Chapter Text
A stroke of blue.
A dash of red.
A splatter of yellow.
The mixing of paint into completely new, unknown pigments.
A synchronicity of color finds its decided location on canvas through the gentle care and touch of Will’s paintbrush. It’s a symphony of hues, finding their crescendo as his pace picks up, smothering previous layers of acrylic on the stretched pane he focuses on. He must communicate it all through the passionate markings of his mind on the image he lets bleed through his body and into life before him.
He hates this piece already.
Everything is wrong.
Every freckle, the curve of his nose, the twinkle he knew in the deep chocolate brown eyes of his model, the curls and placement of his hair… nothing is right. It’s never right. He can’t get it right. No matter how he tries.
Even when every color reminds him of Mike, he can’t seem to find the way to place them, and honor the image in his head.
It’s been almost seven years. He wants to finish this. Something of this. He needs to let go of it. Somehow. Some way. Even though it hurts. Because not being able to bring this picture forth is somehow more excruciating than letting the rotting flowers of his love sit and fester inside of his stomach like fertilizer for more suffering.
His therapist is convinced the exercise will help him find catharsis, but he isn’t so sure, here in front of the painting he finds so inherently wrong. Maybe if he gets this out, then he can…
Does he even want to let go?
He hasn’t… not in the 22 years since he first met Mike on a swing set. Letting go seems like a lie. Friends aren’t supposed to lie, but childhood innocence isn’t something Will holds dear to him anymore, and Mike isn’t his friend. He was more than that. He hopes that it meant more than that, but even now he isn’t so sure of what they were to each other by the end.
He could never let go.
He doesn’t think so, at least.
There's paint smudged on his jeans, his usual pair for when he was in his studio, working on his craft. He’s made a name for himself enough to enjoy the space of his apartment, a two bedroom penthouse in New York City with large bay windows that let the sun in on his project space. At the end of a beautiful day it shone yellow and orange into the studio, bringing a whole new light to his work and letting him observe it in every possible viewing environment. Having space for his work, separate from his sleeping quarters kept him sane, in control of each and every inch of square footage the flat provided. The apartment was a luxury few could afford.
It was really his clients that could afford it, if he had to put it bluntly. Making money from his art was all he ever wanted, but he was slowly losing steam, bit by bit.
Not churning out enough contracts, not making enough connections at the charity balls his last paintings were sold at, not finding enough inspiration to work on anything original. Each attempt seemed hopeless and without enough grounding to secure his costly lifestyle.
And now he’s lost steam on this piece, too.
He places his palette down on the small table he keeps next to his stool with enough force it wobbles a little at the impact. He doesn’t want to be frustrated with art, it was supposed to be his outlet. This project was supposed to be an outlet, not another commitment that meant less than what he felt it was worth.
Financial or emotional, either is a burden he doesn’t wish to flex his creative muscles for. They’re far too out of practice, and he can’t find the right way to make them operate to his expectations.
It’s been like this for the past five months.
He can't do this right now. He decides to extend his break outside of the studio room. He needs something to cool off, despite the impending cruelty of mid-November snowfall.
It's been over thirteen years since Vecna died, and El went with him. It's been a decade since they graduated. And now, soon to be seven years since Mike took his own life.
And in the meantime Will has found the patterns he needs to cope with it all, despite how difficult it can be to stomach. Even now.
Early November was always hard, the anniversary effect being what it was. He would get through it. Did get through it. Always did.
It was easier when Mike was around, always around. Even when he annoyed Will and got in his hair when he was trying to get work done and be productive: it was a treasured annoyance. The idea that he was always there, finding something to delight Will with, even when preoccupied.
Will saunters into the kitchen, and looks through his selection of drinks in the fridge. Inside, he's got an unopened bottle of Rosé, half a jug of orange juice, and a few cans of Coke left. He needs to stock up soon, or else he would break into that bottle sooner than he wanted. He was trying to save that for something special.
He's been successful. He's found a pattern. It works. It should work. Why isn't it working?
He cracks open a can of coke, and takes a long, deliberate sip. The carbonation sizzles against his teeth and tongue as he takes it in.
He swallows.
The refreshing taste of a drink they used to share echoes the memories in his mouth like the last time Mike’s mouth was on him.
He needs to fix the lips on that painting. They weren't right. Not exactly. Needed to be a little fuller on the bottom, and shiner on the top to really echo the lips of his old friend.
He should give it another try. Just one last fair shot for the evening before he goes to bed early, if he can.
He won't be able to sleep if he doesn't at least give it a shot.
Did his therapist know what type of project he was assigning him? How much this would dredge up?
Probably, he thinks, trying to suppress the light bitterness it brings.
He could… try talking to it, like it was suggested he do.
What can he even say? He starts on sharpening the features of the figure's face, once again trying to bring that unique aspect that made it look like his Mike.
No matter what, each stroke is still wrong. No matter how many layers, it's not giving him what he wants.
“This year I had to avoid going to our ten year high school reunion without you, you know?” he questions the Michael in the painting. His cheeks flush with how silly this is. His therapist gave him bad advice, once again.
It feels kinda mean, like he was mocking his childhood best friend for what he couldn't change.
But it's just a painting of him. An outlet.
He picks up his brush again and adds fine details he'd forgotten. Ones he couldn't place until he thought of the scrunch Mike's brow would make in response to him.
“It's just been hard lately…” he admits, warping and blending hues of hair and shadow to get just the right balance. “It's seven years soon, and… I don't know—” he searches for the right words as he lowers his brush to gather more pigments. “I'd just hoped we'd be in different places in our lives by now…”
Mike couldn't be anywhere else than where he is, back in Hawkins.
