Chapter Text
The theater building was something he should've been aiming for since the moment he decided to go for his dreams against all odds and his father's disagreement, but he wasn't truly that interested in that area.
Mike Wheeler stood just inside the open theater doors with a folded orientation paper crumpled in one hand and immediate regret settling heavily into his chest.
Around him, the entire room moved with the kind of frantic energy that only existed in artistic spaces and emergency rooms in hospitals or at least that was the only things he could think of seeing that place as a wild thing for the first time. He could see someone balanced on a ladder while arguing about symbolism with someone being really comfortable to be hanging from the ceiling only with a rope attached to his body. Two girls near the stage were loudly debating whether red curtains were not so dramatic as the golden ones? And there was a guy carrying a wooden set wall that nearly walked directly into another student who was waving around a staple gun with terrifying confidence.
That was like having too many tabs open in your notebook, and there was even music coming from one of them– somewhere in the back, somebody was singing show tunes at full volume and missing every note. He thought every single theater kid would know how to sing.
Mike stared at the chaos for a long moment before he looked back at the paper in his hand. Maybe it would suddenly reveal he'd walked into the wrong building.
Theater collaboration requirement he read on it. Participate in one approved interdisciplinary arts program during sophomore year.
Yeah, he loved mandatory activities.
A student rushed past him carrying what looked like half a fake tree and it punched him right on his arm. Mike shut his eyes briefly. That had to be his karma for something, like, he knew he might not have been the greatest son and he knew he dissappointed his family in so many ways, but he didn't think he deserved it.
And it was so unfair because initially, he wanted to go for the campus radio station. Or maybe the media lab, something he was familiar with after so many years of being the president of the AV club back at school. Something involving wires and editing software and equipment he actually understood. But no– apparently every communications and tech-related extracurricular at College had filled up before he'd even finished unpacking his dorm room.
And because Max thought it was hilarious, she'd suggested being a voluntary at the theater production.
"It's basically organized storytelling for you, you know... Make scripts, you like that shit." Max had said over the phone two nights ago. "I'm sure you'll love it."
Max, Mike decided, was a worse than a criminal. She was such a liar. And he was stupid for listening to her.
"Hey, you!"
Mike looked up just in time to witness a clipboard being smacked onto his chest. A girl with bright purple eyeliner pointed at him without slowing down. "You're new into the crew, right?"
"Yeah, I–"
"Great. Sign in, if you know how to use a drill, you talk to Ben. If you don't, then don't touch anything electric. Someone already blew a fuse this morning and the director almost had a panic attack."
And just like that, she disappeared before Mike could even attempt to answer.
"I already signed up this shit." He muttered to himself weakly.
A second later he just sighed resigned and dragged a hand down his face before stepping fully into the room. The theater behind the scenes looked less like a performance space and more like a construction site that had developed anxiety just like every single member of it. All the students moved around each other with the terrifying coordination of people who somehow understood that environment. They reminded Mike of how ants moved, dodging the other so familiar with the flow.
But he didn't feel like he could fit there, not even a little.
He hovered awkwardly near the entrance clutching the borrowed clipboard the girl had shoved into his hands five minutes earlier without even trying to tell him what was he supposed to do, so for now, he was just figuring out whether if to leave immediately would count as his first academic failure.
His eyes swept the room automatically, cataloging exits before he even realized he was doing it.
Well, there was a door by the stage... And the side hallway probably led outside. There was a back exit near the lighting booth–
And there was a really cute boy over there, too.
Mike's thoughts stopped so abruptly it almost felt like a physical pull to his entire body because, near the edge of the stage and sitting cross-legged on the floor beside a scattered collection of paint cans and poster boards, was a boy Mike recognized instantly despite never having talked to him before.
Will Byers, the quiet art student.
Mike had seen him all over campus during the past year without meaning to notice him quite so much.
Outside the cafeteria, outside the library sitting under a tree with paint on his hands and headphones over his ears, so quiet and peaceful that he looked like part of the scenery.
Mike had noticed him because he was hard not to notice. He looked just so... Gentle.
