Chapter Text
His alarm went off earlier than necessary on the monday morning, the faint buzz filling Will’s dorm room. He was already awake. He had been lying there for what felt like hours, staring up at the ceiling, heart quick with anticipation. His first day of classes. History of Art, 9:00 a.m.
He rolled out of bed and stretched, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. The dorm was quiet except for the distant hum of voices in the hall, doors opening and closing. He tried to focus on the small steps of the morning instead of the day ahead. Clothes first.
He pulled on a t-shirt and one of his favorite blue flannels, buttoning it halfway and smoothing the wrinkles. His jeans were worn but comfortable, and he checked himself quickly in the mirror. His bangs were already slipping into his eyes, curls brushing his ears and neck. He shoved them back, didn't help — they’d fall again anyway.
At his desk, he stacked what he’d need: a notebook, a couple of sharpened pencils, his student ID tucked into his bag. His Walkman rested on top, the headphones carefully coiled. He slung the bag over his shoulder and took one more look around the small dorm, as if making sure nothing looked out of place, before stepping out.
The quad was alive with movement. Students crossed in every direction, shoulders brushing, conversations spilling into the morning air. Will kept his head down and followed the flow toward the cafeteria.
Inside, the scent of breakfast hit him immediately — toasted bread, syrup, and the sharp, almost bitter warmth of brewed coffee. He joined the line, bouncing lightly on his heels, and kept repeating his order in his head. Coffee. Bagel. Coffee. Bagel.
When it was his turn, his voice came out softer than he wanted.
“Um, just… a coffee. And a plain bagel, please.”
The worker barely looked at him, just nodded and moved. Relief slipped through Will’s chest. He fumbled for a couple of bills, set them down, and stepped aside.
Steam hissed from the espresso machine. His stomach fluttered while he waited, fingers tight on the strap of his bag. He told himself it was normal — everyone was nervous on their first day. Still, his chest buzzed too fast.
Finally, a cup of coffee and a small bag were set on the counter. He grabbed them quickly and made his way to a small table by the window, half-hidden in the corner.
The bagel was warm, the coffee too hot, but both grounded him. He sat there for a long moment, watching the quad through the glass, sipping slowly. Students streamed by outside, sunlight catching on the windows of the art building across the lawn.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the cup. This is it. First day. You’re here. You’re doing this.
By the time he finished, his nerves had settled into a buzzing hum — still loud, but manageable. He threw away his napkin, adjusted his bag, and stepped back out into the sunlight. The art building waited.
Students clustered near the entrance, talking easily, their voices overlapping in a hum that made Will’s pulse speed up.
He gripped the strap of his bag tighter and whispered the words to himself as though they were instructions: History of Art. Room 125.
Inside, the air shifted immediately. The smell of paint and paper hung faintly in the halls, mixed with the dust of well-worn floors. Posters lined the walls: advertisements for student galleries, flyers for art clubs, sketches pinned up with thumbtacks. Will slowed down, drinking it all in, until he realized he was standing in the middle of the hall and stepped quickly aside to let a group of students pass.
He found Room 125 near the end of the corridor. The door was propped open, a flow of students already filing inside.
Will hovered for a second near the door, the sound of shuffling notebooks and voices pressing in. He finally slipped into a seat near the middle, not too close to the front but not lost in the back either. He set his notebook carefully on the desk, lined his pencils along the edge, and folded his hands tightly in his lap.
Students around him chatted easily, leaning across aisles, comparing schedules.
He was adjusting the strap of his bag when the foldable desk in front of the seat next to his went down. A girl dropped into the seat, red wavy hair falling from the loose bun perched on her head. The strands caught the light, fiery against the dim lecture hall. She set her notebook down with an easy thump, the sleeve of her dark blue t-shirt sliding off her shoulder as she reached to fix her pens.
For a second, Will blinked at her, unsure if she’d even noticed him. But then she turned, her eyes startlingly blue, her smile quick and friendly.