“But you're pushing daisies and I'm trying to not forget that your favorites are hyacinth,” Will says with a warm smile.
“Remember those flowers you'd gotten me for my first gallery? You were so proud of seeing my work, even though it wasn’t a solo gallery. You were just excited to see people enjoy that macabre shit I made back then.” Will laughs to himself as he finds a new spot on the canvas to tie in the colors he's just placed. “We kept those out for far longer than we should've…”
Eyes. His eyes were more intense than that, weren't they? What would he say to make them light up that way?
“We fought when we got home that night, though,” Will admits bitterly. “I don't even remember what we fought about, if I had to be honest…”
The painting doesn't regard him in any particular way, but Will recalls the intensity he would've received for bringing up an old argument.
“I said I was sorry, okay?”
“Why do you always have to do that?”
“Oh my god, Will, can you just let it go?”
“I'm sorry, baby…”
Will’s gaze furrows, lost in thought as he inspects the minor alterations he's made.
It's not enough.
Painstakingly he tries to recall what he misses the least in Mike. Maybe that will let him put what he needs into this piece so he can walk away, at least half satisfied. He doesn't need to finish it tonight, he just needs to get it right enough that he can finish it soon enough, and get onto something more productive than this therapy homework.
“You really never thought about leaving a note,” it's not a question, it just is what it is. “Which is fine, you're allowed to have your own secrets but… that was a pretty awful one to keep to yourself.”
He hones in on the eyes of the painted figure, detailing that shimmer he couldn't place just right before.
“But you kept a lot to yourself, storyteller… I wish you… I wish you'd have just let me in.”
The eyes have their shimmer, but there is no light behind them as Will gazes into the glassy facade.
“But I could've let you in, too, when I think about it,” he adjusts the curve on an eyebrow, as if to suggest it raised in response to his words. “Yeah… yeah, I could've let you in, too.”
Will sighs deeply and mixes paints absentmindedly, trying to compare the canvas to palette. Is this too bright? Does this hue compliment the splash of color amongst the dark of Mike's hair and the paleness of his skin? Is he going too experimental for this piece? It's not abstract or perfect realism, but there's something to the beautiful middle where he can make the painting read like a part of a dreamscape. A place where nightmares, reality, and daydream co-mingle: finding commonality in their many differences and departures.
The sun raises, casting warm light into the studio. He's done as much as he can, and in the yellowing light of the day he can feel satisfied enough to leave touch ups for tomorrow.
It's starting to take shape, an overnight session of talking and painting seemed to settle on the growing image of his former best friend.
Lover.
Worst mistake.
Best intentions.
He doesn't bother to pick up much, outside of screwing caps back on bottles and tubes, and making sure his brushes are at least soaking for better cleaning when he's less absentminded.
All he can do is stare at the painting.
It's nearly perfect. Everything he needed to see and feel seen by, just with a few touch ups before packing it away in storage or something. He couldn't hang it, lest anyone else gaze on his private thoughts and affairs. Wouldn't be fair to any of the rest of the party, if they were to come over.
Not that he has many get-togethers here. Used to at his and Mike's old place, but that was another life.
In this one he was a solitary artist who occasionally showed up to plans: the ones he didn't last minute cancel on.
For now he could put it all aside, take a shower, get some rest in the daylight while not smothered in paint. It was always easier to stay up all night and sleep through the sunshine. Better than being kept up by his thoughts, anyway. Easiest when he was able to wear himself out.
He's exhausted. Should feel worn out enough to sleep, but instead he's just slowly clearing the space up. He can't stop watching the eyes of the canvas.
It's so lifelike, possibly the best work he's done in a while. His eyes are so clear, embodying every unspoken word that he could see hidden behind Mike's barriers. If only they didn't feel as though they were watching him.
Every time he looks back up it's as if he's been seen through, an icy chill running through his nervous system as he feels Seen once more.
It's a little unnerving, the way he's depicted the intense gaze of his old friend. The eyes are finally the same, and he finds himself regretting how clearly he communicated the details of his irises. Every time he moves his gaze and turns back to it, it feels like it's shifted its focus to him.
He must be really tired, because in the corner of his eye he almost sees the painting's lips twitch. The same way he would when he was annoyed.
That's it, he can't stare at it all night and morning.
He lingers in the doorway, though, hand on the central light switch. He turns it off, leaving the studio still bathed in the golden light of morning. It does little, but saves a few cents on his electric bill.
With a final look at the painting, he takes the image in. That's him. That's how he thinks Mike would look if he were still here, aged up to the 28 years he'd never complete. Seven years of heartache and longing for something gone will leave a dash of saccharine sadness to how one lets their feelings bleed out.
And the canvas is drowned in his remaining feelings.
He doesn't want to say goodnight to it, but he must get at least a bit of rest.
He closes the studio door.
And the painting on the other side lets out a sigh, unheard through Will’s movement towards the shower. Will still needs to rid his body of the streaks of paint that seek to remind him of unfinished works and words.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will give it another touch. Then it's off to storage where he doesn't need to look at it ever again.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow his prayers for closure will not be answered. Tomorrow his worst nightmares of confrontation will grip him until he's as blue as the soul of the one he's painting into reality.
Brushstroke by brushstroke, he will haunt Will regardless of how well his eyes are rendered, or how his lips purse as Will looks away from him. He's been haunting him in the back of his mind. Every color. Every choice. Every single unearned possibility he let run through his fingers in the lingering years since Mike’s passing.
Everything that ever mattered and wasn't said will wash away with the remains left on the painter's hands.
The painting suffers alone, only the noise of the shower to accompany it in wait for its artist to complete it.