Will moved through campus like someone trying not to disturb the air around him, while everyone else seemed determined to reinvent themselves at maximum volume in the new environment they were on at the campus, Will existed quietly at the edges of rooms, soft and careful and entirely self-contained.
And, unfairly enough, he was probably one of the prettiest people Mike had ever seen in his life.
Will sat bent over a stack of paper props, carefully painting gold lettering onto what looked like fake invitations with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing streaks of yellow and silver paint across his forearms. His light brown hair fell over his forehead as he worked, and every movement he made looked deliberate somehow, measured in a way that made the chaos around him feel even louder.
People moved around him constantly, but Will never seemed startled by it nor like he wanted to be part of it. He just quietly shifted to let other person pass when it was necessary, slightly hunching his shoulders inward like he was trying to make himself smaller inside all the noise.
And Mike realized something else after almost two full minutes of watching him.
He never talked to anyone who approached him.
And everyone seemed okay with it.
He saw a girl approached him carrying fabric samples. "Hey Will! Do these colors work for those costumes you designed?" She asked quickly, almost vibrating while she waited for his approval.
Will looked up for one fleeting second, and Mike caught sight of two startlingly hazel eyes before Will glanced down again. He tilted his head slightly to the left and then reached for a black marker beside him and wrote something onto a sticky note, handing it to her.
The girl read it.
"Oh! You're right, it changed to warmer tones. Got it." She smiled at him easily before hurrying away.
And just like that, Will returned immediately to painting.
Mike frowned slightly.
"Huh. That was weird."
"What's weird?"
Mike nearly died from a heart attack.
The purple-eyeliner girl with red hair had reappeared beside him carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder and looking at him with a suspicious big smirk all over her face.
"You were staring at Will for, like– a really intense amount of time."
"I wasn't–"
"You absolutely were. Don't worry, that's normal." She was also looking at Will's direction, only that she didn't seem too interested in him. "We know he's cute, he's quite popular around, but mostly inside the theater."
"Are– are you nuts?" Mike straightened immediately, his lips parting in disbelief. "I was just observing the surroundings."
"A really weird nickname for Will but, sure. Surroundings."
"I don't know what you're talking about"
Mike tried really hard to ignore her snort and how pleased she looked thinking she was right when she definitely wasn't. And right then he instantly looked back toward Will before he could stop himself.
The thing was, it wasn't even just that Will was attractive... Although, objectively and if he had to be honest and lying was a death sentence, yes, he was so obviously, ridiculously pretty. But it was more that– there was something strangely magnetic about him. Something that made Mike feel hyperaware every time his eyes drifted back toward him. He couldn't even read what he was thinking. He tried to see something, if he felt discomfort when someone talked to him and that was the reason why he never spoke, or if he was tired, annoyed. Mike didn't like not knowing what to expect.
So now his brain had quietly decided that he needed to pay attention to that person.
Which was annoying, honestly.
"Okay, rookie guy." The girl said, adjusting the rope on her shoulder. "Congratulations. You're the new script assistant." She shoved a thick binder into his arms before he could protest with loose pages that immediately threatened to spill out of the sides. "You're a Creative writing major, right?"
"How do you even know that?"
"Perfect." Yeah, she was totally ignoring him. "Now you're helping cleaning up and making revisions of the scripts because nobody in this department wants to format them correctly and our director thinks commas are optional. And he's also a perfectionist, can you believe that? Also, what was your name again?"
Mike looked down at the script in horror because it was so unpleasant to read, like, there were entire paragraphs that had been crossed out with a really angry red pen, it had sticky notes stuck out from every page like warning flags.
"What happened to this thing? This doesn't even count as a draft." It's more like garbage, he wanted to say, but Mike could also be polite sometimes.
"You can clearly see three theater majors ran over it and that every single one of them had a caffeine addiction. Again, your name?"
"It's Mike. And that explains nothing."
