Chapter Text
August 17, 2004
Room 1314.
The numbers blur as Mike’s eyes lose focus; he hasn’t moved from his spot in the hallway for the past ten minutes, mindlessly staring at the plaques' numbers displayed in peeling white paint. His feet won't move; if they do, he believes the whole building will collapse in on itself. If Mike so much as dares to move from his spot, the entire universe will crumble.
He watches as students enter the classroom, the door opens and closes, beckoning Mike to face his fears and step through the threshold.
What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s just a stupid art class.
In truth, it wasn’t just a ‘stupid art class,’ it was one of the final steps to finishing his English degree. He’s finished all his GEDs, the grueling lab requirements, and the even more annoying classes that don’t even remotely relate to a goddamn English degree. But his final straw? The art requirement.
In truth, Mike had no creative ability whatsoever, except for writing a few well-chosen words and his skills at storytelling. Words were just easier to manage for him; the ability to create different worlds and thousands of scenarios compelled him more than any other hobby ever did. He always took the first opportunity to be the dungeon master for his childhood friends' D&D campaigns, feeling waves of excitement and joy in creating different stories for his friends. Seeing their reactions to his ideas and the fates of their characters always made Mike feel like he had a purpose; he was in control of the story, and it was exhilarating.
When it comes to color theory, anatomy, and even holding a goddamn paintbrush properly, Mike is completely clueless. So when his advisor enforced registering for an art class, Mike could see his degree slipping through his fingers. With a few more encouraging words from Mrs. Alvarez (what a saint that woman is), Mike finally registered for a beginner's art class.
And now it’s the beginning of the Fall semester, and Mike Wheeler is too scared to enter a goddamn classroom for an art class. He wasn’t sure why; maybe it was the idea of actually being confronted with a skill he wasn’t good at in the slightest, facing judgment for his inability to match with the other students. The idea of being vulnerable enough to share such a craft with others, to be criticized so deeply. Sure, in a creative writing class, there were workshops, peer reviews, and letting the world see your inner thoughts through your words. But that was different; Mike's good at that. He was good at transferring his words to the page. At expressing himself through characters and plotlines. But the idea of sharing himself in such a foreign world, with a new craft, was too much. It was too vulnerable.
A voice, husky yet smooth like rich velvet, breaks Mike from his internal crisis, “Excuse me, are you heading in?”
Mike rips his gaze from the fading numbers and turns to the voice, not expecting the figure attached to it. A younger-looking man, with eyes as big and expressive as a fawn, stares back at him. He looks almost like a statue come to life, with pouty lips and a strong nose; a few moles coat his skin, like stars in the night sky.
He’s a little shorter than Mike, but still carries his own. He wears a navy blue dress shirt, the final buttons at the top are undone, hanging lazily around his defined collarbone, and gray slacks that fit perfectly. Mike notices a flash of a silver chain that hangs around the stranger's slender neck, resting perfectly on his clavicle.
His skin. God, his skin. It’s slightly tan, a rarity considering the weather in New York, dreary as the sun hides behind the clouds. It looks soft, inviting. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing delicate arms and the most gorgeous hands Mike has ever seen, slender fingers and slightly pronounced veins. Those hands could start their own religion.
For some reason, Mike is completely speechless. He suddenly feels self-conscious in his own appearance, in ripped black jeans and a faded t-shirt of a band he liked when he was in high school, he feels like a total bum.
He swallows, realizing the stranger is waiting for an answer, and Mike is standing there, like an idiot.
He clears his throat, “Uh– yeah. I’m here for Beginners Art, with uh– Professor Byers.”
The stranger nods and smiles to himself like Mike said something amusing, “What are you doing out here if I may ask? Why aren't you with everyone else?”
Mike didn’t really appreciate nosy people; growing up in such a small town meant everyone knew everything. You couldn’t exhale without a neighbor or the clerk at the local video rental store finding out about it. It was like being under a microscope at all times, vulnerable and exposed. It was frustrating, and one of the main things he liked about New York City, there were too many people and too many problems in the world that nobody paid attention to what others did.
But something compelled him to be honest with this stranger, whatever it was, Mike wasn’t sure he wanted to dig deeper into his own consciousness to find out. “To be honest, I hate art,” when the other man raised his eyebrows, Mike realized what he said, “I- I mean uh- I’m taking this course for my degree, and I can’t draw to save my life! I’m just pretty nervous, is all,” he stammered.
