Chapter Text
Will’s roommate was a vampire. It was the only logical explanation for why Room 307 was plunged into a dark void. Boxes propped the door open and littered both the hallway and the room, but as far as he could see, other than the occasional oddly placed broom or towel, no shadows indicating another person lived here.
He sighed, clutching his phone closer to him as he shined the bright white flashlight inside, “Michael?” He called. He had spent days poring over Instagram and TikTok accounts, trying to find the ‘Michael Wheeler’ that was his soon-to-be roommate.
“It’s just Mike actually,” A boy turned the corner of the hallway leading to their dorm. Will swivelled his head from inside the dorm to where Mike walked up to him, sticking out his hand. Mike Wheeler. That was why he didn’t find any results on his social media hunt.
Will nodded, shaking his hand softly. Mike’s hands were feverishly hot, “Will.”
Mike grinned, and the sight was, unfortunately, gorgeous. Will averted his gaze. He was over boys for his sophomore year. He had already warned himself of this after the terrible freshman year he had dating an art curator who cared more about frames than Will.
“You’re an artist?” Mike tilts his head towards the prints rolled up under Will’s armpits. He held them closer to his chest protectively, “Or at least a connoisseur, I assume?”
Will nodded, “Art major.” He added reluctantly, not else what to say otherwise. They had recieved basic details from the school when they were assigned dormmates— name, major, year— so obviously Mike knew that he was an art major. It wasn’t him noticing anything, it was him making a safe guess. Not even a guess! He simply recited a fact.
“I’m in Communications and Journalism.” Will nodded. He knew this too, “I got here first, so I took the right side. It’s got the window.” Mike said sheepishly, like he was embarrassed of it.
Will shrugged, even though he had really wanted the window. The view had been pretty and the sunlight hit the pillow perfectly, like a perfect alarm clock. Why did Mike even need it? Vampires didn’t need sunlight— in fact, they despised it. He frowned, “Why do you need it?” He blurted out, then closed his mouth. Idiot.
“Excuse me?” Mike craned his neck forward, tilting it to the right. There was a moment where he looked Will up and down, his eyes narrowed and sharp.
“Sorry,” Will smiled harshly, “I don’t know why I said that. You can take the window, I don’t care.” He paused, waiting for Mike to say something, anything, but when he didn’t, Will continued, “Why, uh, are all the lights off inside?”
Mike shrugged, “I hadn’t noticed.” Will’s eye nearly twitched. The vampire thing seemed more and more credible to him and he was really regretting allowing this vampire to take the window— his window. He had requested a room in the East Wing for this window!
He sighed. This was a dumb reason to hate somebody, and worse of a reason to hate his roommate. Sophomore year would be infinitely easier if he just got along with him.
Will flicked the lights on as he walked inside. Mike had laid back on his bed, which had its sheets on and a blanket that was already scattered around. He was typing away on his laptop, which was balanced on his chest. Will wrinkled his nose and turned to his side of the room. He had brought little more than a suitcase and a fan. He didn’t want this to be home. It wasn’t home.
Mike tapped some keys on his laptop and a song from the 80s began to play on a speaker behind him, somehow balanced on his bedframe. Will pushed one of Mike’s boxes to the side, “Can you clean this up? I want this half of the room to be for my stuff. ” Mike raised his hands in surrender.
Mike shoved his boxes to his side with a kick or a push. “Rest of the space is yours, Picasso.” He gestured to the bed. His music was still blaring from the speaker and now there was the horrifying scrape of boxes across linoleum to accompany it, “What’s your medium? Charcoal, paints…?” He drifted off, clearly unable to name another medium of art, “...crayon?”
Will shoved his bedsheets into each corner of his mattress, barely looking up, “Silence. Try it out sometime.”
The music paused shortly after.
“He was nice in my chemistry class last semester!” Dustin offered, “And his step-sister, El, was so sweet. I was so sad she transferred.”
Mike scoffed, “Like four blocks away. NYU to Columbia is nothing. She visited last night,” He said, emphasizing the date as he stabbed a tomato with his fork. Dustin, Lucas and Mike had been meeting up for Tuesday and Friday dinners since freshman year.
Lucas shushed the two of them, “Dude, Max is going to kill me if she hears you’re badmouthing El and Will. If Max likes them, I like them.” Lucas raised his hands in defeat. He and Max had started dating over the summer, a development neither Dustin nor Mike were alerted on until the beginning of the semester.
“That’s the biggest betrayal. You’re dating my evil roommate’s friend.” Mike said, waving his fork around as he chewed on a piece of lettuce. Around him, chairs screeched as kids got up to put more food on their plates.
Lucas rolled his eyes, and at the same time as Dustin saying “Evil?”, added that, “Well, you’re rooming with my girlfriend’s friend.” Dustin nodded in agreement as he got up to refill his drink.
