Chapter Text
HAWKINS, INDIANA
SEPTEMBER 1986
Max shows up at the cottage one evening about a week and a half into the new month, and she’s got a record cleaning kit in hand. She must have cycled all the way from town, Steve realises. He shakes his head, a bit baffled. He’d dropped her at school this morning on his way to work. She shouldn’t have had time-
“I’ve just grabbed this from Eddie,” she tells Steve before he can even really think about speaking, bustling her way into the house and heading for his collection. “I’ve seen the state of your records, Steve. Has anyone ever shown you how to clean them before?”
And, of course, nobody has, so they get right to it. It’s incredibly satisfying, to hear the way the audio crisps up a bit once each record has been dried.
They’re about a third of the way through his collection when Steve decides to just go for it – to ask the question that’s been on his mind since the kid first walked through the door.
“You bike here from town?” He keeps his tone as casual as he possibly can, eyes on the Dio record he’s currently cleaning – Holy Diver, because Eddie had insisted that they should each own a copy. Steve had tried to protest; tried to say that that was pointless because, eventually, their separate collections would become one anyway – which had earned him a lovely, soft kiss – but alas, no. Eddie had still insisted.
Max doesn’t respond immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see her jaw working; can see the way she’s chewing on the insides of her cheeks.
“I did, yes.” She takes a breath, setting a record aside. “I- had a bad day. Left school early.” The words are forced, but Steve doesn’t mind at all. This is big progress – Max opening up with only minimal prompting. If it wouldn’t make her run for the hills, he’d sweep her up in a hug.
“Okay. Do you want to talk about it?” He keeps his tone light, still, but reaches across to squeeze her shoulder gently. He doesn’t miss the way she flinches.
“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling his hand away. “Max, it’s alright. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s got all of his attention on her now, brows drawn together in worry over the way she’s curled in on herself.
She shakes her head. “I don’t- I’m sorry. I thought-” She can’t get the words out, but she reaches out for him.
Steve carefully pushes aside the pile of records he’s got next to him and shuffles over until they’re side by side. He wraps an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulls her to lean against him. “It’s okay, kid. You’re okay.”
“I still expect violence, I think,” Max whispers, and, boy, doesn’t that just hit home? Steve tucks her in a little closer, humming his understanding as she continues. “I don’t- I know you wouldn’t hit me. But- I don’t think my body always knows that. Does that-?”
“That makes sense. I- I understand, you know? What that’s like? The- violence? I don’t mind talking about that stuff – it isn’t- it wouldn’t be shocking for me to hear it. I mean, it wouldn’t change how I see you, or how I know you. I’d be able to just- listen. And get it.”
“Yeah,” Max whispers. “I’m- I’m really sorry you understand.” She speaks down to her hands. “Um. Thanks for- you know.”
Steve tucks her head under his chin, wrapping his other arm around her and giving her a big squeeze. “It’s okay, kid. It’s all okay.”
-
Max does start talking properly, eventually. It takes a while, and it’s not until they’ve started cleaning once more, but she gets there in due time.
“I had a bit of a rough night last night. Um. Nightmares, you know? And- I tried all my usual stuff. Um- Wayne got me some candles? They smell really nice, but the main thing is that they don’t smell like anything from- before. They’re- new. I sort of remember where I am when I smell them and it helps me like, drag myself back into reality. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Steve nods, to show he’s listening, to show he gets it – really gets it – and waves for her to continue. If he mentally tucks away the idea of using smell association as a coping mechanism for future use, well, that’s for him to know.
“I don’t even know what I was dreaming about, really,” she mutters, and Steve can tell that’s a blatant lie, but he doesn’t call her out on it. “I just didn’t feel right after I woke up. And I just didn’t want to talk to anyone but the guys were all, well, you know how they can be. They were all very- there. Loud. Which is fine, usually. But-”
She picks at the hem of her jeans, shaking her head, then bursts out, “I just don’t know how the fuck to get only a bit angry instead of getting really angry. Or, to not get angry at all. It’s always one or the other, and I don’t- I don’t like it. I get so mad, or I go so numb. I don’t feel like myself when that happens.”
