Saturday dawned bright and cold. Nico woke quickly, easily shaking off the shadows of sleep. He dressed, pulling on the new clothes, relishing how they felt against his skin. All of his clothes had been worn so much that they were rough to the touch, many in desperate need of a mend. The jeans were comfortable and clean—when was the last time his black jeans had felt clean? The sweater fit well and almost—almost blocked out the crisp air.
He tugged on his combat boots and jacket and headed out, the directory that had been included in his acceptance packet safely tucked in his pocket.
He left the apartment feeling lighter than he had in years. Instead of a heavy knot of guilt and regret in his stomach, a new sensation was filling him, making each step feel lighter than air. He searched for a word for it, several seconds ticking by before he was able to choose one: purpose. For so long he had lacked a sense of purpose. But now it was here, undeniably, irrevocably here, lighting his veins on fire, making each step worth it for once.
He arrived at the campus after about half an hour. The buildings loomed up in front of him, each one made from bricks. The campus was a clash between old and new—between the brick buildings were smaller, newer additions, painted brightly, made from glass and metal. The sky was stormy and irritable as usual, gray clouds concealing the sun. It would probably rain soon.
Nico found his way to the meeting spot where all of the incoming freshmen were supposed to gather. There was already a small gathering there, the students looking bright and cheerful. A few gave him strange looks as he approached, undoubtedly wondering why someone that looked like he did was standing so close to them. Nico stayed a safe distance away, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
It was a few minutes before the guide arrived—a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and an air of superiority that Nico instantly disliked. He was dressed formally, in a dress shirt and pants and a fancy overcoat.
"Hello everyone!" he said, his voice heavy with an English accent. "I am going to be your guide for today. You can call me Mr. White."
His eyes met Nico's and a smirk crossed his lips, his expression telling him that he believed that Nico had no place here. Nico felt his stomach clench with anger but tried to force the feelings down. He wouldn't let this guy he had just met ruin his mood.
The man took them through the campus, pointing out the various buildings and their functions. The dorms, the cafeteria, the hospital where the medical students got hands on experience. Nico drifted through most of it, not really paying attention to the things that didn't concern him. He perked up a bit when Mr. White pointed out the art studio—Nico had chosen art as an elective. He tried to look inside but they passed too quickly for him to see anything. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying not to let irritation cloud his mind.
They finished the tour after about an hour of walking around. The other freshmen were muttering complaints about their feet hurting, and Nico couldn't help but chuckle a little to himself. An hour of walking was nothing compared to what he did on a regular basis.
"Any questions?" asked Mr. White, his words clipped with impatience.
A few people asked questions, but Nico wasn't listening. His mind had already drifted to other things as he had conditioned it to do. His mind wandered as much as he did, if not more. He really wanted to look inside the art studio—drawing had been something that he had once enjoyed, back in his other life. He had given up on the hobby for a while, but he had decided that this was as good a time as ever to start again.
"Alright, that will conclude the orientation," Mr. White was saying. Nico looked up, his focus snapping back to the guide. "I look forward to seeing all of you on campus," he continued, though his words were empty of meaning.
The crowd dispersed, the students talking amongst themselves excitedly. Nico moved through them, retracing his steps back to the art studio that they had passed earlier. He reached the building after a few minutes. It was painted a bright shade of blue, the windows arched and glossy. The rain had begun to fall, splattering against the glass, making the room beyond appear distorted.
Nico pushed open the door gently, trying not to make a sound.
The studio was a large room, brightly lit. The walls were completely covered in artwork—canvasses and sketches and even some paintings on the walls themselves. The ceiling was high and sloped, dark wood beams racing back and forth overhead. There were four rows of desks, white but splattered with ink and paint. Nico instantly felt himself liking the place.
"Hi. Are you lost?"
Nico jumped. He had been so busy admiring the room that he hadn't noticed the boy sitting at the far end of the studio, working at an easel. He was wearing a smock over a blue thermal long-sleeve shirt. There was a paint brush in one of his hands, still stained with red paint. It was clear that he was in the middle of working on his painting.
Nico struggled for a moment to find his voice. The boy was looking at him expectantly, his expression kind and curious.
"Oh—N-no I'm not lost," he began shakily, before clearing his throat and starting again. "I just wanted to see the art studio."
"That's great!" said the boy, smiling brightly and standing up. From this distance Nico could tell that he was taller than him by about five or six inches. "I can show you around." His accent was British, light and smooth and almost completely different from Mr. White's. Nico hadn't yet gotten used to all the different variations of accents he encountered in London, but he found himself liking this boy's way of speaking.