Mike sighed, rubbing a hand over face, “You don’t get it. He is consistently cold and rude to me and makes it clear that he has no intention of being my friend or even nice to me. He keeps leaving passive aggressive Post-it notes on our minifridge.” Mike folded his arms, slouching back into his seat. He wasn’t overreacting, no matter what his friends said. In the last three days since the semester started, Will and Mike had fallen into a hateful, awkward rhythm.
Will scowled waking up, eating, probably going to sleep too. He couldn’t imagine the boy trying to be happy. He barked in between sketches for Mike to move his stuff and glared at him when Mike’s music was one decibel too loud. Instead of you know, telling him. Mike had done very little to make him so mad! Yes, sometimes, he did forget to take out the trash or retrieve a pillow that had fallen into Will’s space overnight, but it was mainly because he was occupied with planning set lists for Late Night Caller or scripting a scene for one of his eight classes! He was just tired. A lot. And he would appreciate it if Will wasn’t on his ass about. Every. Little. Thing.
“Another year of this, Lucas!” Mike lamented, “365 days. A rotation around the sun.”
Dustin returned with a full glass, setting his Coke down on the table, “A school year is way less than both of those statistics.”
Lucas hummed, “Mike, you’ve literally only talked about your roommate since school started. Are you sure you’re not—” He paused, wavering, as he struggled to end the sentence, “Well, Mike, frankly, is your roommate cute?”
Mike turned a humiliating shade of pink, “That is irrelevant to whether he’s annoying me—” He spluttered.
Dustin pointed, clapping his hands together and barking out a laugh, “Hah! That makes way more sense.” Needless to say, Mike did not bring up Will again.
Will needed this project. It would be a break from the insufferable hours he spent locked up in his dorm room. Mike disappeared from eight at night to whenever he arrived back at their dorm, but from three to eight, it was like it was his vampire roommate’s personal desire to piss him off.
But planning the art expo? That would take his time from three to five? Six, if he stayed in the library to get more work done for it. This would be what showed his work off to curators around the world that would visit NYU during expo day. Plus, Professor Richardson would finally notice his work. It was everything he needed right now.
And he had gotten it. Professor Richardson’s assistant, Tanya Coleman, a girl who had been the TA for Will’s Intro to Art Theory class, let him know with a pointed acrylic nail, “You’re one of the planners for the Art Expo, so stand up when we call your name.” Her nasally voice and proximity to his eyeball barely bothered him as he nodded, elation rushing up to his head. Suddenly, the future he had needed, had searched for since he was high school appeared to him like a dream. The money he was wasting on art school, the opportunity costs of not getting a normal job and fixing the leak in his mom’s roof like he should, like a good son, could be worth it.
Eventually, Tanya’s voice came over the megaphone over the crowd of whispering kids in the audience, everyone involved in NYU Art Association, “We’re pleased to announce your co-heads for the NYUAA Global Art Expo! First, we’d like to invite, William Byers, onto the stage!” Will stood up numbly, finding his way to the stage like a lost foal. He shook Tanya’s hands, her hot pink nails digging into his palm and smiled at the students.
“And,” She continued, “Damien Calloway!” Will had no clue who Damien was, but it wasn’t hard to figure it out. He was hoping for some of the nicer girls who dressed like it was the 1920s or they lived in a cottage by the beach— but instead, Damien was wearing thick black frames and had his hair fluffed to the side as he grinned, shiny white teeth nearly flashing Will. He was cute, but he was also wearing a button down with half the buttons undone, revealing flashes of tanned skin no one wanted to see. Will suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and clapped with everyone else.
“We’ll quickly have you guys introduce yourselves and then— we’ll conclude the NYUAA Introduction Ceremony!” Tanya gestured to the two boys.
Will nodded, taking the mic gingerly. He stumbled for a moment— there were a lot more people than it seemed when you were in the audience, “Um, I’m Will. I’m a second year art student and I’m super excited to co-head the Art Expo this year.” He sounded flat and bored to his own ears. He winced, passing the microphone over to Damien before he could do any more damage.
“What’s up NYUAA?” Damien whooped, “I’m Damien. I’m a junior and I’m majoring in Art History—” A small cheer arised from a corner section of students, “Yeah, yeah, where my Monet fans at?” Will blinked awkwardly, “I’m just kidding. And I’m so grateful for the opportunity to lead the Art Expo for you guys.” The crowd quietly roared as Tanya took the mic again.
“And with that, NYUAA, you are dismissed!” She said theatrically. Will would’ve bet money she was also in drama. He stalked off quietly, but not before tapping Damien on the shoulder to grab his number. Damien brushed him off, murmuring something about Instagram and later before he was carried off by giggling friends.
Will scowled, shoving his headphones into his ears and rushing to his dorm room. He quickly added to his to-do list to DM Damien Calloway on Instagram with an angry face next to it. He moved on to the sticky notes on the minifridge. Some had lopsided check marks on them and some had been thrown to the floor. He trashed the whole pile of them. He didn’t need to be thinking about Mike right now. Not when he had an entire Expo to plan.