And, aw, shit, Steve’s been there too. He chuckles self-deprecatingly, not unkindly in the slightest – commiserating – and holds his fist out for Max to bump with her own. “We’ve sure been to some similar places, haven’t we, kid?”
She stares at him; attempts a smile, half-hearted, sad. “You- get mad too?”
“Yeah, Red, all the damn time. Did you hear about what happened when Eddie and I came out to Hop?”
Max shakes her head, eyes going wide. Steve shifts back to lean on his hands and tells her the whole damn story.
-
Eddie finds them cooking together in the kitchen when he gets home from work. He looks relieved that Max is still over, and when he reaches them, he presses a kiss to the top of her head before doing the same to Steve. “Hello, my little ducks,” he greets, sliding himself home – to stand with his chest pressed to Steve’s back and his chin tucked over Steve’s right shoulder. It’s their default stance when they want to be close to each other. Steve adores it.
“I’m not a duck,” scoffs Max.
“Quack Quack,” sings Steve.
Eddie beams.
They eat their dinner all piled onto the LGBT rug, laughing over Eddie’s tales of his work day. Steve can’t take his eyes off him. He’s not sure he’ll ever tire of it – the awe he feels each and every time his gaze settles on Eddie and he remembers, Oh, we’re together. I get to tell him I love him whenever I like.
Max takes their empty dishes to the kitchen, quietly giving the couple a moment somewhat to themselves. They’re sitting with their backs against the sofa, and Steve shuffles along until they’re pressed together.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, dotting kisses across Steve’s forehead.
“Hi,” Steve breathes. He entwines their fingers, bringing both of their hands up to his face so he can kiss Eddie’s knuckles in return. “Sounds like you had a busy day.”
“It was a really fucking busy day, yeah. But I got to come home to my handsome man and my little sister cooking me dinner, so I’ll damn well not be caught complaining.” Eddie curls his arm around Steve, pulling him closer. He ducks his head down so his lips are right by Steve’s ear, murmuring, “Which, speaking of my handsome man – you always look so sexy when you’re cooking, did you know? Are you aware of this?”
Steve grins, shaking his head, and turns so he can press his lips to Eddie’s. “Shut up,” he murmurs, cheeks turning pink. “Or- well- later?”
“I can do later, sweetheart. Sure. But I’m never gonna shut up about you.”
-
Eddie and Steve continue cleaning records after dinner while Max nabs Eddie’s acoustic guitar from out of the van and sets about plucking at it. She’s improved so much in recent weeks; she’s even started trying to work out her own melodies. Eddie’s crossing his fingers that, behind the scenes, Max is working on lyrics, too.
“I’ve never heard her properly sing,” he’d whispered to Steve one Friday evening as they lay curled around each other after a particularly well-attended music night – almost the whole party had shown up. Max had played the guitar properly in front of them all for the first time, instead of just strumming at chords in the background like she usually does. Everyone cheered her on until she was bright red in the face, but still grinning, laughing, and singing very quietly along with the rest of the group. “I just think she’d be great at it. It’s a gut feeling, babe.”
Steve’s inclined to agree. He reckons that when she’s alone, she definitely jams properly, singing along as loud as she likes in her room at the Munson house – which, he sort of thinks of her as a Munson at this point, really. But the way she mouths the lyrics – Steve can tell she’s played each song enough that she knows them back to front, and he’d bet his full savings there’s a voice to go with the music.
It’s a gentle night, all in all. A quiet one. Everything is soft, from the warm light of Steve and Robin’s various lamps to the conversations the three of them have as the evening progresses. They talk about books, they talk about music, they talk about their favourite times of the day. It’s light. It’s peaceful. It’s lovely.
“My mom used to read me to sleep every night,” Max says at one point, socked feet tapping against each other, nervous, unsure. She’s sitting on the rug with her legs stretched out in front of her, leaning back on her hands. “It- We’d go to the library together and pick out a new book every Monday after school. It was- It was my favourite part of the week.”
She looks up at Eddie, then, eyes a bit glassy. “When you- when you read to me. That first time. It- reminded me of mom. In a good way. You know? The good- the good times.” She swallows around a lump in her throat. “So, thank you. For that.”