The boy came closer, so only one row of desks separated them. He had curly blonde hair. It was messy but in a contained sort of way, unlike Nico's hair that had a mind of its own. His eyes were blue and crystal clear, glimmering with kindness. His skin was evenly tanned and a light dusting of freckles covered his cheeks. Everything about him radiated happiness and purity. A strange feeling twisted in Nico's gut, but he ignored it.
"My name's Will, by the way," he said, climbing over the remaining row of desks to stand in front of Nico. He held out a hand to shake and Nico took it. His fingers were warm, almost hot to the touch, and Nico pulled away quickly.
"I'm Nico DiAngelo," said Nico, meeting his eyes with difficulty. His blue eyes seemed to be boring into his.
"Well, Nico DiAngelo," said Will, his voice dropping conspiratorially, as if he was letting him in on some sort of grand secret. "This is where the magic happens." He spread his arms wide, motioning to everything around them.
"This is the sink, where the paint is relinquished from the brushes," said Will, pointing to the sink.
"Relinquished?" questioned Nico.
Will blinked and a moment of silence passed between them. Nico began to panic, thinking he had made a mistake already. Then Will laughed, the sound like sunshine.
"I apologize. I write a lot of terrible poetry and sometimes I just forget who I'm talking to," he said.
"Oh, it's not a problem," said Nico, trying to beat down his awkwardness without a lot of luck.
"Really?" said Will, looking surprised. "My friends hate it."
He kept moving and Nico followed, looking at the artwork on the walls. Everything was very well done and he tried not to be intimidated. He had been good at drawing before he gave up on it, so hopefully he could pick up where he left off.
"Here's the paint cupboard," added Will, sliding a glass door to the side to reveal rows and rows of paint.
They kept walking, Will pointing out more things as they went along. Nico found himself paying less attention to what he was saying and more to the weird feeling in his stomach. He suspected it had something to do with the boy in front of him, but he wasn't quite sure. Usually he disliked people on sight as a general rule. But Will—he was different. Maybe it was the way that he seemed to radiate warmth.
"And this is my current masterpiece," said Will, gesturing to the easel and snapping Nico out of his jumbled thoughts.
Nico took a step forward, so he stood next to Will. The painting was a jumble of colors, each line bold and clear. The lines each connected in a way that created a shape of some sort—Nico could tell that it was supposed to be something but he wasn't sure what. It kind of looked like a misshapen blob.
"It's supposed to be a representation of myself," said Will.
"It looks like a potato," blurted Nico without thinking.
The wave of regret was instantaneous. Great. He had barely just met this guy and already he had ruined any chance of making a friend. He was planning an escape through the window when Will laughed again, the sound musical and clear.
"Well, that's the most honest review I've gotten so far," he said, his words barely making it around his laugh.
"That's not what I meant," said Nico, feeling helpless.
"No, no, it's okay," said Will, gasping for air as he calmed down. "That's what it looks like to me too. I'm a pretty terrible artist, but I'm taking this class as an elective so I can improve my skills. Doesn't seem like it's working though," he added.
"Wait, so you're not an art major?" asked Nico, confused.
"Not even close," said Will, sitting on the desk so he was facing Nico. "I'm going to be a junior here when the semester starts again. I'm a medical student."
"Ah," said Nico. He paused before speaking, determined to collect his thoughts. "I'm taking art as an elective too," he began. "But my major is undecided."
"Hey, we're probably in the same class then," said Will excitedly. "You can tell me my art sucks all year long."
"I never said that your painting sucked," said Nico defensively, though he could tell that Will was joking.
"It's alright," said Will, still smiling. His teeth were straight and pearly white against his tan skin. "Are you good at art?"
Nico shrugged, not wanting to come across as boastful. "I used to be. I haven't practiced in a long time though."
"I'm sure you'll be great," said Will, and Nico felt himself blush against his better judgement.
A moment of silence stretched between them, only punctuated when Nico chose to speak.
"I should probably get going," he said, though he was reluctant to leave. There was something about this boy that called out to him, whispering to every molecule that he was composed of. He wanted to stay and just listen to him talk. He wanted to feel the warmth that wafted off of him in waves, making him forget why he had ever been cold in the first place.
"Oh. Alright," said Will. Was Nico imagining it, or did Will sound disappointed?
Nico turned to leave when Will spoke. "Um…if you ever need any help or anything, you can ask me," he blurted out. He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Nico. Nico looked down at it and with a start he realized that it was a phone number.
"Thanks," said Nico. "I guess I'll see you soon," he added.
Will smiled at him one last time before Nico left, pushing open the door and stepping out into the rain.
The strange feeling had returned, twisting through his stomach, jumbling his thoughts. He wasn't completely sure, but he guessed it had something to do with the scrap of paper in his pocket.
And though he had long since stopped smiling, he couldn't help but let the corners of his mouth curve upward ever so slightly.