly continue to regard him with poorly concealed glee. “Oh, um, I guess it’s- uh.” He coughs. “I didn’t know that piece was going to be in there.”
Marcus frowns. “Didn’t Mr. Grimaldi go over your selections with you?”
Will thinks back to his last class, Mr. Grimaldi pulling him aside, Will hurriedly checking his watch- “No,” he realizes, in mild horror, “No, I told him to just use whatever was in my portfolio, I didn’t know- oh, God .” He’d been running late to meet Mike, he remembers, and the irony isn’t lost on him.
Will is going to die.
It’s not even just the portrait, he realizes, as he squints at his own display and recognizes the pieces that surround it. His smaller pieces, the watercolors surrounding the portrait, have Mike written all over them, even if at least these aren't outwardly visible to the general public. A swingset, set against a green backdrop. A fort in the backyard built of haphazard tree branches, two small forms silhouetted inside. A basement covered in drawings. A cafe table waiting for its favorite customers. And Mike is here , and he’s going to see them, and he’s never going to let Will live it down, and-
And he’s back, actually, reemerging from the hallway and making his way over to Will, smiling earnestly at him and winding an arm around his waist when he reaches him, and despite everything, the warmth of Mike against him makes Will relax a little, even as he fights the urge to bury his face in Mike’s shoulder and drown out the world for the foreseeable future.
Will is going to die. There's simply no way around it- he's going to pass out and die, right here in this cold atrium, and it's all because of his own idiocy.
“Hey,” Mike says, flushed and happy, and Will wants to curl closer to him, drag him out of the building and back to one of their dorms and pretend that no one else exists. “Are these your friends?”
“Uh, yeah,” Will says, Kelly’s stare burning a hole in the side of his head, “This is Kelly and Marcus.”
Mike smiles, extending the hand that’s not wrapped around Will to shake both of their hands. “I’m Mike.”
Kelly's eyes widen, and her gaze flicks to Will as she continues grinning like an idiot. "Oh, I know," she teases, and Mike's brow furrows with confusion, "I've heard about you."
"You have?" he asks, glancing at Will, who is dangerously close to passing out from stress. He manages a small grimace that could, under the right circumstances, pass as a smile. Probably not to Mike, who knows him better than anyone in the world and has always seen right through Will’s bullshit, but still. He’s at least trying .
Kelly nods, even though technically, she hasn't heard of Mike, and starts; "Yeah, Will always-"
"Okay!" Will cuts in, finding Mike's arm and squeezing it tightly, attempting to ground himself a little, "It was nice to see you guys, I have to go talk to Mr. Grimaldi about something, so-"
"Have fun!" Kelly trills, entirely unaffected, and shoots Mike another megawatt grin as Marcus firmly guides her away across the room.
Mike glances at Will, eyes dancing. "You talk about me?" he asks, bright and teasing, and Will shoots him a withering glare.
"Something like that," he mutters, and drags him away across the showroom floor.
For the next hour, Will makes it his personal mission to keep Mike away from his art. Instead, he shows him all of his classmate’s artwork, taking as much time as possible to point out contrasting colors and shapes and positive versus negative space, and to his credit, Mike doesn't seem thrown by Will's weirdness, too enthralled with the atmosphere and the fact that he's here as Will's date to notice that Will is quite literally bodily steering him away from his art. He listens to every word out of Will’s mouth as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard, eyes wide, and Will, selfishly, is grateful that he’s capable of distracting Mike so easily.
"Do you know any of these artists?" Mike asks at one point, gesturing to the display they’ve been looking at.
"Uh, yeah," Will answers distractedly, doing a quick scan and praying to God his professor isn't anywhere nearby. "I have classes with some of them."
"That's so cool," Mike breathes, looking awed, and Will is momentarily distracted from his impending humiliation as he glances over at his boyfriend. Mike meets his eyes, smiling faintly, and he looks so happy, so pleased to be here with him, that Will has no choice but to lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.