"It explains everything, Mike. You just need to know more about people here and then you'll speak that language too." She wrote his name on a sticker that she deliberately stuck on his chest and then pointed toward the edge of the stage. "You can work over there–" She said patting Mike's shoulder once, encouraging him. "We're trying to keep visual design and writers in the same area so people stop changing or correcting props without updating the scenes."
Mike followed the direction of her finger automatically. Directly beside where... Oh, Will was still sat there surrounded by paint cans, brushes, and neatly arranged concept sketches. His stomach did one very stupid little flip.
"There?" Mike said eloquently.
The girl grinned like she'd caught onto something not even Mike knew about, and he didn't like it. "Relax. He doesn't bite. He's quiet and calm like a breeze in the summer."
Then she disappeared back into the chaos before Mike could say another word but, well, to be fair he just stood frozen for a second right there were the girl– he now knew was named Vickie because someone shouted her name right when she left him– was talking to him, clutching the heavy binder against his chest.
He could still leave. No one had to know he ditched everything out of anxiety to work right beside someone he was just staring at like a freak.
But then Will glanced up from his sketches, and his eyes briefly met Mike's because yes, he was staring at him, and whatever thought Mike had about escaping dissolved immediately. Okay, yeah, he could do it.
The thing was... Up close, Will looked even softer somehow.
Mike counted how many paint stains where on the sleeves of his sweater, and there was charcoal smudged faintly along the side of his hand where he'd probably brushed against one of his drawings. He had several carefully painted set and costumes concepts that were spread around him in neat rows, everything impossibly detailed.
Meanwhile, Mike was standing there holding a destroyed script binder like it just survived a small war.
"Uh, hi." Mike started awkwardly as he lowered himself onto the floor a careful distance away to sit, while he inclined the stack of papers toward Will. "Um, before I embarrass myself further, is there some kind of secret theater decoding system for this? I don't even know where to start."
Will looked at him silently for a few seconds before inspecting the papers, trying to figure out what was he talking about. But Mike immediately kept talking because something about silence made him go a little crazy.
"I'm seeing three different handwriting styles and something that might be coffee spilled over it too, oh! And a note here that literally just says more yearning which feels so weird without context."
For one terrifying second after saying all that without even breathing, Mike was worried that he just said too much. He just couldn't stop, his mouth was faster than his brain in so many ways. But then Will's shoulders moved slightly and his lips curved in a silent laugh that Mike kept admiring before he could even stop himself. Will noticed immediately how Mike was waiting for an answer and ducked his head, reaching for the small notebook beside him almost on instinct. His movements stayed careful, precise while he wrote something quickly and turned the notebook toward Mike.
The red corrections are always from the director, but no one here knows what they mean.
"Right, so it's just confusing shit." Mike snorted. "Of course it was the director."
Will's mouth twitched again, and something warm settled unexpectedly into Mike's chest at the sight of it because everyone else in the room felt loud in a way that demanded attention, but Will was different. Quieter. And because of that, every expression he gave away actually mattered.
Mike realized again that he still hadn't heard him speak once. But somehow, Mike didn't question it. Instead of making the silence awkward, it just made Mike want to keep talking enough for the both of them.
*
One week into working with the university theater department, Mike Wheeler had learned several deeply unfortunate things.
First, theater students genuinely did not experience stress like normal people... They treated catastrophic technical failures as bonding exercises between every single person there. They even laughed about it.
Second, the director, Mr. Harrison, took mistimed acting starts as a personal insult against artistic integrity and himself.
Third, no one in that department understood the concept of soft voices. No one. They were always so enthusiastic even talking nonsense.
And fourth— Will Byers' eyes looked almost gold beneath the stage lights.
Mike kind of hated that he knew that just because the information had attached itself to his brain without permission after exactly one lighting check rehearsal where Will had walked across the stage carrying paint samples while the warm amber lights caught in his eyes just right and– that was it. Now Mike couldn't unsee it and, okay, it wasn't essentially that he was paying attention to Will specifically during the meetings, obviously. It was just difficult not to notice him.
