26Truth be told, Mike never actually forgot Jane Hopper.
Not exactly.
The tenth visit was premeditated, and there were three vital things he needed to be sure of to make it a success.
First: make sure she's actually working, otherwise the whole thing is pointless.
Second: go on a night business sucks and her attention isn't divided.
Third: you don't get to know that yet, that's a surprise.
March had arrived, but the warmth and flourish of spring had been delayed. Instead came a constant overcast of clouds, a silvery veil blocking all things that gave light - the sun, moon, stars - and with it, snowfall. It came down like a soft powder, stubbornly sticking to everything it touched, signing towards ill weather forecasted to come their way in the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't anything new for Chicago, or Illinois in general.
Though it was the wind Mike couldn't stand as he walked, turning the corner and hurrying his long legs down the sidewalk. It blew harshly, burning his cheeks until they became distinctly pink and burrowing the chill deep into his very bones.
At the entrance of Doomsday's was a man whose aura clearly radiated the sentiment of Do Not Fuck With Me, with rippling pectorals and menacing biceps, and a nametag unashamedly spelling out the name Funshine.
He shook his head at the approaching man and held the door open. "Jesus, Wheeler. Did you seriously walk all the way over here?"
"Yeah," he answered and what was that sound? Oh, right. His teeth. They were chattering. The corduroy coat bundling him up did a shit job at keeping him warm but what the hell ever. Mike was in, and the building's temperature would defrost him just fine.
"Gotta ask, but," Funshine crossed his arms, leveling his gaze with the strangest stereotype of a person that just so happened to gain the status of regular patron recently. "The hell is in that?"
That, of course, being styrofoam box held tightly in his gloved hands - a surprise, perhaps?
"It's for Eleven," Mike replied with pep, a grin so bright it stretched wide across his face, and he'd consider it painful if his cheeks weren't so numb. He let him take a peak. "No weapon. See?"
Funshine could barely contain the gruff sound of his laugh.
"You trying to marry her or somethin'?"
"What? No, it's just -"
Then, he considered.
"Would that actually work on her?"
"We'll just have to see, won't we," Funshine humored and clapped a massive hand over his shoulder, pushing him along. "Go on and get out of my way. I have actual IDs to check."
Mike didn't need to be told twice. He moved, still beaming and confidence soaring. The contents in the box were inspired by a minute quirk of the past, one he hoped hadn't changed with the passage of time - memories were strange, strange things, why do the most insignificant things stick out so strongly - but judging from the reaction received, he had the feeling the cosmos were on his side.
It was a ghost town of drinkers. One sweeping gaze around the wide room confirmed it, including her location. His trajectory didn't lead him to the final destination of the bar. Eleven wasn't there, you see, and Mike zig-zagged through the set of pool tables, dodged the one game of darts whizzing through the air, and stopped at corner that homed the jukebox.
Centimeters kept them separate. There was no wooden nook smack-dab in the middle, he wasn't rooted to the barstool for once - and admittedly, he had to seize the moment to drink up the sight of her. That striking lack of height, for starters, which he never took to mind until now.
(But then again anyone compared to him could easily fit the descriptor of 'short.' His visible reputation of 'beanstalk' was for a reason.)
Eleven was sifting through the selection of records, head bobbing to the sound of bellowing tunes. Her shirt was lopsided, exposing the shoulder he tapped his finger on.
She didn't startle.
"Hey, stranger," El greeted, spinning around to face him, the shimmer around her eyes a blue so soft and brought it conjured memories of her dress, how luck had it that it paired so well with his own ensemble that night eons and eons ago. "Did you - you walked here, didn't you?"
It was soft, worried scold as she dusted the last bits of snowflake that had yet to melt off his broad shoulders. There was chipped polish in her fingernails, black. An odd detail to notice, but he found himself immersed in searching for the little things.
(Her hair was pulled into a short ponytail and there were untamed strands loose and tucked behind her ear, curled, because that was her hair. Curly. He remembered it always being curly.)