“Hey, can I sit here?” she asked, even though she was already halfway settled in.
Will nodded slowly, his throat catching. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Thanks.” She tugged her bag under the chair and then extended her hand across the small desk space, grinning. “Max. And you?”
Will blinked again, thrown by how direct she was, then carefully reached out his hand. “Will.”
“Cool,” she said simply, leaning back in her chair like they’d known each other longer than ten seconds.
Before Will could process more, the scrape of the door at the front of the room cut through the noise, pulling all attention toward the professor striding in.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the lecture hall. “Welcome to History of Art . I’m Professor Andrews.”
The room fell quiet as the first slide flickered onto the screen: a cave painting, ochre figures stretching across stone.
“Art,” Andrews began, “is as old as humanity itself. It is storytelling, memory, ritual, identity. And for many, it is survival.”
Will leaned forward slightly, pen already moving across his notebook, trying to capture every word.
Beside him, Max tilted her head at the slide. “Looks like stick figures,” she whispered, smirking.
Will’s lips twitched before he could stop himself. He ducked his head, covering it by scribbling faster in the margin of his notebook.
As the lecture moved on — Egyptian murals, marble statues, the promise of Ancient Greece next week — Will felt Max’s energy buzzing beside him. She tapped her pen against her notebook, sometimes doodling instead of writing, and once whispered, “Bet the Greeks were just bored guys showing off their abs,” which nearly made Will choke on air.
By the time Andrews dismissed them, Will’s notebook was crammed with notes and sketches, and his chest was humming with the same mix of nerves and thrill that had been following him all morning.
Max shut her notebook with a soft snap. “So,” she said, turning toward him, elbow propped against the desk. “Where you from?”
Will blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… Indiana. Hawkins.”
She raised her eyebrows like she was trying to place it, then shrugged. “Never heard of it. Small town?”
“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly.
“How old are you?” she asked next, with the kind of blunt curiosity that made him flush.
“Twenty-one,” Will said. “You?”
“Twenty,” she grinned. “Got in a year early. Don’t ask how, it’s a long story. Why art?”
Will hesitated, fingers twisting the edge of his notebook. The answer was simple, but it always felt too big to explain. “I’ve… always drawn. Since I was a kid. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.”
Max nodded, like that was reason enough. “Cool, art is not my main course, I do a uh, math program but added this to have something else besides all numbers or else i would go insane” she giggled, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Well..See you Wednesday, Will-from-Hawkins.”
He watched her weave easily through the crowd of students, her red hair catching the light.
Max was nice. And very talkative.
He wasn’t used to it. But maybe he didn’t mind.
Will left the art building with his notebook pressed tight against his chest. The late morning sun hit him full in the face, warm enough to make him squint, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His first lecture was over, and it hadn’t been a disaster.
He cut across the courtyard, weaving between clusters of students who already seemed to know exactly where they were going, what they were doing. Back in his dorm, the silence wrapped around him like a blanket. He dropped his bag by the desk and sank into the chair, shoulders finally loosening.
The unopened shopping bag from Saturday still sat in the corner, leaning against his dresser. Will tugged it over, peeling back the crinkled paper handles. Inside was a brand-new set of pencils, the kind he’d eyed for weeks in catalogs back home but never thought he’d actually own, and a small selection of fresh paint tubes - he picked up ultramarine, cadmium red, a golden ochre that reminded him of sunsets. He lined them up carefully on the desk, the order deliberate, like a small ceremony.
For a long moment he just looked at them, palms pressed flat against the wood. Then, without fully deciding to, he pulled out a fresh canvas board from under his bed, clipped it to his easel, and set the pencils neatly within reach.
He didn’t have to think about what to draw.
The image formed sharp in his mind: fire-like hair tumbling loose from a messy bun, a dark blue t-shirt slipping down one shoulder, and those eyes — startling, impossible blue, like they’d pinned him in place from the moment she smiled.