Especially because Will moved through the theater department differently than everyone else, as Mike could see from the start. While the rest of the production team shouted across catwalks and argued dramatically over costume fabrics and nearly died carrying wooden platforms down the crowded spaces, Will existed in a strange kind of quiet orbit around all of it, and because of that, Mike had started recognizing him around campus a lot more, even when their majors were completely different and the art building existed practically on the opposite side of the university from the humanities department— but in passing moments that somehow kept happening anyway.
Sometimes Mike spotted him outside the Studio arts building with charcoal on his hands and giant canvases tucked against his chest. Sometimes at the coffee shop with a girl which he knew that was Dustin's friend if he remember correctly– which was also a big surprise on how little the world was– talking enough for both of them while Will listened to her, smiling quietly into his cup.
He even saw him once in the library at nearly midnight asleep on top of an open sketchbook and yes, Mike spent a few minutes looking how peacefully he slept.
And somehow every glance he catched of him felt like collecting pieces of someone Mike still didn't actually know which was ridiculous because they knew each other but they barely spoke– well, Mike did speak, and Will had mostly communicated through nods, written notes, and expressions so subtle Mike had started treating them like coded messages.
Still, a week in, Mike had become painfully aware of Will's presence in every rehearsal space. Especially when Will smiled... Which, unfortunately, had become something Mike kept accidentally trying to cause the first time they worked together alone.
Wednesday evening rehearsals were particularly chaotic because everyone was exhausted and behind schedule; the actors practiced lines too loudly near the stage curtains and always, without exceptions, someone argued about historical accuracy in the scenes beside the costume racks. A tech crew member nearly fell off a ladder while adjusting gels over the lights and Mr. Harrison stood center-stage looking one inconvenience away from a cardiac arrest.
"Quiet!" He barked, clapping his hands sharply, and the room obeyed immediately.
Mostly because everyone was slightly afraid of him.
Mr. Harrison paced slowly across the stage holding his clipboard beneath one arm like a weapon. "We are six weeks from opening night." He announced dramatically. "Which means if this production collapses, it will collapse on every single one of you."
"Comforting." Mike muttered from the sound booth.
Harrison ignored him expertly. "Departments are now being reassigned into collaborative pairs because we now have enough people to do so. Visual storytelling must align with the people in charge of the script structure and scene continuity." He pointed vaguely at several students while speaking. "Actors with costume design. Lighting with stage movement. Props with scripts."
Mike only half listened while marking cue notes into his script binder.
"You. Wheeler."
Mike looked up immediately just when Mr. Harrison pointed directly at him.
"You're working as visual development assistance."
Mike stared blankly. "What? I'm on the script's team already–"
A collective groan rose from nearby upperclassmen because they'd heard this conversation too many times before.
"The scenography team needs you." Harrison clarified impatiently. "Which means you'd be working with the environmental storytelling too. You're a Creative writing major, your entire academic purpose is understanding narrative structure."
"Yeah, with words." Mike argued immediately, already annoyed with the change of plans. "That's the important distinction here."
Harrison simply pointed toward the corner of the stage... Toward Will. Why was everyone always pointing in that direction? Mike's stomach dropped instantly seeing how Will sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by open sketchbooks, watercolor palettes, tiny stage models, reference photographs, and half-finished design drafts spread around him in his organized chaos, really away from the meeting. His sleeves were pushed up slightly, exposing paint-stained wrists as he carefully shaded details into a backdrop concept.
Even from across the room, he looked entirely absorbed in his work.
"Everyone else already has a creative partner." Mr. Harrison continued. "But William needs someone helping him maintain the thematic consistency with the revised script. Every change you both make or add, you update it into the script."
Mike looked back at Harrison slowly, then back at Will and then, sadly, down at his own hands.
Hands capable of typing essays at alarming speeds.
Hands capable of surviving caffeine-fueled all-nighters editing dialogues.
Hands completely incapable of drawing literally anything recognizable. Mike looked horrified at the realization that he was going not only to keep working on the scripts but also needed to do Will's work. Drawing, designing, creating.
"Oh, no." He murmured, trying to sound softly but he could hear how several students laughed.