Mike smiles at him, tugging him a little closer. “What’s that for?” he asks absently, as Will kisses his jawline quickly. He’s not particularly into PDA, but sometimes he simply can’t help it, with Mike. And if it keeps Mike distracted from Will’s embarrassingly sappy art, well, all the better.
Will grins. “I like you,” he teases, “that’s all.”
Mike laughs quietly, but Will doesn’t miss the way his face flushes, the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks suddenly overrun with pink. He wants to chase that blush, press his lips to it, but they are in a public place and Will does have some dignity to maintain, at least for a little while longer, so he doesn’t.
“I like you too,” Mike says, a thread of earnesty running through the teasing words, and Will allows himself to reach up and press his lips to Mike’s just once, quick and chaste. Mike smiles into it, one hand coming to rest against Will's side, and Will almost forgets about his impending doom until- "Hey," Mike says, smiling lazily and pulling back a little, "When do I get to see your art?"
Instantly, Will's happy buzz fades, and he bites his lip. "Oh," he says, "Uh-"
"Will!"
Mike takes a small step away from Will as they both turn to face Mr. Grimaldi, who's smiling as he makes his way over. "Hey, Professor," Will says awkwardly, blushing red. Precisely what he needs right now; his professor witnessing him wrapped up in his boyfriend, in the middle of the crowded room. "How are you?"
"I'm great," Mr. Grimaldi says absently, smiling. "I'm glad you’re here- and you brought your subject!" he adds, nodding to Mike, and Will stops breathing.
Mike glances at Will, confused. "Your- huh?"
"Uh," Will says, at a loss, brain whirring a mile a minute but somehow managing to fail to form any sort of coherent sentence. He doesn’t see a single way out of this conversation.
Mr. Grimaldi waves a hand vaguely. "His muse," he clarifies, smiling, and Will feels a bit faint, "You're in all his sketches."
Mike's eyes widen - in horror or glee, Will has absolutely no idea. "Oh, right," he says evenly, something resembling breezy , except that Mike Wheeler has never been breezy about anything in his entire life. But Will supposes Mr. Grimaldi wouldn't know that, so. "Sketches. Of course."
Were he anyone else, Will probably would think Mike was entirely unfazed by this information, but unfortunately, he knows Mike Wheeler like the back of his hand, and he can hear the teasing note in his voice, a cadence that only Will can read, a fact that Mike is undoubtedly entirely aware of. He squeezes Mike’s arm harder, and Mike leans into his side a little, an entire conversation in small touches and subtext, and Will very bravely resists the desire to bury his face in his hands.
"Well, not just sketches," Mr. Grimaldi continues, oblivious to the fact that he's slowly killing Will, "There's that painting he did, over there-" he gestures to Will's exhibit, and Mike's mouth twitches upward like he's fighting a grin, "-really nice work, I thought."
Will clears his throat. "Yes, well," he says, heart pounding in his chest, "I also did some landscapes-"
"Is that the swingset?" Mike says gleefully, forgetting to be subtle and squinting at the display and- yep, okay, he's definitely amused. Will wants to die.
"It's not not the swingset," Will admits in a mumble, and Mike shoots him a small smile.
Mr. Grimaldi's eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks. "Oh, you haven't seen it yet?" he says to Mike, who shakes his head slowly, still grinning at Will. "You have to! Really detailed artwork, very impressive-"
"Okay," Will cuts in, smiling tightly, "It was nice to see you, Professor."
"You too, Will," he says, smiling vaguely, entirely oblivious to the ecstatic energy practically radiating off of Mike. “And it was nice to meet you, uh-”
“Mike.” Will bites his lip, watching Mike lean forward to shake Mr. Grimaldi’s hand, entirely thrilled with this interaction. If Will manages to get past his swirling embarrassment for a minute, he can allow himself to notice that he, too, is a little bit pleased at the domesticity of it all, his boyfriend shaking hands with his professor, particularly when Mike adds; “Will’s boyfriend.” But it only lasts for a minute, because then Mike goes, “And muse , apparently,” and Will remembers that he wants to die . Clearly, Mike wants Will dead. Good to know that this whole time, his boyfriend has secretly been plotting to kill him.
