minghao x reader
4.8k words
dystopian au
sexism and totalitarian regime warning
minghao curls and uncurls his fingers around the handles of his bike; the leather of his gloves soft and coarse all at once at the palms of his hands. he swears he can smell the scent of paint and spray cans even through the fabric. if he focuses hard enough, he could count each splatter of color that stains his hands, even when he canāt see them. blue; like the color of the sky, like the color of the official logo of palatium, right by the knuckle below his index finger. orange, like fire, like heat, like the shocking and provocative frills of junās jacket; a slim, but still visible line across his right palm. a dot of green stains his pants.
secrets are dangerous, in a place like palatium. minghao tiptoes on a fragile line already; features blatantly other (his eyes are too large, they say, his nose too characteristic of his ethnicity. itās too obvious heās not from here) and his crimes too loudly spoken of. itās almost dizzying, how fast the narrative changes, how quickly heād gone from heroic rescuer to enemy of the state. wonwoo tells him to keep his head low, to close his ears to the whispers and accusations. minghao appreciates the advice.
heās just not very good at following it.Ā
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the thing that minghao misses the most, the thing that reminds him vividly, almost eerily of his home country, is painting. heād been a commodity, of sorts, back then; words like āartistā and āgeniusā and āprodigyā tacked onto his name, spoken in soft, admiring tones. colors splashed against canvases; yellows and reds and blacks and blues. smudges of color on his face, underneath his fingernails, the smell of wet, thick liquid.
there was a shirt he used to wear back then, whenever he painted. white, soft fabric and bold, black letters. what font was it again ā times new roman? ā what did it say? freedom? such a foreign concept. but minghao remembers that shirt, remembers the sensation of smooth fabric against his skin, and somehow that keeps him sane on the days when he feels like he might burst.
once heās safely out of sight, tucked away in a private nook right outside town, he gets off his bike, rips the gloves off of his hands. he shrugs his backpack from his narrow shoulders, clutches at the straps as he steps over rotten wood and grey stone. the air smells almost clean here; the sound of leaves rustling in a faint wind making minghaoās ears twitch to attention. if he closes his eyes and pretends, maybe he could hear the hums of birds, the hurried steps of forest animals.
pretenses are important in palatium, they keep you alive. daydreams, on the other hand; theyāll end up killing you. something metallic and hollow smacks against something else inside of minghaoās bag. not too far now, he promises, as if the contents of his bag have minds of their own. or maybe itās himself that heās reassuring. who can tell, these days.
the cans of paint he got from one of wonwooās girls. wonwoo hates when people refer to them like that, does not like the implication. the girls donāt mind, especially not the one who had gotten minghao the cans. they know how much wonwoo puts on the line for them; they wear the title as a badge of honor. not that it matters. what matters is that the girl had smuggled paint for him. minghao doesnāt ask how, only listens to the way the cans clink together in his bag.
the abandoned house, heād found on his own. creaking floors and moldy corners; itās a wonder the building still stands. remnants of whoever used to live there lingers in every room; a sundress there, a golden pen there, picture frames with nothing in them. itās the most haunted thing minghao has ever seen, but itās his, in a sense, and nothing else really is anymore. the inside walls used to be white, he thinks, the exterior of the house a faded red. when he first stumbled upon the uninhabited home the inside had turned a dull sort of yellow-y color. when he enters now, there are colors everywhere; symbols and drawings of his own creation. it feels like walking into an alternative universe. a world of his own.
when he steps inside this time, though, thereās someone else there.
youāre staring at the wall directly in front of him, your back turned to him. you do not see him enter, but thereās no doubt that you hear the way the door moan as he pushes it open. for a moment minghao thinks heās been caught; that youāre an enforcer come to take him away. he imagines every public execution heās been forced to witness, puts himself right in the center of it; the mental image enough to block his airways. itās not until you twist around to face him that he realizes that youāre a woman. he hates himself for his first thought, then; that he has the upper hand.
āah,ā you mutter, gaze dropping from minghaoās face to his hands; stained with color and pale at the knuckles with the strength of his grip at the straps of his bag. āso youāre the one whoās been painting my house.ā
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itās not your house, per se, minghao finds out. it isā actually, it is quite an impressive story; your parents rebels way back when the peacekeeper first took to power. professors, the both of them, too smart, too educated to bow down as easily as most of the masses. their marriage had been āvoidedā, your mother promised to another man; a man more suited to her genetics. the house had been their summer home, at the time. a quaint little cottage. minghao suspects it must have been quite cozy, at some point.
they had managed to stay hidden for seven years, a feat so impressive that minghao doesnāt even believe it at first. youād been born in the very room youāre both standing in, spent the first years of your life here.
and then the enforcers came.
that explains the two graves in the garden behind the house.