The other man’s expression grew into one of sympathy, which made Mike feel even more embarrassed, “I can understand that, being nervous, I mean. It is a great thing, though, art. Hopefully you grow to enjoy it, Mr…?”
“Uh, Wheeler. Mike Wheeler.”
The stranger nodded, and those eyes looked Mike over, from the beat-up Converse he wore back to his face. Those eyes on him, reviewing him like he was an art piece for sale, sent a shiver down his spine. He hummed, “Well, Mike Wheeler, I’ll see you in there whenever you decide to detach from the wall then.”
And with that, the other man entered the room just as the other students had, with confidence and assurance in themselves; something Mike clearly didn't have at this moment.
He looks at his wristwatch, 11:25 AM, exactly five minutes to decide if he’ll man up and get this class over with, or chicken out and fuck up his chances at a degree.
Fuck this, it’s just a class. Get your head out of your ass, Wheeler.
And so, giving one last look at the fading numbers on the plaque, Mike Wheeler grabs for the door handle, ignoring his suddenly sweaty palms, and enters the threshold.
__
The first thing Mike notices is that there aren’t that many students who take up the stools around the large table; the second thing is that the room itself is a kaleidoscope of color with different pieces and abandoned canvases spread throughout. Every inch of the walls is full of works from previous students, each with its own individual style and stories. From sketches and anatomy studies to actual completed paintings and drawings. Different art supplies clutter the center wall, the back table holds brushes of all shapes and sizes, charcoals, and paints of various hues sit in neat arrangements.
It was beautiful. Almost like a time capsule of all the past people who felt an inner desire to create and had the bravery to do so, and this room was the proof.
Mike took a seat on the stool closest to the door and noticed the stranger from the hallway at the front of the room. Shouldn’t he be in his seat? Mike checks his watch again, 11:30 AM, the professor, Mr. Byers, could walk in any second.
“Good morning, everyone,” that same voice from the hallway. Those same eyes, hazel, with flecks of gold hidden deep within the iris, quickly flash to Mike before he continues, “Welcome to Beginners Art. I’m Professor Byers. I can’t wait to get this semester started with all of you.”
Oh.
Mike suddenly felt really, truly, stupid.
It’s not like he could tell the man from the hallway was the goddamn professor! He just assumed it was another student taking the course. He was so young, so approachable, Mike never really had younger professors, so it’s not like–
The other man, Professor Byers, interrupted Mike’s spiraling thoughts, “I know these aren’t everyone’s favorites, but how about we do a little icebreaker? We don’t have many people here, so I just want to go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves," he smiled and Mike hung on to every line surrounding that mouth, every crease in those eyes, "Make it fun, please, I can’t do this three times a day if there isn’t just a bit of fun.”
Mike couldn’t focus; he hardly paid attention to the other students talking, not that it mattered. He never went to class with the intention of making friends. Of course, he’s met a handful of interesting people over his college career, but his student career consisted of getting in, learning, and getting out. He had his friends, Lucas and Dustin. He didn’t need any more. He didn’t need anything unnecessary.
So when it was his turn to introduce himself, he kept it short and simple, “Uh, Mike Wheeler. I moved here a few years ago from Hawkins, Indiana. I’m an English major.”
He risked looking at the professor. Mr. Byers sat at his desk, leaned back in the office chair, legs crossed, mindlessly fidgeting with his bottom lip; something shone in those eyes, a hint of recognition, and another shiver raced down Mike’s spine as he tore his eyes away, focusing his attention on the chipped away paint left on the table.
When the other man realized Mike was finished, he stood and smiled, “Well, it’s nice to meet you all. Shall we get started?”
Mike looked up one last time, making eye contact with his new professor once more. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and prayed this lecture would fly by.
__
“I think that’s all I have for you guys today. I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”
As soon as those words were spoken, Mike leapt from his stool and practically ran out of the room. It was an easy first class; Mr. Byers mostly talked through the syllabus, detailing what the class would focus on this semester. Color theory, different techniques of art, a few studies for sketches, and a few final pieces for a portfolio.
His attention would fade in and out of consciousness; it was those eyes, that smile, the fucking chain.
Maybe it was the nerves, maybe Mike was genuinely going crazy, but he couldn’t properly focus throughout the lecture at all, despite staring daggers at Mr. Byers. He couldn't explain it, this underlying desire to just look at the other man.
The fact that Mr. Byers would look over at Mike while he spoke, and would stare back. It was like a small game to see who would look away first.
Of course, Mike looked away almost immediately.
Mike needed to stop. To stop thinking. For just a moment. He rushed out of the Fine Arts building and sped-walked all the way back to his dorm.