His pencil moved quickly, sketching out the tilt of her head, the soft wave of hair, the curve of her grin. The lines weren’t exact, not yet, but they were hers. Then the colors came — a sweep of red, layers deepening into orange and auburn, paint glinting wet in the light from the window. The ochre bled into the background, warm, alive.
He worked silently, lost in it, his Walkman on the desk humming with the soft, steady sound of Joy Division. The hours slipped by without him noticing, until the clock on his nightstand nudged close to one.
Will blinked at the half-finished portrait, a little dazed, paint on his fingertips. He hadn’t meant to spend so long, but somehow, Max’s face had demanded space on the canvas.
He cleaned his brushes slowly, stacking everything back in its place. Physics was waiting.
The physics building felt different from the art halls - colder somehow, the echo of footsteps sharper against the tiled floor. Will paused just outside the lecture hall door, his schedule folded and creased in his hand. He checked it again, though he’d already memorized the time and place a dozen times over. Room 207. Monday, 2 p.m.
His stomach tightened. He took a breath, adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and pushed the heavy door open.
The room was larger than his morning class — tiered rows of seats climbing high, students already scattered across them, some alone, some in chatty clusters. The hum of voices filled the air, underscored by the scrape of chair legs and the shuffle of notebooks.
Will hesitated just inside the door, then slipped into a seat near the middle, same strategy as before. Not too close to the professor, not lost in the back. He set his notebook carefully on the desk, laid out two sharpened pencils beside it, then unscrewed the cap of his water bottle just to have something to do with his hands.
More students poured in as the minutes ticked by, their voices bouncing against the high ceiling. He let himself watch them without really meaning to — backpacks sagging with books, sneakers squeaking faintly on the floor, the faint scent of coffee drifting from paper cups. He tried to look like he belonged, even though his chest was tight with nerves.
A man with a crisp white shirt, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tie adjusted nervously around his collar stepped to the podium. His voice carried easily over the room.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Professor Ellis. Welcome to Physics” he began, smiling faintly, though there was a tightness around his eyes. “I’ll be teaching this course. It’s going to be challenging, but I promise, also fascinating, if you stick with me.”
Will pulled his notebook closer, fingers curling around a pencil. He watched the professor’s measured movements, the click of the projector bringing up the first slide: Newtonian Mechanics – Forces and Motion.
He tried to focus on the equations, the diagrams, and the professor’s steady explanation of vectors and acceleration. The hum of student chatter in the back of the room was low, almost comforting. He felt himself relax slightly, letting the rhythm of the lecture fill him with purpose.
Five minutes later, a sudden bang at the door made heads turn.
Will’s stomach tightened.
And there he was.
It was him.
The same guy from last week, the one he’d bumped into in the cafeteria. He was running full tilt, breathing hard, black curls bouncing around his shoulders. Backpack sliding dangerously on one shoulder, chest heaving.
Professor Ellis’ voice cut sharply through the room. “Okay, mister, what’s your name, and why are you late, on the first day really?"
The guy’s lips quirked as he fought to keep a laugh in. He ran a hand through his hair again. “Mike- Michael, uh, Wheeler. Sorry, I, uh…got lost.”
Ellis squinted at him. “Weren’t you enrolled here last year?”
Mike froze, shifting his weight awkwardly, glancing down at his notebook, caught.
The professor let out a slow sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Sit down.”
Mike’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the seat next to Will. He slid into it smoothly, backpack thumping against the floor beside Will’s chair.
Will’s chest felt suddenly too tight, pencil slipping in his fingers. He tried not to stare, tried to act normal, but his heart was racing as if it had recognized this guy long before his brain had.
Will tried to focus on the professor’s explanation of vectors and forces, his pencil scratching lightly across the page, but the sudden presence next to him made it nearly impossible.
He was halfway through a sentence of notes when a low, now familiar voice cut in.