Once, in High school, Max had described one of Mike's sketches as painful to watch and now he was somehow supposed to help Will Byers with art? That felt unfair to everyone involved. Mostly for Will.
"I–" Mike cleared his throat but something about trying to ditch Will didn't feel right. "Sure. Yeah. Totally. I can help him."
No, he, in fact, absolutely could not help. Not even a little.
"Excellent." Harrison declared. "Try not to ruin his process."
"Encouraging."
The meeting dissolved immediately afterward into movement and noise, students scattered across the theater collecting bags and unfinished projects with the sound of the chairs scraped loudly against the floor. Someone backstage yelled about missing extension cords and the music started playing faintly from somebody’s portable speaker but Mike remained seated for several seconds longer trying to mentally prepare himself.
Then, before he could lose his nerve completely, he grabbed his script binder and headed toward Will.
The closer he got, the more intimidating Will's artwork became– like, seriously, it was ridiculous and so detailed charcoal renderings that filled entire pages, tiny handwritten notes were mapping lighting moods beside color palettes and he even had miniature set mockups sat balanced beside carefully painted backdrop concepts.
Everything looked thoughtful and precise. Will saw details other people missed naturally.
Meanwhile Mike once failed an art elective because his papier-mâché sculpture collapsed overnight.
"Hey." Mike said awkwardly once he reached him. “Uh. Will?"
Will didn't look up immediately. For one brief, horrible minute, Mike wondered if he'd somehow interrupted him or talked in the wrong timing because that was something he didn't expect to happen. Did Will just ignore him?
But then Will slowly lifted his head, and there it was again... That stare. His eyes were quiet but intense in a way that always caught Mike off guard. Also, Mike didn't notice that he had his earphones on.
Will's eyes landed on him steadily beneath the soft stage lighting, so green and they brightened warmly at the center in some soft yellow and brown, with his lashes being so long that he could see the faint shadows against his cheeks. There was nothing dramatic in his expression, nothing openly emotional, but somehow Mike always felt like he was being observed too carefully afterward anyway.
It was deeply unfair.
Mike forgot what he was about to say for approximately three full seconds but Will waited patiently taking off his earphones, having the patience Mike needed when his brain just stopped working.
"So, I don't know if you heard–" He started quickly, lifting the script binder slightly like evidence. "Apparently we're partners for the scenography now."
Will glanced curiously at the binder that was almost falling apart and he remembered it, then he looked back at Mike. He kind of heard what the meeting was about like, really muffled by the sound of his music, so he gave the taller guy a small nod.
"Cool, that's great." Mike said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other awkwardly. "Just to establish expectations early, I should probably tell you I have absolutely no artistic abilities whatsoever."
Will brows lifted in surprise, tilting his head slighty to the right.
"I mean, I have genuinely none." Mike continued laughing at himself. "Like, if you asked me to draw a tree, I think legally it would qualify as a hate crime toward artists."
Mike was always surprised by how quickly he could come up with some nonsense in between a conversation and that was something most people found annoying about him, so he was prepared for Will's reaction to be the same– but he laughed. There was no sound, as usual, but Mike noticed immediately, even when Will was trying hard not to let is show.
"Oh my God, Will." He said, pointing at him. "Was that funny?"
Will looked down instantly like he regretted reacting at all and he shook his head, denying it. But Mike had already seen it, and that was when, suddenly, making Will smile again became the most important mission in his whole academic career.
Will reached automatically for the small notepad he apparently carried everywhere with him and wrote something quickly before turning it toward Mike.
I thought that you talk a lot, it wasn't funny.
Mike gasped dramatically, actually not expecting something like that coming from Will. "Okay, wow. That's rude."
But then another tiny smile appeared in his face, small and fleeting and somehow weirdly rewarding. Mike lowered himself carefully onto the floor beside him, trying not to disturb the sea of artwork surrounding them.
"I'm serious, though." He continued, not really knowing how to bend his legs without disrupting the order that Will had. "I don't know why Harrison thinks I can help you with the visual design. My skillset begins and ends knowing how to properly use the semicolon."