As he shut the door, locking it behind him, he found one of his oldest childhood friends, Lucas, right where he left him. On the couch in their shared living space, playing The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask.
Lucas paused the game upon hearing the door open, "Hey, man! How was class? It was just the art one today, right?"
Mike nodded, venturing deeper into the cramped shithole they called a dorm room. It was the most stereotypical living space for nerds ever. Posters of their favorite sci-fi films and rock bands inhabited every inch of the wall. Everything you’d need for a D&D campaign cluttered up the shared bookshelf near the beat-up TV Lucas brought from home. A few actual novels hid amongst the comics and dungeon master guidebooks, courtesy of Dustin’s growing obsession with Ray Bradbury and Frank Herbert.
Mike loved their dorm; it was a safe space, a place where he could run away from the outside world and find comfort in his two best friends. Here, nothing mattered; he could just be himself.
Mike shrugged, hanging his keys on the shared holder, “It was alright. It’s just a beginner's one, so hopefully they’re not expecting the next fucking Mozart or something.”
A bodyless voice called from one of the rooms. Mike recognized his other best friend's voice immediately, “Mozart wasn’t a painter, dude!”
Mike rolled his eyes. Dustin always felt the need to correct someone. “You get my point, though, right?”
Lucas shrugged, resuming his game, “How was the professor? Was she hot?”
Mike joined him on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, “He. And I don’t think the attractiveness of my professor determines if I’ll pass, dude.” He tried to ignore the invading memories of said professor, the way those hazel eyes burned into his soul. Instead, he focused his attention on the water stain in the middle of the ceiling. Did it grow in the last few hours? He should really contact the front desk about that.
Lucas hissed as he lost yet another boss battle, “Okay, and you still didn’t answer my question. Was he hot?”
Mike could feel an unfamiliar heat rising through him. His neck suddenly felt warm, and the room was too stiff.
“Uh, I don’t know, Lucas, why? Did that breakup with Max get you questioning some things?”
His friend kicked his ankle, earning a groan from Mike. “Fuck off, we didn’t break up.”
Dustin called out from his room once more, “Yes, they did. He was gone for like two hours last night and came back with a bag of his shit.”
Mike held in laughter, “Sure sounds like paradise, Lucas.”
“We’re on a break, yeah,” Lucas grumbled, “but it wasn’t an official breakup! Trust me, in a few weeks we’ll be back together.”
Dustin and Mike both spoke in unison, “Sure.”
This was what Mike needed, just a moment where no responsibilities could find him. No thoughts of degrees and classes, no questionably hot professors, just himself, his friends, and their own bubble.
Where nothing could come in, nothing alien that would spin Mike off his axis and send him into a spiraling mess.
That’s how it should be.
Mike watched Lucas struggle with one of the puzzles in the game for a few more minutes before he retreated to his room. He heard his mom's voice in his head scolding him about outside clothes in the bed as he shed his jeans and Converse, throwing them in their respective piles on the floor.
After completing some assignments for his English classes, curiosity shouted into the depths of his mind. Mike thought back to Mr. Byers. Several questions spiraled in his mind: why did he keep staring at him? How did someone so young-looking become a professor at NYU? Why'd he make that expression when Mike mentioned Hawkins?
But the most emphasized question was: why couldn’t Mike stop thinking about him?
His curiosity pestered more, eventually pushing Mike to attempt to look up Mr. Byers in his search engine. He obviously had little to go on without the other man’s first name, but typing ‘Byers NYU art’ surprisingly did the trick.
Only a few results came up, some being the homepage to the campus itself, but others were student-written articles about some art exhibits Mr. Byers had sponsored or participated in himself. Upon clicking on one that was published a few years back, written by someone named Fred Benson, Mike was met with a photo of his professor, admiring a singular art piece amongst various ones on the wall.
It was obviously meant to resemble a candid shot, but it looked so… beautiful. Like it wasn’t just for an article but something meant for the private eye. Like someone just happened to stumble upon this man and decided to capture the memory with their eyes. Hoping to hold on to his beauty for a few seconds before he disappeared from their grasp.
Mr. Byers looked at peace, like art was his life, which it probably was. But his expression and posture look so natural; he looked at home surrounded by art.
Mike spent too long staring at that photo, at Mr. Byers. A small shadow of shame crept up his spine, questioning why he was so transfixed by the other man, why this image held all his attention at the moment.
But another shadow, one made of desire and want, overtook him. All because of this picture, this other man, his professor.
He was so fucked.