āin town they call me lee,ā you tell him, a stubbornness tinting your tone, a sort of distaste covering your tongue as you utter the last name, the one shared by the orphans of palatium. ābut that implies iāve been saved,ā you spit. āat least thatās the intention.ā minghao understands what you mean, has seen the posters and heard the sermons about the charity of the silent nuns. what goodness they all possess, dedicating their lives to the unfortunate children whose parents are lost either to illness or to sin. thatās clearly not the way you look at it.
minghao glances around the room, at the walls and at the droplets of paint staining the old floors.
āiām sorry for intruding,ā he tells you uncertainly. it feels strange, offering an apology freely. he hasnāt done that since he lived in a free country. āand for ruining your walls.ā minghao used to be very proud of his creative abilities, used to relish in the way people looked at his artworks in exhibitions. he feels awkward, now; exposed, almost as if heās been doing something wrong. he has, he supposes. painting is, after all, illegal.
āoh no,ā you breathe, turn your head back to look at the nearest wall. there was this town hall building in his country that minghao used to love visiting. a bright house made of bricks; a clocktower in the middle of it all, a garden on the right side. minghaoās never been particularly good at realism in his art, but somehow the painting reminds him of that building anyways. āitās beautiful,ā you tell him, voice soft and airy.
āwhere is that?ā you ask, fingers gliding along the painting. his own fingertips itch as if heās the one dragging his hand over the surface. he feels coarse canvases beneath his thumb. āyouāre not from here, are you?ā
minghao blinks. āyou guessed that just from a painting?ā
laughter fills the space, makes the room feel ridiculously large and horribly cramped all at once; the sound of your voice echoing through the living room and tickling at his neck. āno,ā you admit. āeveryone knows who you are.ā
at that, he grimaces. the only way his existence in the middle districts could be any more eye catching was if they put up posters proclaiming his crimes, and the governmentās mercy for letting him live in the middle districts rather than the lower. the more he thinks about it, the more surprised he is that they havenāt actually done that.
āi heard you got at least twenty people across the border before you got caught,ā you whisper. itās not something minghao hasnāt heard before, the words following him everywhere he goes. a scandal, they call it. unheard of. should be executed. he nods his head slowly, does not trust his voice. āthat was very brave,ā you continue, mouth curling into something sad, something strangely reminiscent of a smile. āiām sorry this is your reward.ā
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most people minghao know are born into the country known as palatium; his friends the first generation of adults who know nothing but the closed off walls and the strict regime. he canāt help but thinking you, more than anyone else, has been truly exposed to what it means to be a citizen of palatium; what it takesā what it takes; what it steals, robs, rips away from you, strips and destroys and tears from the very crevices of your soul. the first time ā that is, the time after the first ā he finds you at the house after your somewhat unorthodox introduction, itās behind the house. trees hang over the roof as if they threaten to cave the ceiling in, as if they want to consume the house entirely.
heās not sure what possesses him to go looking for you; heās already been at the house countless times without your presence. somehow, the house feels emptier, now. so he looks. itās not hard to find you, there arenāt many places to hide, and when he spots your hunched over form through a window (thereās a draft there, as if the winds beckons him in your direction) he feels a sort of tug. for a moment heās not even sure that he should approach. in the end minghaoās still too curious for his own good.
āthe artist returns,ā you murmur, back turned to him. that seems to be your way of greeting. minghao doesnāt know how heād mistaken you for an enforcer the first time; as you stand in front of the two wooden crosses, thereās nothing thatās not small, vulnerable about you. distinctly feminine, though he canāt stand that even he has started thinking that way. itās unnerving, how easily oneās mind is reshaped.