"It wasn't far," he replied because, really, why would a cold commute on feet stop him from dropping by? Mike would live. "Looking for a song?"
Well, at that very moment she'd been looking at what was in his hands - the underwhelmingly unspectacular styrofoam box he'd yet to explain - but she craned her neck up to meet his eyes again.
"Wanna help me decide?" Her smile was wry, lips all shiny gloss.
"On something that everyone in this room might hate?"
"Obviously."
"I'm in."
She turned back around and he didn't see the need to stand side by side - he could see the glass window of the jukebox without much trouble just by peering over the top of her head, something he made sure to tease about. In the end, he made the selection. Time After Time. Cyndi Lauper.
Mike gave her the coin to insert into the machine with pride.
"I think they would have hated Girls Just Wanna Have Fun a little more," she giggled, finalizing the transaction. "But I like this one. It shouldn't take too long for it to come on. Did you want a drink? I can mosey on over to my end and be productive for you."
"Nah," Mike expressed, scratching the nervous itch that tingled at his nape. "I was actually gonna see if you've got a minute to sit? I mean, you look so busy, pondering sappy pop songs just to make people twitch."
(Dottie was manning the well of booze all by her lonesome, doing absolutely nothing productive except for filing her nails. There was time.)
El wagged a finger and tsked. "Pop songs, sure. Sappy? That's all you, mouth breather. Are you trying to be sneaky by setting the mood?"
"You sure that's not wishful thinking on your end?"
"Could be," she quipped, mischief a bright glint in her amber eyes, and offered him her hand. "Is that food you're carrying around?"
He closed his fingers around hers - like puzzle pieces lost and searching, they were found and fit - and allowed her to lead him towards the empty end of the bar's stretch. "Maybe it is," he casually shrugged. "Don't be so nosy."
They settled in close. His knees brushed hers (an innocent accident, really), yet she didn't adjust her seat to pull away. "Any plans on sharing?"
The box was set atop the table surface, and after shedding his gloves he carefully slid it towards her.
"Well."
"Well?"
"No need to share," he confirmed, opting to take a more serious tone for this. "It's for you, actually."
His swell of courage warbled a bit, doubts and second guesses bubbling at the pit of his stomach but he was determined to push through it. It wasn't as if there was a ring in here.
(what he didn't know was that only a handful of years from now, they would be at this exact spot, wintertime, with a moment almost exactly like this and inside would be that very thing)
"I'm intrigued," Eleven cautiously admitted as she took the styrofoam container, handling it as if it were precious glass, or a bomb at risk of detonating with any sudden movement. "Also a little suspicious."
Mike nudged her with his leg. "Just open it."
She did. And her assumption had been correct: it was food. A waffle.
A lone, golden, cooked-to-perfection waffle with absolutely nothing on it. There was no whipped cream, no syrup. Simple, plain, and delectably edible.
He watched the way her eyes went as wide and round as the very thing he'd gotten her.
"Eighth grade. We had zero classes together," Mike mused, dragging his fingernails across the grooves of the bartop; the lines carved in by knives, the streaks of permanent marker he knew by memory now. "But I remember my friends pissed me off about something stupid, I don't know, like some group activity was decided through a democratic process and I lost. Middle school drama, right? Anyway, I went outside to eat and I saw you, by yourself. Under a tree. Eating a plain waffle like it was a sandwich."
Mike remembered thinking, that girl's weird.
He also remembered thinking, right after, well, so am I.
It was why he asked if he could sit with her, and why he introduced himself. A new friend was made that day. He ate lunch with her often, and sadly, it was short-lived.
But to say that he had forgotten her wasn't true. Mike remembered Jane. He remembered that she didn't talk to other people much, that she didn't fit the regular mold of girls through their grade - he remembered overalls, shirts too big for her, unruly hair, the indentation of her cheeks every time she smiled. He remembered denying any sort of crush the one time Dustin teased him, and remembered realizing how that was a load of crap when he had awkwardly asked if she was going to that ridiculously cheesy winter ball and, oh, did you wanna to together?
