Chapter Text
Instead of spending that weekend basking in the laziness of time uninhibited by obligations, Will found himself scrambling. The half-baked lie he told Carlton of the comic had now turned into potentially the biggest project that he would undertake thus far at NYU. Luckily, his boyfriend was away most weekends for work—he didn’t have to worry about being interrogated as to why he was spending his precious free time in the art studio.
After kissing Carlton goodbye that Saturday morning, Will quickly got dressed, throwing on a pair of black jeans, a black button-up, and black Doc Martens. He fled down the steps from his apartment building to the street. The air was warm, but not quite stifling yet, the morning sun bestowing a kiss of warmth on his crown. Instead of taking the subway, Will elected to walk the several blocks to the studio. Sliding his headphones over his ears, he clicked his Rumours cassette tape into his Walkman, letting Fleetwood Mac guide his mind into a creative state.
While he walked and listened, he started to piece together a vision for his project, daydreaming in swatches of gold and blue. He knew that he wanted to paint the courage that El had emanated until her dying breath. If he was going to actualize this intimate chapter of his life, then he was determined to breathe justice into every color that would grace the pages.
He was going to create the happy ending that she deserved.
Rounding the corner, Will swung through the arts building with a renewed sense of purpose. While he had balked at first at the idea of reducing this story down to a comic, he now saw that this was the first step in honoring El’s legacy, in coping with what everyone had endured.
Sometimes when Will closed his eyes, all he could see was the hurricane sweeping around his sister, the resolute look on her face as she embraced her death. All he could hear were the anguished cries of his loved ones around him, begging her to step out, to live. All he could feel was the useless desperation festering inside his chest, begging him to burst out and swap places with her.
He missed his sister more than he could express. There was a hole ripped from his soul the moment that she died, one that could never be healed. As stupid and self-centered as it sounded, he wished that he were the one who had died that night. Sometimes he considered joining her, wondering if she was lonely now wherever her spirit may rest.
What made El so beautifully unique was that she was determined to include everyone else in her story. She didn’t want to be the hero: she wanted to live in a world in which all her loved ones could go to bed at night without worrying whether they were going to die at a moment’s notice. She knew that she couldn’t do it alone—she couldn’t do it without the rest of the party.
Will decided that he was going to create the best possible endings for everyone involved, ones unencumbered by the fate of tragedy. The Mage would get her freedom, The Zoomer and The Ranger would get the peace and anonymity they had always craved, The Bard would find his community, and The Paladin would live fearlessly as himself.
He didn’t want to think about The Cleric. His happy ending could never happen—it was a betrayal of everyone he had loved the most—even if it was just fiction.
He set down his black leather satchel next to his stool. Dragging over a desk, he set about getting some paper and charcoal pencils to begin sketching his pitch for the project. With music caressing his ears and black dusting his fingers, Will got lost in the rhythm. He had such a profound relationship with art—the tools always guided him; it was never a conscious choice.
Hours passed him by, the sun reaching its zenith and dipping back down again. Nothing could persuade him out of his flow—not hunger, not thirst, not even pain. He had decided that he would first work on The Mage. It all began with her, and he wanted to honor that simple fact.
By the time night began to crest the sky, Will had completed his first strip. It was just a prototype, devoid of any color, but he was overwhelmed with pride, nonetheless.
El would love this.
The story arc of The Mage doesn’t center around her abilities and her adventures of heroism. It shows how she found her family, how they made her feel normal. That’s all that El had ever wanted.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, making do on their promise to spill down his cheeks. Closing them, he took a second to grieve. He felt very much alone in this moment, unable to truly tell anyone in his vicinity what happened. Carlton knows that he had a sister, thinking that she committed suicide due to inner turmoil; they never discuss it.
Will stood up, packing his belongings and walking out of the building. Again, he chose to walk all the way home to his apartment, relishing the exercise after sitting hunched over a desk all day. The city was so beautiful at night: thousands of lit windows each told a story. Every home had its own trials and triumphs, a collection of souls navigating this tough world.
By the time he got home, he was ready for a shower. Stepping into the water would help to flush away the stupor he’d been in, allowing him to reorient to the present. Closing his eyes against the steady stream of water, he breathed in the steam puffing up through the air. Grabbing the shampoo bottle, he massaged the suds into his hair, feeling his scalp squeak with cleanliness.
Hearing a knock at the bathroom door, he called out a short “Come in.”