“You’re the guy who doesn’t look where he goes, right?”
Will froze mid-pencil stroke. His eyes stayed glued to the notebook, the words he was writing blurring together. His chest tightened, heat crawling up his neck. His mind spun - a thousand little panic alarms going off, memories of last week flashing, his foot tapping unconsciously under the desk.
For a long moment, he said nothing, just kept writing.
Then - something inside him snapped, that little sassy, defiant part he usually kept hidden. A sharp edge to his otherwise quiet self.
Without looking up, he let it slip, his voice low but steady:
“Maybe you’re the one who’s not looking where you’re going.”
Mike paused, eyebrows raising slightly, a half-smirk tugging at his mouth. He leaned back in his chair just a little, silent for a heartbeat, and Will could feel it — the weight of that smirk, the awareness that Mike had noticed he’d spoken back.
Will’s stomach fluttered with a mix of adrenaline and dread. His pencil hovered over the page, ready to continue writing, heart still racing, mind buzzing.
Mike didn’t respond immediately. He simply glanced down at his own notebook, tapping a pen against it, but the tension lingered in the small space between them.
Will forced himself to focus on the equations, pencil scratching in rhythm with the projector. Every few seconds, though, he could feel Mike’s presence beside him, a shadow in his peripheral vision, the faint scrape of his elbow brushing against the desk.
Then the voice came again, quiet but sharp enough to slice through the lecture:
“You really should pay more attention. Or are you always this clumsy?”
Will bit his lip and kept taking notes. What's his problem?
“You know… you really should try out for football or something.”
Will didn’t respond. He kept his head down, pretending not to hear, tracing a vector on his page.
Mike leaned closer, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I mean, look at you. You’ve got some muscles there don't you. Did your dad have some military training before you got here or some shit?” His voice breaking in a laugh at the end.
Will’s pencil stilled. His chest tightened. His hands gripped the desk as memories - flashes of past pain and his father - sparked involuntarily behind his eyes. He could feel heat crawling up his neck, the familiar surge of panic mixing with anger.
Mike chuckled lightly, clearly thinking he’d scored a laugh. That laugh, casual and mocking, was the final spark. Will’s chest convulsed with the mix of dread, hurt, and defiance that had always lurked beneath his calm exterior.
Before he could think, before his pencil could make another mark, he blurted out, voice louder than he intended:
“SHUT UP!”
The lecture hall went instantly quiet. Students froze mid-scribble, heads turning. Professor Ellis’ voice cut through sharply:
“Mr. Wheeler! That is enough!”
Will’s own chest heaved, cheeks burning, adrenaline making his hands tremble. Mike’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a flash of amusement flickering before he leaned back, clearly impressed by the outburst but pretending otherwise.
Ellis ran a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Focus. This is a physics class. I will not have personal grievances disrupting the lecture.”
Will sank back into his seat, jaw tight, fists clenched around his pencil. Mike’s smirk lingered, faint but unmistakable, and Will forced his eyes back to the board, trying to bury the fire still roaring inside him.
Even as the equations filled the page again, he couldn’t shake the sense that something about this guy - irritating, intrusive, sharp - had cut straight to him in a way no one else had.
Low and deliberate, the voice came again.
“You know, for someone who just shouted at a guy for joking… you really need to work on those anger issues.”
Will froze mid-scribble. His pencil paused over the paper, hand tightening around it. Heat rushed up his neck again, a familiar flare of irritation and embarrassment mingling inside him.
He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes locked on the board, pretending the comment hadn’t even reached him, though every nerve in his body screamed otherwise.
Mike’s smirk was audible in the quiet whisper. “I mean, seriously. Yell at a guy the first week of class… Classic.”
Will’s jaw tightened. His fingers trembled slightly, gripping the pencil. Don’t give him a reason. Just ignore him.