Their thirteen-year-old selves danced with only one another that night.
Winter break followed. Then came Christmas, New Year's and afterwards, finally, classes resumed as normal, and he'd been eager come back.
Except she wasn't there. Rumor had it, she moved.
Mike remembered thinking how he almost kissed her that night of the Snow Ball. He remembered regretting that he didn't. It would have been his first.
Eleven didn't wear overalls. She styled her hair in ways that hid the nature of her curls, she didn't have the timidness towards human interaction that would cripple her job as bartender and yet, she was definitely Jane. Years passed, changing people as it was meant to do, and the clarity of old memories may have faded but he knew that smile, knew those dimples.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the polaroid picture.
"I never forgot," he went on, shoulders having lifted into a bit of a sheepish shrug. "I just needed to make the correlation between you and...you. Which, okay, sounds kind of dumb, but -"
"It's not," El defended and (for now, as she had plans to devour that waffle as is) set the box down, swapping it for the picture. "I get it, Mike. It's been ten years. I mean, have you seen this? We looked like babies."
The edges of the photo were frayed, there was a crease down the middle from years of storage, the colors were faded but the memory itself had brightened, all those seemingly insignificant aspects of that resurging - how stuffy the inside of that gymnasium felt, the gaudy winter decorations, the beat of a song she couldn't name. She was aglow with nostalgia.
"You recognized me! Like, instantly."
"Not instantly! Not until I read your name and asked you where you were from. And your thing with sweaters -"
"What's wrong with my sweaters?"
El pushed her lips into a flat line to battle the beginnings of laughter and hugged the picture flat against her chest. "Nothing! You just haven't outgrown them, is all."
Mike blinked down at his - you guessed it - sweater.
"It's not a bad thing."
"Uh-huh."
"I like them."
"I think I'm gonna eat this waffle now?"
The spark of a challenge ignited and their hands shot forth in a race of who would lay claim on the waffle. Mike's got to it first, but hers - still holding the polaroid - locked over his.
He was grinning, victorious. She was huffy, pouting.
Then, they heard it.
lying in my bed I hear the clock tick
and think of you
caught up in circles confusion
is nothing new
flashback, warm nights
almost left behind
With it came the disgruntled sounds of disapproval and someone at the other end shouting WHICH ONE OF YOU ASSHOLES PICKED THIS. Mike and El could barely hold it in - they fell into each other, her giggles muffled by a mouthful of his coat and his teeth bit down on his bottom lip, hard, doing all he could to avoid self-incrimination.
"So, uh," he cleared his throat in effort to mask his amusement."Is there any way I can get that number now, Jane?"
"On three conditions."
"Three?"
El held up one finger for the first. "Try to avoid calling me Jane?"
"Okay," Mike nodded. There's a story there. "I can do that. The second?"
"It's still my waffle."
"Speaking of someone who hasn't outgrown anything…"
"Nope," she shamelessly responded, extracting the waffle from the box to relive the memory of their first meeting. She held it like a sandwich, bit into it, gave a thoughtful hum as she finished chewing. "You got this from a food truck, didn't you? The one that parks about four blocks away?"
His mouth twitched, somewhat in awe because how did she - "You're obsessed."
It was true. There was one that stationed itself not far from here and he stumbled upon the other day adjusting his walking route around the city. Earlier, he'd stood outside of it for almost a half-hour in the freezing weather, mentally arguing with himself on toppings and flavors before sticking to what he recalled: her eating them plain, so he would get her exactly that.
"You're impressed." Eleven's smile was cheeky. "I know my waffles. Ready for the third?"
"God, I hope so."
"Let's get out of here?"
Lucky them, Dottie was the one scheduled to close.
"Are you cold? Do you want my gloves?" The wind wasn't as bad but it was still present, sharp and merciless when felt - and the snow, like that had stopped. There was a thickening blanket of white around them, and he was over one hundred percent sure the tattered leather jacket she was wrapped in wasn't enough to keep her body heat in tact.