He set to doing what he had done for the past couple of days, once Mike left for his secret other life at 8 PM. He switched on his phone to the NYU Radio app and brought out his sketchbook, angrily sharpening the graphite pencil. Like clockwork, a slightly gravelly, distorted voice begun to speak, “Can’t sleep? Neither can I, New York.” The host of the radio show called the audience New York, maybe referred to the sleepless city or insomnia thing New York had going. To be frank, Will had no idea, but he knew it made his stomach flip.
“Welcome back to Late Night Caller because well— it’s late at night and hopefully we’ll be getting some callers. You know the drill— and guys, we’ve hit an amazing benchmark? Landmark? What’s the word for the next goal you hit? Ah,” The host sighed, “That’s going to be eating at me all night. Anyway, the important thing is that we are officially the most viewed radio show that plays from 8:30 PM to 9:30 PM every single night other than Thursday IN the New York University campus. So we’re basically number one!” Will snorted. The distorted, fake voice of the host and the lack of visual aids made it easy for Will to imagine him as he’d like.
Maybe he majored in Media Design or Communications, Will mused. He had been sketching the venue hall, drafting some ideas for a theme (In Transit or Dreams From the Beyond came to him, pretentious ways of saying the ideas of change and a disconnect from reality, respectively). He had drawn in arrows pointing to cloud decorations, potential ways to organize the venue to be more interesting, but he flipped the page over to the very end of his sketchbook. With a flick of his wrist, he attempted to draw what this mystery host could look like.
“You know the drill at this point, so please call in faster than not.” As if on cue, a ringing noise, like a Jazz melody if it was annoying, began to play, “Our first caller of the night. As you know, everything remains anonymous on Late Night Caller, so let’s tune in.” There was a shift in volume and mics as the caller began to talk, their voice also distorted.
Caller: Hello? Hello?
Host: Hello! You’re live right now on Late Night Caller.
Caller: Oh my god hi!
Host: So. Talk to us. Love problems? Friendship drama? Miss your parents?
Caller: Not quite. I have a new roommate. We’re both freshmen and I don’t know how to approach being friends with her.
Host: I see. Well, do you guys know each other?
Caller: Kind of. It wasn’t random— it was more like we were recommended to each other through mutual contacts and our schedules and lives aligned, so we agreed to room together.
Host: Did your lives end up actually aligning? Or are you struggling to strike up an interesting conversation?
Caller: Our lives align. In the opposite way! She sleeps when I wake up and she has class when I don’t. I want to be her friend, but it feels like fate is pulling us apart.
Host: Hm.
Caller: And the worst part is she doesn’t seem bothered at all by this! I wanted my roommate to be my friend, not someone who lives with me and just doesn’t smoke or drink.
Host: I understand. I’ve had roommate problems in the past. Hell, I’m sure the entire student body has had roommate problems some way or another. But let me ask you this: have you asked your roommate if she wants to hang out with you?
Caller: Well— it doesn’t seem like she really wants to when she says no every time I ask.
Host: But I thought you said your schedules don’t align.
Caller: I know, but— well, what do I do?
Host: Ask. Hey, do you want to hang out with me this week? And figure out these conflicting schedules from there. Trust me, communication solves all the world’s biggest problems.
Caller: Not bad, Host. Do you practice what you preach?
Host: Whoa whoa. Now, this is not a two-way therapy session. If I wanted advice from an eighteen year old that struggles with making friends, I’d talk to my little sister.
Caller: Yeah yeah. Can I call back to give everyone an update?
Host: Yes, you can! My assistant— we still don’t have a witty name for him yet, but I’m thinking Accomplice— will write your number down, so we can check up on you tomorrow or whenever you decide to give up the broody outlook and just talk.
Will sighed. The host of Late Night Caller made everyone’s problems seem so manageable, so humorous to him. What could his life be like? That his shoulders sounded so light, that he treated everything with a sense of laughable detachment? He drew a line downwards for the nose, but the entire thing felt wrong. It was the fourth attempt at a face since the caller had joined the radio, and every time it was wrong.
He turned his attention to the mic, which felt easier. Bony, long fingers gripped the mic with comfort and suave, holding a black wire up with his other hand. But higher than that, Will lost it. His pencil snapped as the host announced a music break and Arctic Monkeys began to play behind Will. Art was supposed to sort his thoughts out, streamline them into a final product. This? This was not streamlining anything for him.
He continued sketching, abandoning the half-finished portrait of the mystery man on the air and turned back to the venue. When the episode ended, his heartrate had slowed and his eyes began to droop. He felt safe. He dropped his pencil and sketchbook on his desk and snuggled into his blankets as the last set of music played in his ears, an slow song from an Indie band he had never heard of.
And then ever so quietly, the host’s voice whispered through Will’s headphones, as if he was delivering a secret just to him, “Good night.”