Eddie pushes smoothly off of the sofa, reaching Max in two small steps. He leans down and hooks his arms under hers, pulling her swiftly up off of the floor so he can hug her properly. Steve watches them fondly, heart warm and sad and bittersweet, as Eddie sways the teen back and forth a bit. Eddie’s lips move, whispering in Max’s ear, but he doesn’t try to listen – this moment is just for them.
He must phase out a bit, because the next thing Steve knows, Eddie’s fingers are circling his wrist and he’s being tugged off of the sofa to join their hug. “Love you, Red,” Steve murmurs, arms wrapped firmly around the two of them, and they both squeeze him back as tight as they can.
-
Barb’s birthday dawns crisp and cold, the coldest day of the month yet. After Eddie leaves for work, Steve drives Robin and Nancy out to their favourite coffee shop, the three of them quiet the whole way. He doesn’t comment on the fact that the two sit in the back together, making him feel like a chauffeur of some sort. Instead he just glances at them in the rearview mirror a few times to keep an eye on them both. Robin’s eyes are rimmed red, and Nancy’s mouth is set firm. Halfway there, Rob leans her head against Nancy’s shoulder, and Steve watches as both of them exhale near-silently at the contact. Oh, they really care for each other, huh? Steve thinks, comforted despite the overarching sadness of the morning.
When he pulls up to the curb, they stay seated for a moment, each caught up in their own thoughts. Eventually, Nancy reaches across Robin to pull open her door, and they both clamber out the left side.
Robin taps on Steve’s window. After blinking at her a few times, he rolls it down.
“I love you,” she tells him, voice small but sounding determined, all the same. Steve feels cold all over.
“I love you too, Rob.”
She steps back, both feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, and Steve peels away a little too fast, leaving the window down, letting the chill wind batter his face. He has no set destination in mind, just knows he needs to go; knows he needs to drive for a while.
The cold settles deep into his bones as he roams the city, fingers taught and knuckles white upon the steering wheel. He doesn’t put any music on – not today. Today is for reflecting, for remembering.
Steve doesn’t purposefully turn onto his old street, but he ends up there all the same. His parents’ car is gone, off on yet another trip, he supposes, but the thought doesn’t hurt – though whether that’s because he no longer cares quite so much or because he’s too numb to really notice it, Steve isn’t sure.
He can’t bring himself to get out. He just sits there, engine idling, staring in the direction of the backyard. His eyes are burning, but he can’t cry. There’s just this awful, gaping, nothingness inside of him. A chasm that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fill – that he isn’t sure he ever should be able to fill.
Steve doesn’t notice the vehicle pulling up behind him, nor does he notice the sound of a car door slamming. He doesn’t register anything happening around him; doesn’t once look away from where he knows the pool is. Not until the passenger door is already open and someone is slipping into the seat beside him.
“Wind up that damn window and drive, kid,” Wayne Munson tells him. “We’re going to the workshop. Hop’s meeting us there.”
Steve’s on autopilot, really, as he takes off in the direction of the workshop. Wayne fiddles with the dial of the heater, cranking it up as high as it’ll go. When Steve warms up enough that he finally starts actually shaking, Wayne urges him to pull over to the side of the road.
“S’alright, kid,” Wayne mutters, one broad palm coming to grip the back of Steve’s neck. “It’s alright. Just gotta get you warmed up again. Here, drink some of this.” He hands Steve a flask of hot coffee, which he clasps gratefully between shaking hands and sips at. It burns the whole way down his throat.
It takes twenty minutes for the shaking to stop enough for Steve to drive again. His cheeks are flaming, but he still feels too numb to say anything. Wayne seems content to let him stick to his silence for now.
They get to the workshop without any more trouble, and Steve unwillingly makes a young, pained sound when he sees Hopper’s truck parked up outside. Wayne squeezes his shoulder.
“Come on, Steve. Let’s go do something cathartic, yeah? Get you properly warm and working.”
-
They make a wooden floral trinket box for Barb. Between the three of them, it works out well. Wayne even teaches Steve how to whittle, and over the course of the day, they steadily make progress on their creation.