Mr. Grimaldi smiles and nods approvingly, waving to them both before wandering off in the direction of Marcus and Kelly, who are arguing about color schemes in the corner of the room.
Mike turns to Will, grinning like an idiot, and he doesn’t even have to say anything aloud for Will to know what he’s thinking.
"Shut up," Will mumbles, face on fire.
"I didn't say anything,” Mike says, but he’s saying everything , edging closer and reaching out to spider two fingers up Will’s arm, flirty and ridiculous and stupid. God, Will is in love with an idiot.
"Shut up,” he says again, at a loss for a better comeback, and Mike’s grin only widens.
He pokes a finger into Will’s cheek. "Do I get to see the art now, William?" he asks, teasing and bright, and Will groans.
"Never living this down," he mutters, as he grabs Mike's wrist and leads him over to his section of the exhibit. Mike follows readily, laughing a little as he stumbles after Will.
They stop in front of Will's section of the wall, and Mike's amused demeanor slips away a little as he takes in Will's paintings. He breathes in sharply, face taking on a delicate sort of expression. Oh , Will thinks, as he watches Mike’s hand drift up toward the painting of himself, fingers stopping just centimeters from the canvas, like he wants to reach out and touch but knows he shouldn't. He looks as enthralled and surprised and sweetly endeared as Will feels when Mike reads him his poetry, and all at once Will’s embarrassment fades, because how can he be embarrassed about something that makes Mike look this happy?
"Will," Mike whispers reverently, meeting Will’s eyes, and Will’s heart does a cartwheel when he sees that Mike’s eyes are wet around the edges. Who’s laughing now , Will wants to say, except that there’s no earthly way he could pull off teasing Mike when he looks like this. "Will, these are incredible. I- you’re incredible."
Will's blush, which hasn't let up for a solid ten minutes now, deepens. "You think?" he asks shyly, ducking his head just like Mike always does when Will compliments him, unsure if he likes the role reversal but rolling with it all the same.
"Yeah," Mike answers seriously, taking a breath and seeming to regain some of his composure. He glances back at the portrait, a slow smirk spreading over his face and Will thinks oh, no - "But, you know, they're of me, so-"
"Okay," Will says, clapping a hand over Mike's mouth and forcibly turning his face back toward the art. "I think no more talking for a while."
To his credit, Mike waits until after the art show to start teasing him in earnest.
"I can't believe," he says, shrugging off his jacket as they step into Will's dorm room, "You made me read you all my sappy poetry, and the whole time you were hiding all this equally sappy art-"
"I wasn't hiding it," Will groans, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the bed, shoving his face into a pillow and wondering if it would be too dramatic to suffocate himself with it. "Not on purpose, anyway," he adds, voice muffled.
Mike laughs, clambering onto the bed beside him, and Will relaxes a little as Mike's warm hand presses against his back. "You don't have to be so embarrassed," he says, laying onto the bed beside Will, arm still slung over his waist, and Will reluctantly twists around to peer up at him. "I think it's cute. And I would have said that a long time ago if I knew , but whatever.”
Will purses his lips. "I'm sorry," he says, biting his lip. "I just- I mean, I didn't even realize it was displayed," he points out, which he's already explained to Mike, but Mike's mouth twitches in amusement again anyway, "But I guess- it just seemed normal to me, drawing you. I've been doing it forever- oh, stop looking at me like that, you could have figured that out on your own- it just didn't occur to me that it was anything groundbreaking."
Mike smiles faintly, his hand ghosting over Will's side and reaching up to cradle the side of his face instead. "Just so you know," he murmurs, "I'm not mad at you, or anything."
"I- I know," Will says, exhaling shakily and smiling as Mike's thumb brushes over his cheekbone, "I just- okay, this is embarrassing, but I spent so long convincing myself that you- that I'd never get to have this, with you," he confesses in a soft voice as Mike's hand continues stroking his face gently, "and now I do and that's so crazy to me and you, like, write poetry about me and take me to dinner and you care so much and I guess I just liked being so- important. Something that was just mine, you know? And it didn't occur to me that the things I do would matter to you too."