El didn't seem bothered by it. "It's okay. I have pockets -"
Pockets weren't enough. Mike already had his gloves off. "Damnit, I knew I should have brought a scarf too. Here, though, take these -"
"You said you didn't live far -"
"I don't but it's still cold," Mike insisted stubbornly but so full of good intent that he could very well explode.
She knew she would inevitably lose any argument that left her hands bare. "Fine," El sighed in fond exasperation and slipped on the gloves. "Happy?"
"Are you warmer?"
There was an interesting expression that flashed over her face - something along with oh my god, why are you like this? - and before he knew it, there was a set of arms entrapping the circumference of his waist, and a tiny but exceptionally powerful force pushing his back up against the brick wall of the bar behind him.
He, at the very least, was feeling very heated now.
"I'll only be warmer if we walk back to your place like this," she scoffed. "Hugging all the way there."
Mike wasn't completely dismissing the idea. "It'd be difficult," he pondered out loud, wrapping up around her as if he were her own personal meat shield from the harshness of nature. "But not unpleasant?"
A snowflake fell to her nose. He wasn't the least bit timid when he moved in, rubbing it away with his own.
"None of this is unpleasant," she murmured and there it was; the little hollow of her rosy-colored cheeks that came with her smiles.
He kissed her then, not a beat skipped; he kissed her softly, kissed her sweetly, and she kissed him too. Nothing else existed that moment. Not the bone-rattling Chicago gusts, not the wet snowfall, not the wintry chill of the night. Kissing her felt as if he was teasing embers - and if he kept kissing her the heat would climb, and the flames would spread like wildfire.
Their breaths were hot and visible when they pulled apart.
(a part of him swears that he's done this with her before, somewhere else, some other time -)
"Hey, El?" Jane. She was Jane, but the nickname he'd given to her felt rolled off his tongue easier - like it was natural, like that was actually her name.
"Mmm?"
There were questions he wanted to ask, things like -
Was us meeting again a coincidence?
Do you believe in fate?
"Mike?" Her eyes searched his, wondering, what if -
"Nothing," was what he decided to say, and pressed his lips against the spot between her brows. "You're just...beautiful."
(a part of him feels like he's said that to her before too, but if there's one thing he's sure of, it's this: he'll be saying it in the future)
A blizzard ravaged Chicago that night. El hardly noticed, and not for reasons one might think.
Mike Wheeler, despite bringing home a woman during wee hours, was a complete gentleman. The two of them paid little attention to the passage of time, swaddled in wooly blankets and nursing mugs of hot chocolate, all while invading each other's personal space.
And as promised, she had given him her number.
"Here," she said, pinching the old polaroid between her fingers and holding it to him - because on the back, next to the numbers '85 were a different set of digits, freshly handwritten. "Your prize."
He took it proudly. "Hey, I worked really hard for this!"
"You did," Eleven giggled, reaching over to smooth the mess of his bangs; soft to touch and midnight black. "Hey, Mike?"
They hadn't moved from the couch or gotten any sleep. The sun was up, gold streaming through the windows, and the blankets were tangled up their legs and the mugs were set on the floor, empty.
He had given her one of his sweatshirts. A blue hoodie that she zipped up for that extra bit of coziness, and sometimes the scent of it would be confused with words like home and that was too weird to make any sort of sense, but what if -
Mike nudged her with a socked foot. "Yeah?"
Do you believe in fate?
"I'm glad you walked into my bar that night," was what she had decided to say, and it was the truth in its purest, simplest form.
Coincidence?
He shifted, adjusting his legs and arms and it was as if she understood without needing to hear an explanation. Mike had made space for her, and she nestled against him in a perfect fit - two puzzle pieces.'
Home, in retrospect, didn't seem like the strangest thing to think about.
A/N: had to end it with a bit of mystery there...
jesus, sorry for taking so long to finish this? life happens. so does writer's block. i'm not completely satisfied with this but i was determined to finish this, and i hope it goes well (and i understand if it doesn't lol)
thanks for the comments!