When it hits 4 pm, Steve straightens, cracking his shoulders. It’s almost time for dinner. The plan is to watch The Blues Brothers and share stories and poems and any other things that have reminded them of Barb throughout the past year. It’s a tradition that he didn’t feel as though he deserved to partake in for a long time, and, if he’s honest, part of him still doesn’t. Steve barely knew Barb, really, at the end of the day, so how dare he sit around cherishing her memory and honouring her? Especially when it’s his fault-
“Alright, kid, I reckon that’s enough thinking going on in that head of yours.” Hopper claps a firm hand down on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes slightly too hard. It’s good; it’s grounding. Steve pulls in a sharp breath.
“Thanks,” he manages, swallowing around the lump in his throat and trying for a smile. “You’ve- made today a lot less- Well- Anyway-”
“Yeah,” Hopper agrees, ever a man of few words but much meaning. “Now go and be with those friends of yours, ‘right? Is Eddie going too?”
Steve shakes his head. “Nah, he uh- knew Barbara even less than I did. Um, I think he’ll be at the cottage afterwards though, so that should be- nice.”
“That sounds like a good plan to me.” Wayne’s voice chimes in from across the small workshop. “You alright to drop me back to my car, Hop?”
“Sure thing, old man. Let’s hit it.”
-
The memorial birthday dinner for Barb is a soft, sad thing. Nancy struggles the most, sitting tight-lipped and trembling on the sofa through The Blues Brothers. By the time the credits roll she’s crying openly, holding hands with both Robin and Steve, who are curled up on either side of her. They stay there for a long while, holding each other and remembering, in their own ways.
Later, when it’s properly dark, they move to the floor, sitting around the coffee table. Robin lights a few candles, and Steve finds his gaze drawn time and again to the slow flickering of the flames. It’s rhythmic – calming. Quiet envelops them for a while longer, a solemn blanket, until an intangible something shifts, and they begin to speak, and share.
“Hey Barbie,” Nancy starts, voice soft and sure, unfolding a piece of paper. “Here’s a new poem recently published which I think you’d really like.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself; reaches for Robin’s hand.
“You do not have to be good.”
She pauses, her gaze flicking to meet Steve’s, eyes filled with such serious intent it almost feels physically painful to look back. Another breath.
“You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”
Steve can hardly breathe himself. It is as though the words physically sink into him – as though, through her quiet sincerity, Nancy is inking every letter upon his very bones. He bows his head, face twisting with grief, tears finally beginning to flow. Robin makes a soft sound, but lets him be. Nancy turns toward Robin.
“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes-” she stumbles, throat tight, and Robin shifts over to hold her properly. She can reach Steve from here, too, if she just presses one fluffy sock-covered foot to his calf. It takes a second, but eventually he settles his hand on her ankle. “Meanwhile the world goes on.”
“Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
And, Oh, Steve thinks. Oh, it will never be right; it will never be fair that the people he loves went through this pain – will be going through this pain, in some way, in many ways, for the rest of their lives.
-
The last hours of the evening are spent in much the same way. There are a lot of tears, and a good few laughs, and a whole lot of love. Rob shares a few jokes she thinks Barb would’ve snorted at (really snorted, a minimum of five times; she simply couldn’t help it), and Steve makes the two girls misty-eyed by listing all of their achievements from the past year – things big and small. When the night is done, they tuck their various scraps of paper and physical memories of Barb into the wooden box Steve, Hop, and Wayne made. It finds a new home on the milk-crate bookshelf the three of them put together with Eddie on their first night at the Washington; a space just for Barb, who, perhaps, if things had gone just a little differently but also a lot the same, might have wound up spending a whole lot of time here, too.
-
In the early hours of the morning, as the girls are readying for bed, Steve stops Nancy outside the bathroom to ask, “That first poem you read – who’s it by?”
Nancy’s expression is a fond but painful thing. “A woman called Mary Oliver. Barb would have truly loved her work. That one’s new, from earlier this year. It’s called Wild Geese.” She reaches up, then, and cups Steve’s cheek in one delicate hand. “And I really meant it, Steve. You have nothing to repent for. You do know that, right? You have to know that.”
Steve sighs, nods, shakes his head, nods again. “I’m- I’m trying to know that,” he admits. “I really am. Eddie and I have talked about it a lot. I guess- I guess, maybe I know it if you know it, too. About you.”