Mike's eyes dart over Will's face, traces of amusement still etched across his face, but his voice is honey-sweet when he replies, "Of course it matters. You're- you're not just important to me, Will, you're everything."
Will, inexplicably, feels like crying, and he tucks his face away against Mike's shoulder. "Mike," he whines, embarrassed, and Mike laughs quietly as he wraps his arm around Will's back and kisses the top of his head.
"Your art is amazing, by the way," Mike says into his hair, voice muffled, and kisses his head again. “Like, seriously."
Will whines again, shoving his face further into the crook of Mike's neck and inhaling his scent. He smells like the leather of his jacket and cologne and home, and the smell calms Will, a little. "Stop embarrassing me," he complains anyway, fisting his fingers in Mike's shirt and tugging him closer.
"Embarrassing," Mike splutters, leaning back, and Will shoots him a fake-wounded look. "Do I not write ridiculous poetry for you each and every day? Is that not literally how we got together? Do I not spend every waking minute explaining how obsessed I am with you?"
Will huffs out a breath, fighting with all his might to contain his smile. "You know what? You're right," he says, waggling his eyebrows, and twists around to face his bedside table, keeping one hand planted on Mike's chest as he uses the other to root around for the top drawer. He finds what he's looking for and sits up, throwing the binder down onto the bed just to the side of Mike's face. "Here," he starts, as Mike squirms into a half-sitting position, frowning, "are all the portraits I've done of you since we started college. I have two more binders back home from high school."
Mike's eyes get almost comically wide, and he lays a tentative hand over the binder, fingers brushing it with a sort of reverence. "You- you draw me that often?"
Will blushes, bobbing his head shyly. "I- yeah," he forces out, fighting the old urge to hide, to push Mike away, to deny, deny, deny. He supposes that, at the end of the day, that's what really stopped him from sharing this with Mike sooner. He's spent half his life training himself to hide his feelings for Mike. It's a bit of an adjustment to realize that he doesn't have to anymore. "Yeah, and I'm sorry I never asked permission or anything, I just-"
"Will." Mike glances up from where he's opened the binder and is flipping through the sketches, running his fingertips over the lines on the page. "You don't have to- these are incredible, I had no idea you..." he blinks hard, eyes falling back to the page. "You know," he says, and Will can hear the smile in his voice, "I have binders of your art too. Like, every drawing you've ever given me."
Will blinks. "Every drawing- Mike, I've been giving you my art since we were five."
Mike grins, glancing back up at him. "Yeah, they're categorized by year. I keep them in a box under my bed."
Will bites his lip, smiling. "Well," he hedges, nudging the binder closer to Mike. "You can add this one to your collection, if you want."
Mike's head snaps back up, eyes going wide. "You- really?" he asks, like Will is doing him some great favor rather than pawning off his mediocre and overly sappy art. “I can keep it?”
"Yeah," he laughs, reaching out to place a hand on Mike's knee. "Of course. I mean- they're just rough sketches, really, nothing all that fancy-"
"Oh, shut up," Mike complains, never one to allow Will to be self-deprecating for even a second, but there's no malice behind it when he sets the binder carefully on Will's bedside table and promptly climbs on top of him, knocking them both back onto the pillows and giggling into Will's shoulder as he yelps good-naturedly. "C'mere," Mike says, nosing against the side of Will's neck, as if Will could possibly get any closer. Will smiles, reaching up to gently guide Mike's face up into a kiss.
He can feel Mike's smile against his lips, giddy and warm as his hands press into Will's sides, and Will feels impossibly happy, like something's clicked into place, like he can finally relax and, for once in his life, trust that Mike cares as much as he says he does.
"Hey," he murmurs between kisses, hands tangling in Mike's hair, then running over his arms, restless but content, "You know I'm crazy about you, right?"
Mike's smile widens, and he takes it upon himself to cover Will's face in kisses. "Crazy together," he murmurs back, lips straying close to the corner of his mouth, "Right?"
"Right," Will agrees, mouth ticking upward, and it feels like a promise.
He drags Mike into another kiss, and wonders if Mike will let him sketch him later.