Will wrote again almost instantly after hearing him.
But that's useful for theater too.
Mike barked out a surprised laugh loud enough that two nearby students looked over briefly. "You know what? Fair. I won't complain again."
Will's shoulders shook slightly with another silent laugh and there it was again– that strange warmth Mike kept feeling every time he managed to pull some reaction out of him.
Will didn't seem cold or uninterested, that was one thing he knew now. Him being quiet wasn't the same thing as him being unapproachable.
Will felt more like... Someone standing behind glass.
He was still visible, he was there being gentle enough not to break the glass, but somehow, he still felt separated from everyone around him.
And for reasons Mike still didn't fully understand, he suddenly wanted very badly to be someone allowed to round the glass and stand beside him.
"So, Will." Mike said after a moment, softer now, gesturing toward the scattered sketches around them. "What exactly do you need help with?"
Will hesitated briefly before sliding one of the larger concept drawings toward him. Mike looked down, it was a set design draft for the play's final act; some narrow apartment walls leaning inward at difficult angles, heavy shadows stretching across the stage floor, isolated pools of warm light cutting through dark space.
How the hell was Will going to make that happen? That was totally a mistery. Because... Even without actors present, the drawing felt sad. Lonely, but beautiful. Mike stared for several seconds longer than intended.
"This is..." He shook his head slightly. "Jesus, Will."
Will visibly tensed at the intensity of his reaction. A whole exclamation point was written all over his face.
"No, no! It's a good Jesus–" Mike corrected quickly, looking back and forth from the drawing to Will. "I– I just mean this is incredible."
Will's shoulders loosened slightly. Oh.
Mike looked back down at the sketch again, genuinely stunned. "Did you paint this?"
Will looked at him for a short moment before nodding, still looking a little confused but maybe that was just his normal state.
"Okay." Mike muttered, exhaling softly through his nose. "So this is mostly gonna be me trying not to embarrass myself in front of the insanely talented art major."
That earned him another smile that somehow, and against all odds, made Mike feel that he no longer regretted joining the theater at all.
*
The theater building after evening classes had a particular kind of atmosphere that Mike still didn't fully know how to describe.
But Mike started to love it.
Which felt deeply suspicious considering he'd spent the first week complaining about theater students like it was a full-time occupation, right? But there was something about the place after hours that felt different from daytime campus chaos... It felt softer. Less performative, less forced, the entire building exhaled once most people left it when the meeting ended and there were just other students working on the props and scenography.
Mike arrived almost twenty minutes early and he definitely didn't have an excuse for it, it was just because he was especially responsible. And mostly because he'd been weirdly nervous about meeting Will alone outside the usual theater meeting when the place was crowded and a mess, and he ended up leaving his dorm too soon.
He would absolutely never admit that out loud.
The theater study area sat mostly empty except for a few scattered students working quietly beneath dim overhead lighting. Mike claimed a table in the far corner near the prop storage shelves before dropping his backpack dramatically into a chair and he immediately unpacked what could only generously be described as art supplies which was only a half-crushed pack of number two pencils, one pink eraser covered in bite marks from years of anxious chewing, a spiral notebook absolutely vandalized with doodles of his attempts on making dinosaurs, spaceships, terrible cartoon dragons all over and one deeply unfortunate attempt at drawing Dustin that looked like a direct insult to one of his best friends.
"I'm so professional." Mike muttered to himself.
A few minutes later, soft footsteps approached quietly across the floor and Mike looked up automatically. He knew it was Will. Of course he was exactly on time.
Something about that fact felt so unsurprising it almost made Mike laugh while Will moved toward the table carrying a large portfolio case against his side and headphones hanging loosely around his neck. His sweater sleeves were pushed over part of his hands like usual, and there were faint charcoal smudges on his cheek that looked impossible to fully wash away. Under the softer evening lights, he somehow looked even quieter.
Mike's brain supplied the deeply unhelpful thought that he looked even prettier, which Mike immediately ignored.