Nancy stills, the reversal of the sentiment hitting hard, eyes turning to the floor. “I’m trying, too,” she whispers. “I don’t know that I’ll ever really forgive myself for that night. I don’t know that I want to forgive myself for it. But- I’m also trying to live, I don’t know, alongside it, now? To- To do better every day, and love harder, and more honestly and openly. Hence-”
“Robin,” they say together. Nancy nods, mouth curling into a small smile as the woman in question calls out from the bedroom.
“Did I just hear my name? Ya’ll gossiping about me out there?” Then, cheekily, “Go to bed and quit trying to steal back my girlfriend, Steven. She’s all mine.”
“Yeah, yeah,’ Steve returns, jokingly sarcastic. His eyes are heavy, and he knows they’re all exhausted. He gently removes Nancy’s hand from his cheek, squeezing her fingers a little before letting go. “Try and get some sleep, Nance.” He turns then, aiming for his own bedroom. “And, hey,” he continues, pausing in the open doorway. “For what it’s worth, I love you, you know? Not in- not like that. Just- I love you as a person and a friend, and I think you’ve grown into somebody so brilliant, and so strong through it all. I’m sorry you went through it all – I’m sorry we all did. But- you’re doing really well, Nance. I’m so proud of you.”
He doesn’t stick around for a reply; knows Nancy better than that; knows she’ll want some time to process. Instead, he simply bids her a final quiet goodnight and heads toward bed.
Eddie arrives not long later – slips quietly in behind Steve, drapes himself as comfortingly as he can around him. They don’t speak. Eddie just holds him, and holds him, and holds him.
-
Nancy’s response comes a few days later in the form of a now familiar poem, typewritten and placed in a white picture frame, carefully wrapped and left outside Steve’s bedroom door.
-
Over time, Wild Geese begins to become somewhat of a mantra.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror one night, struggling to hold it together after a particularly bad nightmare about Eddie – about the demobat attack, specifically – Steve finds himself whispering.
“You do not have to be good.”
And when Robin’s rambling verges on too erratic on the way to work on a cold afternoon a few days after that, Steve holds his hand out for her to take and recites the whole poem. She quiets, twists their fingers together, presses her cold fingertips into his warm palm once, twice, three times. Murmurs along with him, so quiet she’s mostly just mouthing the words.
-
September's third week sees temperatures reach their lowest yet; breath fogging with every exhale kind of cold. Steve drags himself out of bed early, pressing a kiss between a still-sleeping Eddie’s shoulder blades, and heads out for a run. It’s something he’s started up again in the past few weeks, now that his scars have healed and loosened enough that it doesn’t outright hurt to do anymore. Running in the colder months has always been his favourite – the feeling of the cold air biting at his cheeks, rushing through his lungs; the footprints he leaves in the grass, the crunch of frozen dew underfoot. There’s nothing else quite like it.
He returns pink-cheeked and chest mildly heaving to find Eddie up and making breakfast. Eddie stands, half-naked, yawning, in the kitchen, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and trying to salvage a messy-looking omelette.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning back into Steve’s embrace. He hums happily as Steve kisses the back of his neck, runs his thumbs down either side of his spine, squeezing his hips. “Good run?”
“Great run,” Steve affirms, kissing him once, twice, three times more before dragging himself away and over to the fridge. “You have a morning of any sort yet, my love?”
“Mm,” Eddie responds in a mumble, eyes tracking Steve’s movement across the kitchen. “Nice and lazy. Didn’t move until about 10 minutes ago. Exactly how I like it.”
Steve grins. “Sounds like we’ve both had a good start to the day.” He pauses then, tugging his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and running a hand through his hair. When he looks back up, Eddie is staring at him with parted lips.
“Steve,” he whines, frowning. “I actually really wanted to make you breakfast, you know? And now you’ve done that I can’t even attempt to think about food anymore. Jesus Christ!” Eddie scrambles to switch the stove element off and stalks faux-grumpily across the kitchen, crowding Steve up against the back door.
