Chapter Text
The bustle of Indianapolis crowds around Mike Wheeler, his feet getting lost in the rhythmic stampede of the city. There’s a reason he hates coming here, and it’s exactly this; the way personal space is nothing more than a concept, the way voices are lost to the sound of car horns honking and engines revving, the way no one exists as their individual self, but are consumed as part of a collective entity, the city pulsing, blinking, breathing as one.
He wouldn’t be here, not at all, not ever, not if he had a say in it. But ‘this program could be really good for you, son’, as his father put it.
‘This program’ being the dreadfully boring summer business seminars his dad insisted upon.
Mike thinks he’d have been happier doing literally anything else – not that his opinion matters, apparently. Any career options other than business, economics or finance are immediately denied by his father, citing that those three are ‘the only jobs worth having’ and that everything else is ‘just useless noise’.
Mike had first argued his case for not doing the program at all, before his brief rebellion was swiftly stomped out. But, never one for giving up, he took a week to regather his thoughts, before he tried next for a compromise – he’d do one of those academic summer programs in the city, but a different stream; exactly what, he wasn’t sure yet (there was a writing one he’d had his eye on), but, decidedly not business.
He’d stood firmly on that line for a week of nightly arguments before finally, on a fateful Friday night, his father snapped, telling him in no uncertain terms that if he refused to go, he’d spend the rest of his summer under house arrest – no arcade, no diner, no friends, full stop.
And so it was decided; he’d go, once a week, to that hoighty-toighty business school in the city for summer seminars. Driven – and dropped right in front of the building – by his mother, to ensure he didn’t just hop on a bus to nowhere and skip out just to spite them. ;
She’d pulled a face when his father suggested this – she clearly didn’t fancy taking four hours out of her day to drive him all the way into the city – but a few hushed, sternly whispered words later, it was settled; she’d drive him. All the way. Every week for the rest of summer. She muttered something about how it’ll be good to ‘get out of the house’. Plus, she enjoys the shopping in the big city – so many more options than in Hawkins.
So, that’s where she is now, probably, browsing some high-end boutique store, he imagines, spending away Ted’s money like there’s no tomorrow as her own small rebellion against him for making her drive all the way out here in the first place.
Today, the professor wouldn’t stop droning on and on about some meaningless crap, like always, and Mike would (unfortunately) occasionally catch a few words here and there that managed to penetrate through his daydreaming – revenue, income, profits – despite his best efforts to not learn anything.
He’s decided that while his father can force him to enroll in this stupid course, can force him to walk inside and personally attend each seminar, he can’t do anything to control how Mike behaves when he’s there, and he can’t force Mike to absorb information he doesn’t want to learn. So, he’d left half an hour early, copping a disdainful sneer from his professor, and walked around some of the small cafes and unique stores that Hawkins is too quiet to accommodate.
He now wanders the busy streets of Indianapolis, heading for the shopping mall he always meets his mother at after every seminar. It’s a simple, short, ten-minute walk from the business school to the mall.
Or, it would be short and simple if it weren’t for the thousands of paths overlapping his, cutting him off, walking too slowly in front of him, some even fully bumping into him.
He wonders why ‘traffic’ is used almost exclusively in reference to cars – this foot traffic is easily ten times more tedious. At least in cars, you’ve still got personal space and control of the radio.
Mike navigates through the onslaught of commuters and tourists, his shoulders knocking into someone else’s every few seconds.
The first few times he came here, he’d stop, turn and offer a rushed apology to whoever he’d collided with, before he realised that no one ever turned back to hear him. They just got on with their day, willingly ignorant to everyone around them. So Mike does the same, now a regular citygoer himself, pushing past people on the street without a care in the world, staring at the ground so he doesn’t have to look in the eyes of every person that passes him.
It leads him to bump into many more people than he would have had he just kept his eyes up, but he feels bad just brushing by people like they don’t matter, even if they all do the same to him.
So he keeps his head down, following the familiar path past the post office on the corner, across the street, down the avenue, where the mall is just one left-turn away.
He’s nearly halfway down the street, passing by the fancy, big-city supermarket, eyes still on the floor, when he collides with someone. Not ‘bumps into’, not ‘brushes shoulders with’, fully collides, his body crashing into the solid, lean form of someone else. The stranger’s bag seems to snag on Mike’s belt, somehow flipping upside-down and scattering pages everywhere – they’re now stopped in the middle of the street, surrounded by a sea of white. Mike, righting himself after stumbling backwards from the force of the collision, finally flicks his eyes up to look at who he’s crashed into.
And the face that stares back at him is-
Breathtaking.
There’s no other word for it, really. Not that he’s currently capable of thinking up another adjective, let alone thinking at all. Not when his brain is clearly suffering from a lack of oxygen due to aforementioned breath being taken. The mysterious stranger looks about his age, though it’s hard to tell under the layers of bold black and white patterns overlapping beautifully on his skin. His face is almost titanium white, and his eyelids are painted in sharp black lines and shapes.
He’s never seen anything quite like it. Not in real life, anyways – he’s seen images of similarly-styled people on television, on those late-night shows they only air to fill time, or photographs in the alternative style magazine he secretly orders from the singular zine distro that exists in Hawkins with his limited pocket money.
As he looks closer, he notices small, subtle lines of yellow weaved through the black and white.
There seems to be a real artistry in the intricate patterns sketched on the boy’s face, Mike thinks. He’s not a very art-inclined person, but Mike is certain that only an artist’s hand could produce such beautiful designs. And – he appears to be correct.