āi hope iām not intruding,ā he mutters uncertainly, gaze dropping to look at the graves. there are no names there, but then, there are probably no bodies either. bodies arenāt buried in palatium.
you shrug, a barely there lift of your shoulders. you turn to look at him. there is red along your lines, like a rim of blood framing your eyes. youāve been crying. minghao understands the compulsion, he feels like he wants to cry all the time.
you rub at your eyes, unbothered by how obvious that gesture is. āof course not,ā you tell him with a twitch of your lips. you lean your head back, glance at his backpack. āi know you usually come on mondays.ā
when minghao was an artist, people sought him out all the time. twitter dms, small compliments while in the line at starbucks. he wasnāt a celebrity, but he was known enough to never be lonely. he had forgotten what it felt like to be sought after. to have your quirks remembered and accomodated.
āi was wondering,ā you continue, clearing your throat. for the first time, you remind him of the women heāll see in the streets in town; meek and docile and almost afraid to look a man in the eye. itās not because the gaze is familiar, or the stance is the same, somehow you remind him of the meek women purely for the difference in your coyness. in those girls, the ones who seem to have given up on freedom (freedom; like minghaoās shirt, like the studio that smelled of paint and freshly picked flowers), diverted gazes are a sign of subservience.
subservience. what a word. what a backwards way of life. minghao remembers his mother talking about the marches she participated in when she was young; the demonstrations for equal rights and equal pay. he wonders what the women of palatium would think of such a thing.
in any caseā when you divert your gaze, gnaw on your bottom lip as if unsure whether or not your words are appropriate, it does not look like, does not feel like subservience. it looks like having power, and choosing to give it away. it makes minghao tingle, in a way that he hasnāt in a long, long time. it makes him want to paint.
āi was wondering if i couldāā you pause, and minghao does not doubt that youāre weighing your options. he thinks he can guess at your thought process just by looking at the way your eyebrows furrow, echoing the slight frown that curls your mouth. āon one handā, youāre probably telling yourself. āheās in the same boat, heās breaking the law, too.ā you blink, hands tangling into the fabric of your worn, too big sweater. āon the other,ā you might argue, āheās got a lot more to prove, a lot more to win by turning me in.ā clarity takes precedence in your expression; youāve made up your mind. āif you could show me how to paint.ā
half empty cans of paint clink and clank together in his backpack. if he closes his eyes, minghao can hear the sound of the wind, can pretend to hear the buzz of insects and the hum of birds. minghao doesnāt need to close his eyes, the sight in front of him is welcome, for once.
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minghaoās gloves feel scratchy against his skin, feels like a sort of prison of their own. like theyāre coiled around his throat rather than covering his paint stained hands. no one really asks any questions about them anymore, though some used to be very curious. seokmin still eyes him almost distrustingly, as if heās hiding something. minghao supposes that he is; only wonwoo knows about the cans of paint.
āyouāre different,ā jihoon notes, nursing his black eye with a wet cloth against his face. minghao wonders if he knows who you are, if you grew up at the same convent. itās a possibility, a probability, even. but minghao does not ask, has learned that questions are just as dangerous as confessions. thereās a tint of teasing coated on the fluid tones of jihoonās voice. not for the first time, minghao thinks that the smaller man could have the voice of a singer, had singing been allowed in palatium. it would certainly suit him more than the fights in the underground. āhave you finally assimilated?ā
the word is a joke, more than anything else. a part of the speech the peacekeeper had held in order to use minghao to spread the governmentās propaganda. look, theyād say. hereās a heathen, a sinner. we will give him a chance to assimilate, to understand that our way is the way of righteousness. minghao has never been further away from assimilation. he thinks about fingers covered in blues, in reds; in purple. he wonders if you ever got the stains off your skin. he should get a second pair of gloves, just in case.
he never sees you in town, though he knows you must live somewhere. there are ghettos and apartments reserved for the lees of the country; cramped rooms and broken showers. seokmin and jihoon lives on a shared square of space, sleep on the hard mattress in shifts. he wonders who you share a room with. he wonders how you are, when youāre not surrounded by color.
āi donāt know,ā minghao murmurs, so delayed that jihoon doesnāt seem to catch on at first. jeonghan sits in his corner, his jaw tight. thinking about the risks heās taking, no doubt; minghao has heard the pretty man has found himself a partner. unmatched. thatās dangerous. thatās asking for it.
minghaoās stomach knots. he grasps for a distraction, finds that each subject that sticks to his mind is a distraction that needs a distraction on itās own. āwhereās wonwoo?ā
silence. things are happening, minghao knows. things that are bigger than a hidden house and splashes of color.