"Hey." He said quickly instead. "You made it."
Will nodded once as he slid carefully into the chair across from him. Everything about the way he moved seemed measured somehow, like every action passed through consideration before happening and Mike watched him unpack his materials and immediately felt academically threatened. Unlike Mike's disaster pile of school supplies, Will's tools looked serious; he had actual graphite pencils in different grades neatly arranged inside a worn fabric case, there were also charcoal sticks wrapped carefully in paper, blending stumps, fine-tip pens and his sketch swollen slightly at the spine from overuse. The pencils themselves had been sharpened down so much some were barely longer than Will's fingers and some of them were too tiny to use. Yeah, those were loved tools.
Mike suddenly felt like a toddler with crayons.
He clapped his hands together once to stop himself from staring at Will and his art supplies like an idiot. "Okay. Second scenography meeting. We can do this. Probably only you, but yeah."
Will glanced at him and slowly pushed a thick reference book across the table, Mike leaned forward to see it better. The open pages displayed photographs and illustrations of antique writing tools; elaborate feather quills, ink bottles shaped like tiny animals, engraved slates, old journals with cracked leather bindings. Beside the images were sticky notes covered in Mr. Harrison's handwriting.
Act two details suggestions:
Make props easier but pleasant to the eye
Don't use plastic materials
"Oh, that man hates us personally." Mike groaned immediately, and Will's mouth twitched faintly. Mike pointed at the page. "Okay, so our job is making stage-friendly replicas of this stuff, right? Fake historical writing props that won't fall apart during performances?"
Will nodded a few times.
"Great. Awesome." Mike grabbed a pencil confidently. "I can absolutely contribute to this, trust me. We get the inspiration first, then we build. Easy."
He could, in fact, not contribute to that. Not even remotely.
Twenty minutes later, Mike sat hunched over his notebook staring at what was supposed to be a quill pen. It looked less like elegant historical writing equipment and more like a dying carrot because the feather was uneven and the proportions were wrong, the center bent awkwardly sideways for reasons Mike couldn't explain because he tried his best. Honestly, the thing looked injured, like it was in pain.
Across from him, Will continued sketching smoothly and silently, occasionally glancing toward the reference book before returning to the page. His hand moved with impossible confidence, the dark graphite strokes forming clean shapes almost effortlessly. Mike looked back down at his own drawing. Then back at Will.
"Okay."
Will glanced up briefly.
With a mischievous smirk, Mike slid the paper slowly across the table until it bumped lightly against Will's fingers. "Look at this and tell me what do you think." He said solemnly. "Do you think is on a Da Vinci level?"
Will lowered his eyes toward the page after his words. And then– oh. He actually frowned. A real frown with his eyebrows pulled together slowly as he studied the drawing with such visible seriousness that made Mike nearly burst out laughing.
It genuinely looked like Will was trying very hard not to react.
"It's too terrible? Be honest, I can take it." Mike leaned forward onto his elbows. Will looked up immediately but added nothing, not even a shurg, and Mike pointed accusingly. "That hesitation was loud."
Will shook his head once, though the doubtful crease between his brows remained. Then, after a second of consideration, he carefully reached for Mike's pencil, taking it from his hands which made Mike go immediately quiet.
Will rotated the notebook toward himself before lowering his hand to the page, and Mike forgot how to function for a moment because watching Will draw up close was kind of insane. His movements stayed fluid and certain, pencil gliding across the paper with almost no hesitation and in a few clean strokes corrected the curve of the feather. More lines sharpened the pen tip, he shaded it and transformed the awkward flatness into texture and dimension so naturally it seemed real.
The ugly little disaster-quill slowly became something elegant.
And Mike found himself staring less at the drawing and more at Will himself, at the concentration in his expression, at the way his eyelashes lowered against his cheeks when he focused, at the faint crease that appeared between his brows while he worked.
It was unfair, honestly.
After another moment, Will slid the notebook back toward him and Mike looked down, looking back at Will in genuine disbelief.
"What the hell?" He said softly.
Will tilted his head slightly to the right.