Steve can’t help but grin into the kiss, laughing and toothy, hands coming up to tug Eddie’s hair-tie out. “Mm, morning just got even better,” he murmurs, running his hands through now-loose curls. “Wanna come shower with me, doll? I’m sorry about your breakfast.” He pulls away just enough to get his lips on Eddie’s neck, just below his ear. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie repeats, though it’s more of a groan now than anything else. He ruts his hips forward, desperate for friction. “Upstairs, right now, sweetheart. Now.”
Robin passes them on the stairs and snorts a bemused laugh. “Oh for- alright. Just don’t be late for work, Steven! Or I’ll rat you out, big time!”
-
Steve’s only ten minutes late for work, which isn’t so bad, in his opinion.
-
The morning of the last Saturday of the month finds Steve pulling up outside of Dustin’s house, honking the horn once, twice, thrice, four times in quick succession. The boy in question barrels out of his front door only moments later, arms laden with cardboard boxes. “Hey!” He yells, “You gotta open the door for me, man. I’m ranking as a high risk for a catastrophic fumbling incident over here! The leaves are turning and if I slip on one of them, it’s over for me! You hear me? It’s over, Harrington! You don’t want it to be over for me, do you?”
Steve, bemused, makes a show of groaning through the process of reaching across to let him in. “What the hell is all this, Henderson?” He quips, picking through a box as it is swiftly pushed into his lap.
Inside are a myriad of half-empty, very small paint pots. “I thought,” Dustin huffs, shoving boxes haphazardly around the car, trying to catch his breath from his sprint across the yard, “You could help me paint some little dudes. If- if you uh, if you want to?” And duh, of course – Steve should have known.
He nods his head in agreement, then shakes it in fond exasperation at the sudden chaos unleashed in his poor old Beamer, flicking Dustin’s hat off his head with one hand and ruffling his hair before shifting the car into gear.
-
Ever since Steve jumped in on the new campaign, it’s as though Dustin has been filled with a new lease on life. He’s bounced back relatively well from the- well- everything over the course of the past year, but in recent weeks there’s been a whole new spark in his eyes. Or, perhaps it’s more of an old spark. The spark Steve knew a few years ago – the one that used to exasperate him a little. These days it just makes him feel warm, feel content, feel safe. Dustin is okay; Dustin is Dustin, again, for the most part. Steve’ll take over-excitement and intermittently unfollowable rambling over that gut-wrenching sadness and silence any day.
And that’s a Saturday well spent, for Steve. Dustin, full energy, full speed, full teenager – no sign of that heaviness from earlier in the year. No pain. Just pure, unadulterated enthusiasm for damn near anything and everything.
–
Eddie joins them after a short early shift, and he’s practically vibrating with energy as he comes through the door. “Put it in the motherfucking history books!” He announces, spreading his arms wide as he dances through the doorway. “1986, baby! The year a rap album officially lands in the top 10!”
Steve, who is sprawled out on his back on the floor, waiting for his models to dry a little, pulls himself up to gawp, brain running a mile a minute. “It’s Run DMC, isn’t it? It’s gotta be.” He guesses, and Eddie claps his hands in response, swooping in for a kiss.
“Indeed it is, you clever, gorgeous- Ow- Hey!” He dodges the second throw pillow that sails his way from Dustin’s general direction. The silent admonishment works, though, and Eddie diverts across to the coffee table, sinking into a crouch so he can inspect their handiwork. “Henderson, you son-of-a-bitch- Fucking ow, sorry, Stevie. Henderson, you legend – there, that better? Yeah? Okay, okay good- Henderson, you innocent, never-heard-or-uttered-a-single-swear-before legend, these look fucking incredible. I like what you’ve done with the highlights…”
Steve leans back onto his hands, laughing, and revels in the sight of his boyfriend and his little brother delving into a deep discussion of stylistic painting choices. They’ve shared a good day together, he and Dustin, discussing everything from D&D, to the health of Dustin’s new cat (named Silla, “in homage to the observatory that had discovered the rings of Neptune only a few years ago, Steve, duh. Don’t you pay attention to anything?”), to his plans to learn to drive in the new year – mainly, of course, so he might, at some point, be able to drive out to see Suzie outside of summer camp hours. But, Steve reckons, it cannot be denied by anyone with ears to hear and eyes to see that having Eddie there with them completes the set. Dustin adores Eddie – in a different way than he likes Steve. Some part of the teen sees Eddie for the world-building, humanity-loving god-among-men that he is, and reveres him for it.