But ignoring him only made the words burn brighter. The little edge of his sass that he usually held in check rose up, louder, sharper. He muttered, quiet but firm, not meeting Mike’s gaze:
“Maybe you should worry about yourself.”
Mike leaned back in his chair, smirk curling wider. “Oh, I am. But it’s fun watching someone else blow a fuse so fast.”
Will’s stomach twisted. He could feel the tension crawling along his shoulders, the familiar mix of hurt and irritation pushing at the edges. He wanted to shout again, to make Mike stop, but the lecture was still going on. The professor’s voice droned faintly, diagrams and equations fading into background noise.
His pencil moved faster, trying to channel the fire, but every time Mike chuckled under his breath or whispered another quiet jab, Will’s chest tightened anew.
Why does he get to do this? Will thought, hands clenching and unclenching. Why does he get to make me feel like this in front of everyone?
Students scrambled to gather backpacks, notebooks, and scattered papers. Will shoved his notebook into his bag, pencil tucked behind his ear, mind still buzzing.
He moved quickly, determined to put distance between himself and Mike. His bag bumped against the chair.
And then, right in front of him: Mike didn’t move. He was standing casually, backpack slung over one shoulder, smirk playing at the corner of his lips as if he’d been expecting Will to explode.
Will didn’t stop. He shoved past Mike aggressively, elbow brushing against him, letting his irritation spill into every step.
Mike’s dark eyes flicked up, catching Will mid-step. He scoffed softly, a low, amused sound. “Do you never learn where to walk?”
Will’s chest tightened instantly, a mix of embarrassment and lingering frustration boiling up. He didn’t answer. He just kept moving, forcing himself to breathe through the heat in his face, willing his pulse to slow as he stormed down the aisle toward the door.
Mike’s smirk lingered in his peripheral vision as he walked out, and Will clenched his fists in his bag, cheeks burning, heart still racing.
He had no idea why this guy got under his skin so thoroughly.
Will closed the door to his dorm behind him, the click sounding far too loud in the small, empty room. The tension from the lecture and Mike’s relentless teasing still hummed in his chest, but here, in the quiet, he could start to untangle it.
He set his bag down carefully, lining up his notebook and pencils on the desk. The new paint tubes gleamed in the afternoon light, their colors vivid and promising. He slid the Walkman onto his pockets and put his headphones over his head, music spilling softly into his ears. Joy Division, the steady, melancholic pulse of it filling the room, grounding him.
His fingers hovered over the pencil for a moment, then lifted, tracing the outline of the portrait he’d started of Max earlier that day. Her red hair, wild and vibrant, tumbled across the page in fiery waves; her blue eyes, almost impossibly deep, seemed to watch him from the paper.
Will pressed the pencil harder into the page, letting the anger and adrenaline from Physics bleed into the strokes. Every line of hair, every curve of her face, he captured from memory, from the way her presence had stuck with him in the lecture hall and the cafeteria.
The paint followed next, brush gliding across the page, laying down layers of color that seemed to shimmer in the fading light. Cadmium red for the hair, a hint of orange and auburn mixed in; the blue of her eyes deepened with careful dabs of ultramarine, catching the light as if it had its own glow.
He didn’t notice time passing. The music pulsed steadily, the world outside the dorm fading into background hum. His fingers were stained with paint, smudges on his knuckles, and he barely noticed the brush slipping across his lips in concentration.
For a moment, he allowed himself to forget the tension, the teasing, even Mike’s smirk lingering in his thoughts. It was just him, the canvas, and the memory of Max - fire and color and warmth.
By the time the song ended, he leaned back against the wall, brush in hand, staring at the portrait. It wasn’t perfect, but it was alive. And somehow, that was enough.
He set the brush down carefully, rubbing at his paint-stained hands, and let himself exhale fully for the first time all day.
Tomorrow, Physics would come again. Tomorrow, Mike would be there. But for now, there was only color, music, and the quiet satisfaction of creating something that mattered.