"No, seriously. What the hell?" Mike pointed at the page. "That was garbage like thirty seconds ago." Will gave him a small shrug. "Dude, you fixed it so fast. I just blinked and now it's so good."
Will ducked his head slightly trying very obviously to hide his smile, to not let Mike see that he enjoyed his reaction. Mike felt something warm twist unexpectedly in his chest.
"I figured it out already." He continued, pointing toward Will's hand dramatically. "You're like some kind of wizard."
Will rolled his eyes.
Will rolled his eyes at him– but Mike didn't find it offensive. Oh, it looked endearing. He kind of liked it because of how honest and expressive Will's face was. But he loved the drama so he instantly gasped.
"Oh, wow. You're giving me attitude now too?"
Another tiny smile appeared immediately afterward and Mike wanted to keep talking just to see that expression happen again.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment after that, filled only by the scratching sound of pencils moving across paper and the distant murmur of students elsewhere in the theater building. It was comfortable because it was from Will, and Will was always quiet but Mike shifted slightly in his chair.
He hated silence.
He wasn't incapable of shutting up occasionally despite what his friends claimed– but in long silences, the heavy ones, those always made his thoughts too loud. It left too much room for anxiety to crawl in sideways and sometimes silence made him feel awkward in his own skin, hyperaware of every movement and breath and pause he did. Sometimes, his thoughts used to get too dark if the silence was long enough.
So eventually, predictably, he started talking again.
"Theater department's insane, by the way." Mike said while pretending to sketch another prop concept. "I just want that officially documented to another fellow crew member."
Will glanced up hearing him, looking at him briefly.
"I originally wanted the campus radio station. Which, by the way, I would've been incredible at. But apparently every communications major at this school collectively decided microphones were sexy this year."
Will's lips twitched faintly into a smile at the comparison, even if he really didn't understand the correlation.
"So now I'm here instead." Mike gestured vaguely around the theater. "Drawing haunted vegetables, living the dream."
That earned him another silent laugh from Will that felt like a small win for Mike, who grinned automatically at the sight of it.
"You don't even hide how much you hated my drawing." Mike narrowed his eyes at him but on a instant, he was laughing too.
Will shook his head once in amusement before returning to his sketchbook quickly, pressing his lips together actually trying to hide the yes, I hated it smile on his lips.
Mike watched him for another second.
Then another thought returned quietly to the front of his mind because, Will still didn't speak to him. Not once. And Mike still didn't know why.
He knew Will could hear him, obviously, he reacted too naturally to conversations, to sounds around him, to his jokes, when people asked him things. But every interaction stayed confined to nods, expressions, written notes, gestures. And, at first Mike thought maybe Will simply disliked him.
Now he wasn't so sure.
Will did react to him. Constantly, actually– just silently. Maybe...
"Hey." Mike said more carefully this time, trying to sound casual. "Can I ask you something?"
Will paused his pencil so quickly Mike immediately panicked internally. Did he sound too intrusive? He didn't even ask the question yet.
But then Will looked at him attentively, waiting for him to keep talking.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, obviously." Will stayed still as Mike exhaled softly. "I just, uh– I was wondering if I'm making you uncomfortable. You know, sometimes I can't tell if I'm talking too much."
Will blinked a few times as his whole face relaxed all at once with the question being said, and he immediately shook his head, firmly this time. Before Mike could even process that reaction, Will lifted one hand and tapped lightly against his own chest once, then he pointed toward Mike. And just like that, he gestured making a little circle with his hand using his index finger and thumb.
We're okay.
The gesture happened so quickly and naturally that Mike understood it instantly. And a warm feeling spread unexpectedly through his chest.
"Oh... Really?" He said quietly. Will lowered his hand again, nodding. For a second neither of them moved, but Mike smiled a little crookedly. "Okay, I got it." He said softly. “It's good to know, because I don't think I know how to shut up around you now anymore."
Will ducked his head immediately afterward, but not before Mike caught another small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
And somehow, for the first time in a long time, silence stopped feeling quite so heavy for Mike.