āthe woman from the lower district,ā seokmin replies with a voice that drips of suspicion. āsheās taking him to see the firestarter.ā
āthe firestarterā, thatās jun; leader of the aberrants. there was a time when the factions were visibly divided, when they only met for fights and for shows of power. things are happening. minghao has seen the tall man from the high district whisper words of information into jihoonās ears during fights, has seen the blows grow softer with the passing months.
minghao should care. this is the important stuff. all he can think of is color, and a shirt with the word āfreedomā on it.
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one of the upsides of being born in a free country, is that minghao is much quicker to recognize things, feelings that his friends donāt know the name of. seokmin might always be suspicious, but he rarely knows what heās suspicious of. itās just a general, constant feeling. minghao knows why heās suspicious. when heās scared, he knows why heās scared.
when he enters the house, two months after the first time he did so, and he feels his heart pound loudly in his chest at the sight of the back of your neck (thereās a smudge of yellow there, he wants to rub it away with his thumb), he knows what that means, too.
his breath catches when you turn around to greet him. thereās something about it, about the light flooding through the glassless windows and giving your skin a strange, inhuman sort of glow. about the wall in front of you, the one that used to have his town hall building on it, but thatās now covered in squiggles and shapes and abstract symbols. itās not something he wouldāve put on display, back when he was an artist, but itās something he wouldāve decorated his wall with; something he wouldāve privately held closer to his heart than his other works.
a month ago, you mightāve said āoh, minghao.ā, in that wondering, pleasantly surprised tone of voice that makes minghaoās neck prickle. āitās not monday.ā you mightāve observed. now, his spontaneous visits are not so unexpected anymore. minghao likes to think that you come around more often, too, because youāre as eager to see him as he is to see you. now, heās greeted by a soft smile, a softer voice, just a murmur of āhelloā.
he sits beside you, watches as you let your fingers flit across the canvas ā because thatās what it is; not a wall, not a decaying surface of wood, but a canvas ā fingers decorated in color. blues and yellows to create a vibrant green. reds and blues to create rich, royal purple. he gives you a pair of gloves that heād managed to trade his weekly proviants for. his stomach rumbles, protests against the lack of food, but itās worth it for the look of adoration when heād handed you the leather that resembles the pair in his own back pocket.
you tell him about your parents, about your first memories from before the enforcers came. about peace, about solitude. you know a few letters, you proclaim with pride. your parents had made sure of that, before they perished. it breaks his heart, how pleased you are as you press your index finger against the surface in front of you, scrawl an awkward, not quite right āaā there. b, c, d, e. thatās the extent of your knowledge. that is it. thatās all you have to cling to. minghaoās mother would have screamed.
he tells you about his own childhood, about growing up in a free country. he tells you about his mother, about the womenās marches and the co-ed universities. you marvel, hang onto his every word. āiād love to visit some time,ā you tell him. he knows he shouldnāt say anything, that false hope is as poisonous as anything in palatium, but when he opens his mouth, the words still fall out. āiāll take you some time. weāll go together.ā
and maybe itās selfish, maybe itās dangerous, but he still thinks that itās worth it for the way your face lights up, mouth wide enough to cause a strain to your cheeks. that time, when minghao has to leave, you stand up with him, perched on your toes. you put your hands on his shoulder and you kiss his cheek. thereās something strange in the expression on your face, something minghao canāt quite decipher. but then that might just be due to the swimming, dizzying feeling in his stomach.
(love, love, love. such a strange thing, such a paradox. it makes minghao feel weak, vulnerable, exposed. it makes him feel strong, invincible. he didnāt think such a thing existed in such a dull, colorless place as palatium.
in the back of his mind, he thinks about jeonghan; who always seems to be walking on pins and needles, always worried, always waiting for bad news.
the spot your lips have touched on his face feels warm, even hours later when heās racing kwon soonyoung and dino of the aberrants. he doesnāt even care that he loses.)
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when he enters the house ā your house? his house? yours? shared? minghaoās head spins ā thereās a sort of tension lining the walls. a heaviness that not even the childish yellow suns and exaggerated flowers painted along the tired wallpaper of the house can quite manage to alleviate. youāre sitting in front of the wall you were staring at the first time minghao had seen you. there are different paintings there now; your first meeting feels like a lifetime ago. minghao canāt even remember what he used to paint before you.
minghao sits down next to you, feels an unbearable urge to reach for your hand where it lies fisted in your lap. asking someone if somethingās wrong seems like a useless exercise. the answer is either going to be āyesā or a lie, and thereās not much to do about it regardless. still, he asks, voice careful; barely above a whisper. you exhale. the look on your face is not so much coated in sadness as it is in resignation. and that might be worse.