As he finally tears his eyes away from the boy standing before him to look at the mounds of loose paper he’s dropped, Mike sees art everywhere. Each page is carefully decorated with grand, majestic sketches or paintings – fantastical dragons and wizards, mystical landscapes, stunningly realistic still-lifes. Every piece has the distinct touch of someone who can really see things, someone who notices the beauty in every detail – not just copying whatever’s in front of him, but infusing everything he makes with life and energy.
“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” The stranger speaks, earnestly, making Mike’s eyes lock back onto his face. Mike stares for a second (well, to be honest, it’s probably many seconds) too long, apparently rendered speechless by the beautiful face before him.
Breathtaking and word-taking – a dangerous combination, Mike thinks.
After blubbering stupidly like a stupid fish for a few moments, mercifully, he miraculously regains the gift of speech.
“Yeah, I- sorry, I- I mustn’t have been looking either,” He manages to stammer in reply, meeting the stranger’s eyes this time. They’re a strange, captivating sort of brown-green. Honey? No. Chesnut? No. Olive? Not quite.
Hazel. The word hits him softly. Yes, hazel. That’s the exact shade. Not brown, not green, but some exquisite mix of the two, flecked with gold around the pupil.
He finally fully scans the boy before him. He’s clothed in robes of deep black, swathed in intricately arranged layers of cotton and lace. He’s about the same height as Mike – or so he thinks, before his gaze slips lower and he notices the thick-soled leather platform boots on his feet - so, he must really be a few inches shorter.
His hair is shiny and soft-looking, with silver beads threaded through it, metal glinting in the sunlight.
Mike wonders what those strands would feel like between his fingers.
Just because- just because… he just wonders. It’s a totally normal, totally not weird thing to wonder about. Yeah.
Belatedly, Mike realises that the boy is now frantically sweeping up the loose pages, stuffing them haphazardly back into his bag, and that, having been the one to run into him and cause this mess, he should probably do something to help. He crouches down so fast it makes his head spin, but he quickly gets to work gathering every page in sight.
Their fingers brush as they both make to grab the same sheet of paper, and Mike’s breath hitches at the contact, the touch sending an unfamiliar spark through him. The boy turns rapidly to look at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape as Mike lets go of the page, before his eyes slip away from Mike’s to gaze at something behind him.
“Ah, shit,” Mike hears the boy mutter, as he spots a city bus stopped at the traffic lights down the road, then glances to a bus stop on the opposite end of the street. He hurriedly scoops up the remaining papers, shoving them into his satchel, before shooting Mike a small smile and rushing away. The smile feels, Mike thinks, like liquid sunshine, making something warm in his chest melt and flow through his whole body.
In the time it takes him to process that soft grin, the boy has already made it halfway to the bus stop. Mike feels helplessly drawn towards this stranger, as if he is the sun and Mike is merely a poor, simple planet, trapped in orbit by gravity, destined to forever be enraptured by its star.
Without thinking, he takes a step forward. Then another. Then-
He hears a distinct crinkle beneath his foot. Paper. He’s sure of it before he even looks down. Mike gingerly plucks the page from the street, turning it face-up. It’s that boy’s. More of his art. One unfortunate, lonely painting that got left behind. He starts after the boy, walking at a brisk pace in an attempt to catch up, before he calls out, “Hey wait, you-”
He looks up just in time to see the bus pulling into the bus stop – right in front of the mysterious stranger who’s captured his attention. He picks up his pace, bursting into a jog, carelessly pushing past any citygoers who make the mistake of getting in his way.
“Hey! Excuse me! You forgot one!” He shouts after the boy, breaking into a full sprint.
He’s not so terrible at running, if he actually tries, and he’s certain he would’ve made it to the bus stop in time if it weren’t for the sudden and insistent intrusion of citygoers into his path, pressing in on him from all sides, forcing him to become static, unable to continue pushing his way through the crowd.
He’s waving his hands now, still shouting out interjections and vocatives in a futile attempt to catch the stranger before he rides away on that bus, in which case Mike will have no way to ever see him again.
Unfortunately, the attempt to grab his attention was indeed that; futile. Mike watches hopelessly as the boy in black boards his bus, the hum of the engine seeming to mock him as it drives away.
Of course. Mike heaves a sigh. Why does shit like this always happen to him? He finally meets someone cool, someone awesome, and he’s left himself with no chance of ever seeing him again. He didn’t even get his name. All he’s got is this painting, which, seeing as there’s absolutely zero possibility of ever returning it to its owner, he decides to take the time to admire properly.
It’s beautiful, intricate and ornate, each brushstroke carefully placed, swirling patterns of gold and silver, royal violet and carmine, viridian and midnight blue.
It’s a picture of a boy – a knight, clad in glimmering chainmail and formidable armour shining in the light of the moon – laying languorously beneath an ocean of stars, one constellation standing out from the rest. Mike’s not sure what it’s called – he’s never really been all that into astronomy – but to him, it looks almost like an off-kilter ‘W’.
The knight seems to be drowning in his sea of dark curls, a great purple cloak sprawling beneath him, his limbs long and lithe, a magnificent sword cradled gently in his left hand. The landscape surrounding him is beautiful in that warm, nostalgia-tainted way; it’s not inherently anything special, really, just a lush green clearing with wildflowers scattered through the blades of grass, but it reminds Mike of Hawkins, of the fields and meadows he and his friends used to frequent as children.
Not the way he’s used to seeing it; no, somehow, this stranger, who’s probably never even heard of Mike’s hometown, has managed to portray the Indiana countryside in a way that makes it look heavenly.
He stands still for a few minutes, just staring, entranced by this artwork that he’s come across by only a wild turn of fate. He thinks of the boy who painted it, easily visualising his kind face, the mysterious stranger who seemed so… everything, so cool, so bold, so unique.
And Mike is entirely enamoured.
With the painting, with the boy.
The boy whom he has only a painting to remember him by.