The doorknob turned and Carlton stepped into the room. He could hear him release a long, nearly inaudible sigh. He must be exhausted.
“Hey babe. How was your day?” Will inquired.
“Absolutely swamped. Care if I join?”
Smiling to himself, Will pulled back the shower curtain, inviting his boyfriend in. He was a welcome distraction from the sadness that had overwhelmed him earlier.
He watched as Carlton stripped off his clothes, flinging them to the side. He couldn’t help but rake his eyes over his body, slowly trailing over the panes of his stomach. Before he stepped into the shower, he reached out to cup Will’s face, kissing him long and hard. Will pushed back in with equal vigor, threading his hands through his hair.
Tugging him into the shower, Will commanded Carlton to drop to his knees, body pulsing with pleasure as Carlton coaxed him into blissful oblivion.
---
“Professor Sewell?”
Will knocked on his favorite professor’s office door, which was never closed. He had an open-door policy, believing that students should be able to reach him whenever he was available, whether it pertained to art or not.
“William! Come in, my dear boy, come in.” Sewell proclaimed, his long blonde hair pulled back, a few strands falling out to frame his happy face.
Striding towards one of the armchairs that donned the room, Will sat down with slight apprehension. He was anxious about the reception his project idea might receive, even if he knew that Professor Sewell would most likely adore it.
“I wanted to talk to you about something that I started working on,” Will began. “You know how I paint a set of specific characters more than anything else?”
His professor nodded, saying, “Of course.”
“Well… I was thinking… I could turn them into a series of comic books, one for each character, four or five in total. I know that I’m only a junior, but maybe this could count for my senior capstone project. Not only is it a lot of work, but it’s a collaborative process, which I know can be a requirement. I already started sketching out a strip for The Mage, if you’d like to see it.” He vomited all of this out, holding his breath in anticipation.
Sewell raised his eyebrows, booming warmly, “Well, don’t be shy! Let me see.”
Will nodded, handing over the folder that contained the beginnings of his comic. Again, he forgot how to breathe as his professor slid out the papers, eyes landing on the charcoal drawings.
“It’s just a prototype. I had an idea and then wanted to sketch out the bones of it. It’s not great yet, but I plan on giving it more dimension and color and- “
“Will,” Sewell interrupted him. “I love it. You know that I love your work. I think it’s a great idea, and I think we can work it out to be your capstone. What do you need from me?”
Letting out a pent-up breath of relief, Will finally relaxed into the soft maroon chair.
“I need a writer. I can draw, I can paint, but I’m terrible with words. I was thinking of finding another student who could write out the story and was wondering if you knew anyone who could help me out. But this world and these characters mean a lot to me, so I want someone who has experience with writing fantasy.” He concluded, hoping that he wasn’t being too picky or difficult.
Sewell nodded, pausing for a moment. He then pensively said, “Not a problem at all, my dear boy. The creative writing department chair owes me a favor. I’ll find you someone by the end of the day, if you want to stop back by 5 p.m.”
Smiling widely, Will nodded with enthusiasm. He hadn’t expected this to be so easy. He supposes that anytime anything goes his way, he’s filled with a ridiculous amount of shock. He was born against the grain.
“Thank you, thank you!”
“Not at all. Now run along, you’re going to be late for your next class.”
Will sped along the hallway, practically skipping with joy. He felt bubbly and giddy, simply relieved that everything was working out.
---
By the time that 5 o’clock rolled around, Will had gotten halfway through writing an outline of what he wanted to depict for The Mage, toying with a few different ideas. As he walked down the hall to Sewell’s office, his body was pumping with excitement.
Reaching the open door, he knocked a few times before stepping into the colorfully decorated room. Sewell looked up from his desk and greeted him with a smile.
“Good news. I reached out to the head and apparently, they found the perfect person for the job. There’s a new transfer student, also a junior, who exclusively writes fantasy. Funnily enough, he also writes about similar characters to you. They should be getting here any minute now.”
Incredible.
As if on cue, there came a timid knock on the door from behind them. Twisting around, Will froze in place as his eyes landed on the writer.
What. The. Fuck.
Standing there was Mike Wheeler. His curly black hair was framing his face, upon which his eyebrows were slightly raised with what looked like anticipation. His stupid, stupid eyebrows. Will couldn’t even begin to count the hours that he had spent trying to perfectly emulate the complexity of them, starting over if he got just one hair out of place. And his hands. Fidgeting slightly at his side, they were adorned with a series of silver rings.