āi have to tell you something,ā you murmur, fingers reaching to fiddle with a folder lying right in front of you. the paper is beige, official looking. thereās only one reason to give a woman a folder. minghaoās heart drops. you lift your gaze, then, turn your head around to look at him. maybe youāre a good actress, maybe you have everyone fooled with your coy smiles and your soft voice. you donāt fool minghao.
āyeah,ā you croak, facade almost completely falling as your lip twitches. you push the folder around on the dirty floor. you open it. as per the laws, you cannot read, and as such the folder consists only of images. thereās the blue palatium logo at the top, engoldened with the symbol that represents the soulmate method of marriages. underneath are pictures. minghao recognizes the face. āiāve been matched.ā
āchoi seungcheol,ā minghao says. the name has never sounded so bitter, the face of the high district racer never looked so much like an enemy. minghao never carried the same sort of disdain towards the nobles as his allies did; right now he swear he would rip seungcheol apart limb by limb had he had the chance. you must see the anger on his face, because you swiftly close the folder and hide it underneath your folded legs.
āhe seems nice enough,ā you hum, lift your arm gingerly to place your hand at his shoulder. your nails dig into his skin. somehow the pain grounds him. āi had a suspicion he was part of the nobles,ā you continue, the twinkle in your eyes muted but still ablaze, still more alive than anything minghao has experienced in his five years living in palatium. āhe didnāt seem likeā like how i expected him to be.ā
minghao puts his hand over yours. your fingers interlace. minghao canāt get himself to look at it, too afraid that the sight might completely unravel him. āyouāve already met with him?ā
āa few times,ā you reply vaguely, your voice tight.
minghao thinks back to his shirt back when he was a painter ā a real one, one who sold pictures; not someone who just painted because it was all he could do to keep himself from going crazy ā the one with the word āfreedomā on it. he feels as if caterpillars are crawling underneath his skin. the font, it wasnāt times new roman, he suddenly remembers. but surely it was something with serifs.
āa few times,ā he repeats, only distantly aware of the sound of his own voice. he sounds hollow, like the sound of empty cans of paint clinking together in his backpack. āwhy didnāt you tell me?ā
you sigh, untangle your fingers from his own. instead, you let them wander along the lines of his face, touch unhurried and fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. it strikes minghao that he wonāt get the chance to get used to that sensation, that heās barely caught up to the erratic beat your presence brings to his heart. there are a lot of times ā or maybe just one unending, five year long instance ā where minghao feels like things are not fair in palatium. this knowledge, this shattering sort of revelation still manages to throw him off, to make him choke.
āwhat good would it do, minghao?ā you murmur, the question inherently rhetoric. the answer is easy, of course; it wouldnāt do any good. it would only have brought an earlier end to this thing that never even got to start. āi didnāt want you to know until you had to,ā you add, and for a moment that makes minghao angry. angry that he has been kept in the dark, angry that you made a decision without him. he shakes this feeling before it festers; in truth you do not owe him anything. in truth you are entitled to the few choices you are allowed to make. he catches your hand as it makes its ascent towards his hair, brings it back down to his cheek.
for some reason he can only think of sans serif fonts; arial, calibri, helvetica. the palatium logo has a serif font; one minghao has never seen before. one that looks grotesque and horrible where minghaoās freedom shirt looked clean, sophisticated. for the life of him he canāt remember the name of the font.
āminghao, iāā you stutter, and for a moment your expression is completely open. there are many emotions he canāt remember the name of anymore, the sensations muddled and exchanged for a monotonous, but necessary indifference. fear. worry. helplessness. shadows of things that are too heartbreaking to name. your eyes look wet. your clear your throat. ātake care of my house for me, will you?ā
(if minghao kisses you then, hungrily and desperately and with a mouth far too open, if he swallows your breaths and curls his fingers around your ears, pulls you close and sobs into your mouth, unable to speak in any other language than a physical, silent sort of language, then that is between you, minghao and a house that belongs to no one, and to the both of you.
if promises slip between lips and get tangled with the kisses, if forbidden words are whispered between clinking teeth and echo-y cries, then that is a secret for the two of you to bear together.)
perpetua, minghao thinks as he steps towards his bike. the font on his shirt was called perpetua. he remembers because it reminds him of the word āperpetualā. āeverlastingā. ānever endingā.
he wonders if the heavy, crushing feeling in his chest is perpetual.
