Chapter Text
Mike thought college would be a change of pace. Vecna was gone. The Party was healing. Everything for the first time in years felt okay. Or at least okay enough. He stood on his tiptoes, carefully adjusting the decorations on his side of the dorm room wall, treating each one like it was fragile, like it mattered where it went.
A D&D painting Will made for him hung slightly crooked, the colors bright and earnest in a way that only Will ever managed. Mike fixed it twice before stepping back. Next to it was a Ghostbusters poster Lucas had insisted he take. Below that, taped a little sloppily, was a stick figure drawing of him and El that she’d done years ago, both of them smiling too big, holding hands that barely connected. The Hellfire Club T-shirt Dustin had thrown at his face the day Mike left Hawkins was folded and pinned like a banner. A bent street sign Max stole (borrowed, she’d corrected) leaned against the wall near his desk. And tucked carefully between everything was a Polaroid Jonathan had taken of him and his sisters, the edges faded.Each item was a little piece of home. Proof that Hawkins had been real. That it hadn’t all been some long, violent fever dream.
He stepped back, hands on his hips, studying the way it all looked together. It was weird, seeing these memories from Hawkins plastered against a beige dorm wall that smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old carpet. The room itself felt temporary, too clean, too generic, but his things fought against it, loud with history. It made him feel older and younger all at once. Like he’d lived a whole lifetime before turning eighteen. Like he’d already done the hardest parts and now didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the quiet aftermath.
What he hadn’t expected, though, was how quiet college felt. Not just the lack of monsters or government agents or impending doom. Just… quiet. No Will humming softly while he sketched at the kitchen table, pencil tapping in thought. No Dustin rambling about a new build or a theory he’d definitely lose track of halfway through. No Lucas tossing popcorn at people during movie nights and pretending it wasn’t on purpose. No El curled up beside him, asking questions only she could ask, questions that made him think about the world differently.
The silence here didn’t feel earned. It just existed.
He checked his phone out of habit, thumb hovering for a moment before unlocking it. No new messages. The group chat was quiet today, the way it had been more often lately. Will was probably at orientation, notebook already filled with doodles. Dustin was on a different campus thousands of miles away, probably making five new best friends already and annoying every single one of them. Lucas was helping Max move into the accessibility dorms at her school, pretending he wasn’t nervous while she pretended she wasn’t scared. El… he wasn’t sure. Probably backpacking in the peaceful countryside. Exploring forests and open skies and all the things she never got to see growing up. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Growing up was supposed to be like leveling up. New skills, better armor, more freedom. But instead it felt like everyone had been split into different parties, sent down separate paths without a clear map. Mike exhaled slowly and lay back on the mattress, the springs creaking beneath him, staring up at the popcorn ceiling speckled with tiny shadows. He should explore campus. Learn where his classes were. Read through the syllabus packets sitting unopened in his backpack. Be a normal college student. Do normal college things.
But all he could think about was how different everything felt, how far away Hawkins seemed, like it belonged to another version of him. A version who knew where he stood. A version who wasn’t constantly second-guessing what he missed, or who he missed most.
Oh. Right. His roommate. The handle twisted, and Mike sat up fast, heart jumping, trying to look like he hadn’t been dramatically contemplating the ceiling and his entire life's trajectory.
Fuck. No.
As soon as the guy walked in he immediately recognized him. Chance. Fucking. Romanillos. One of the assholes Jason Carver had surrounded himself with. Just another brainless jock on the high school basketball team. The guy moved like he owned the space, tossing his bag onto the bed with zero consideration, like he hadn't made their lives miserable for the last few years of high school. Fate was a sick bitch, putting him at the same college, let alone the same room.
Meanwhile, Chance had no idea who this guy was, or why he looked like he wanted his head on a stick. “Uh, hey. I'm Chance.” He gave an awkward wave, shoving a hoodie into a drawer. “I'm just going to start putting my stuff up.” He motioned vaguely to the wall. Mike just stared, frozen, watching as Chance pinned up a high school jersey, a team photo, and… a painting. A tiger. Bold, bright colors, chaotic but strangely precise. It screamed Will Byers. Mike blinked. Wait. Will’s art style? What the fuck…?
Chance caught Mike staring and gave him that same crooked smile that had probably won over half of Hawkins High, the one Mike still remembered with a low, simmering annoyance. “Cool, right? My friend painted that,” Chance said again, glancing at the tiger. He didn’t elaborate. Just kept on organizing his things.
Mike’s jaw tightened. “Uh… right,” he said, forcing himself to look away, to the posters and the garish carpet instead of at Chance’s hands, which lingered just a little too long on the painting, like it meant something he couldn’t or wouldn’t say. His mind buzzed with half-formed suspicions, but he shoved them down. Chance was straight. That was obvious. Stupid Jock with more muscles than brain. It was funny to even have the thought of him being gay. Especially hanging out with Will of all people. The fruit cup of Hawkins high.
“I have to head out for basketball orientation. We’ll, I guess, figure out the rest later. You know, room stuff.” Chance gave an awkward smile as he put up his last poster. Mike exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, sure. Room stuff,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and was more annoyed. He was tired of this obvious fake nice bull crap.