And his eyes. His beautiful chestnut eyes. They looked different, almost bolder. Was that black eyeliner?
“Why does he look so good?” Will thought angrily to himself. What gave him the right to march in here, adorned in clothes that hung off his frame just right, staring at Will with a pleading look on his face? He couldn’t even fathom trying to form words, so he kept his mouth shut, a stony expression surely plastered to his face.
“William!” Sewell exclaimed. “This is Michael Wheeler. The creative writing director recommended him highly. Apparently, he’s a perfect match, and his portfolio is quite impressive.”
Will couldn’t say anything. All he could do was stare, and stare, and stare. Mike started to glance and shift around uncomfortably, a thin silence stretching between the two of them.
This couldn’t happen. Will had to refuse. They hadn’t talked in two years, and now he was expected to trust him with his senior capstone project? One that his boyfriend, no less, had compelled him to do. Shaking his head, Will was about to turn around to Sewell and tell him as much when the professor started talking.
“Both of you have quite a bit of underground fame in your respective communities, so we’re going to try to reach out and work with a few different publishing companies. This is huge, Will! You could be a published artist before graduating.”
Fuck.
There was nothing that he could do. To pass up this opportunity would be criminal, especially if he refused in the name of pettiness. He shook his head again before fully turning around, slapping on what he hoped looked like an excited smile.
“Amazing. Thank you so much, Sewell. You have no idea how grateful I am.”
Standing back up, he turned to Mike and outstretched his hand, looking into his sculpted face once more.
“I’m Will. It’s nice to meet you—it sounds like we’ll make a great team.”
Mike’s eyes widened infinitesimally, eyebrows quirking together ever so slightly, before reaching out and clasping Will’s callused hand. He’s warm. He’s warm, and so, so very soft.
As though struck by lightning, Will dropped his hand and, nodding at his professor once more, walked out of the office towards the doors. He didn’t bother to glance behind him as he swung out of the building, trying to create as much distance as he possibly could with his stupidly, mortally human legs.
This was going to kill him.
He made it all of twenty paces out of the building before he heard him.
“Will. Will! Wait up!” Mike called out. Will could hear him rushing up to him. He tried to ignore it and continued to walk with a renewed sense of purpose.
I can’t do this right now. I can’t do this tomorrow. I can’t do this ever.
“Will, stop.” He didn’t stop. In fact, he sped up even more, trying to get lost in the flood of people that frequented this street of Manhattan.
“Would you please just stop and talk to me?” There was a tinge of frustration that started to color his voice, filling Will with an irrational amount of rage.
Rounding on his heel, Will faced him. As he glared into Mike’s face, the crowd of New Yorkers faded into a multi-colored blur. Strangely, Will felt a desire to paint the scene—a corporeal, flustered being standing flush against a mirage of ghostly people. This thought only fueled his anger further, causing him to raise his voice as he spoke.
“What the fuck do you want, Mike?” He snapped.
Will might as well have whipped him with a belt. Mike jolted with shock, a stunned expression writing across his face.
“What-what do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you doing here? Why the fuck are you in New York? What could have possibly possessed you to come here?” Will spat with venom. He knew he wasn’t being fair, but it was uncontrollable. The hurt expression on Mike’s face was making him even more aggravated. If anyone had the right to feel hurt, it was Will.
After Will left for school, he gave Mike distance to grieve. He figured that whenever Mike felt like bridging that gap again, he would reach out.
He hadn’t attempted it once in the past two years.
Sometimes, Will would feel guilty over his rage. Who was he to dictate how Mike handled his grief? But it felt like much more than that. It almost made Will feel dirty. He knew that Mike kept in contact with the rest of the party. His sexuality made him a leper, and it was almost like Mike avoided him over fear of contagion. Why else was he the only one that he fell out with? He was almost brought to tears as the past few years of rejection and silence flooded back to him.
Mike started forward, opening his full, pink lips to talk, but Will beat him to it.
“You know what? I don’t care. We don’t have to be friends; we don’t have to talk. We don’t owe each other anything. We can figure out the project, but that’s it.” Will bore his eyes into Mike’s round ones. After a shocked silence under which Mike’s ridiculously tall frame seemed to shrink, Will said, “I just-I can’t do this right now.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
Mike did not call for him again.