Thinking today about a post I saw some time ago about how wearing glasses shouldn't be considered a disability because it's "socially acceptable" and also about how I haven't been able to update my prescription for 2 years because I just cannot afford an optometrist visit or new frames.
I understand the impulse to say bad vision doesn't count because glasses are such a normal part of our society we don't even think of them as a disability tool anymore, bur the fact is if something happens to my glasses, I am Fucked. I can't drive. I can barely do everyday tasks. Working is going to be impossible. Even if I scrounge the money to get new frames, I have to wait WEEKS for them to arrive. And what happens to me in that time frame? Nothing good, I can tell you that. I literally need this tool to function on a daily basis, because my vision is bad enough to seriously disrupt my life without them.
If anything, glasses are a great example of what society could be if we took MORE disability seriously. If we had actual tools so readily available and normalized you saw them everywhere. But that doesn't make me not disabled, because the minute I lose access to that tool, I can't function.
Bastet (or āBastā) was one of the most popular goddesses in Egyptian mythology, and generally thought of more as a cat goddess. She even personified the playfulness, grace, affection, and cunning of a cat, as well as the fierce power of a lioness. To Bast cats were sacred, and to harm one was considered to be a personal crime against her and be very unlucky. Her priests kept sacred cats in her temple, which were considered to be incarnations of the goddess. When they died they were mummified so they could be presented to the goddess as an offering and her name being loosely translated to as āDevouring Lady.ā
i love watching svt content it's like hi scoups my beloved <3 hi jeonghan my beloved <3 hi joshua my beloved <3 hi jun my beloved <3 hi hoshi my beloved <3 hi wonwoo my beloved <3 hi woozi my beloved <3 hi seokmin my beloved <3 hi mingyu my beloved <3 hi minghao my beloved <3 hi seungkwan my beloved <3 hi vernon my beloved <3 hi dino my beloved <3
No offense but literally nothing and no one is and will ever be out of your league. Nothing is too good for you. Nobody has the right to make you feel like you are not enough or less than you are, you deserve the world.
We talk about how in Stranger Things each group is living a different story genre, right? The kids are in a constant mystery, monster, treasure hunting Goonies story. The teenagers are usually in a horror slasher film. The adults are dealing with governmental conspiracies, be it American or Russian.
But you know who code-switches like nobodyās business? Steve Harrington. Thatās what makes him such a wonderful character.
In s1 he goes from Romantic Triangle Comedy to Slasher Film Monster Hunting in a single scene and fully dives into it. S2 sees him joining the Spielberg genre gang with the kids, taking the āreluctant teenager tagalongā role on stride, not once complaining or missing a beat. And then! And then!! He goes full Russian conspiracy in s3, as his group figures the mystery out, infiltrates their base, undergoes torture, etc. Steve keeps up with each genre like a chameleon.
Maybe itās because his stakes in this are oddly external. They are a choice he makes.
Unlike Nancy and Jonathan, he is not directly related to anyone in the kid or adult groupā¦ but he was briefly related to Nancy through their relationship. Enter slasher film.
Unlike the Party, he hasnāt been life-long friends with anyone involvedā¦ but he gets adopted into the group, much like Max, in s2 and becomes one of them. Enter spielberg film.
Unlike the Adults, he isnāt the legal guardian of any of the kids or teenagers involvedā¦ but he becomes the designated adult figure they all turn to. Enter conspiracy film.
Other characters have joined certain genres as they are added to the series: Max (Spielberg), Robin (conspiracy), Murray (conspiracy), Erica (Spielberg), Eddie (Slasher). And you could argue that as the seasons and groups morph, they each dip into other genres. Nancy and Jonathan did conspiracy quite a bit, Hopper has had his fair deal of monster hunting, the Cali gang is going through conspiracy right now, the Hawkins kids are dealing with a slasherā¦ but no one does so as seamlessly or consistently as Steve Harrington does.
Anyway, I am obsessed with how Steve, despite his apparent lack of obvious stakes on the main Upside Down plot, by virtue of caring for people and choosing to help, has become such a central piece to the Stranger Things narrative, touching so many threads and fitting into almost every corner of the plot. Just because he is, to his core, a nice dude.