Steve tells Eddie exactly that later that same night, once they’ve returned to the cottage after dropping Dustin home – stopping, of course, to help him carry his 40 billion boxes back into his house.
They’re curled around each other, Steve the little spoon (Steve almost always the little spoon), one of Eddie’s legs shuffled between his. “I don’t know how you do it,” Steve murmurs. He presses a kiss to Eddie’s knuckles. “After everything, after all of it – the way this town treated you… You still have so much compassion for everyone. You’re still so damn good.”
“I try,” Eddie quips, joking but quiet, nuzzling his face into the crook of Steve’s neck; kissing the soft skin he finds there. Then, more seriously, “I don’t really know how else to approach things. I guess that’s from Wayne. Obviously I’ll stand up for myself when I really need to, but- I don’t know, baby. I just always see how much everyone is hurting, how much shit everyone is carrying. And I read this book ages ago – a little too young, probably, really. I find I take and learn more from it the older I get. It’s by this old anarchist, and in it, he says he thinks the reason humans are what we are today is because we learned to be mutual, instead of- instead of working against each other, trying to beat each other all the time. And I just look at the way the world works now- it’s all every man for himself, more and more, every day. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.” He sighs, fingers dancing across Steve’s arms, agitated. “All I know is, the most alive I’ve ever felt is when I’m with you, and the party, and we’re laughing, and we’re working together. Even in the- even during all of it. When you all, you know, found me- helped me- when we teamed up.” He groans, frustrated, struggling to find the right words.
Steve hums, thoughtful and admiring in equal measure. “It never makes sense to split the party,” he offers, and subsequently huffs out a surprised breath when Eddie immediately rolls Steve onto his back and pushes up onto his hands above him.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, exactly. You should never split the fucking party - stuff always goes wrong. And it’s like we’re being told all the time now to split the party; that you don’t need the party, or shouldn’t need or even want the party. But that’s where everyone is strongest, and safest. I don’t want to be without the party. I don’t want anybody to exist without a party.”
He pauses, drops down to kiss Steve, long, heady, slow.
“So, really, whenever someone is an asshole to me, I feel sad for them now, more than anything else. Because to be so bitter and hateful, they must be very lonely, and very afraid.” Eddie’s mouth turns down then; remembering. Steve thinks his heart might just break in two right there in his bed. “The way I was treated… It was all fear. Wayne’s drilled that into me as best he can. It’s- yeah. I don’t know. I have a lot of fear, too. And I worry about the day Dustin realises I’m not- I’m not as good as he thinks I am. Or the day you realise it. Shit- Sorry. I’m jumping around so much with this-”
And Steve just can’t be having that look on his boyfriend’s face, that sadness in his eyes. He pulls him closer in, pressing his hands to Eddie’s back, encouraging him downward until they lie flat against each other, chest to chest – an Eddie blanket; a Steve anchor. Steve cups his face then, thumbs smoothing across lightly tear-sodden cheeks. “No apologies,” he reminds Eddie gently. “You are a good man. You hear me? You are the best man. I love you so much, Eds. I love you so damn much, honey.”
They talk into the early hours, about fear, and hatred, and pain, and love. Eventually, as the sun begins to rise, they fall asleep – first Eddie, then Steve, who stays up as long as he can, just staring at the young man before him. I will never understand how this is real, he thinks, as his eyes slip closed. I will never understand how I got so lucky.
-
Steve doesn’t see much of Mike, if he’s honest, but on the very last day of the month, the gangly teen tumbles out of the front door of the Byers-Hoppers residence alongside Will and El. The trio barrel toward the Beamer, and Steve yelps as El telekinetically opens his car door and unplugs his seatbelt. “Oi!” He protests. “Give a guy a minute!”
“Sorry, Steve.” The smile on El’s face, though, suggests she’s not actually all that sorry.
Will, in a rare moment of boldness, grabs Steve’s wrist and tugs him up and out of the car, forcing Steve to kick his car door closed at the last second as he is shepherded across the driveway, toward the side of the house. “Hurry! Before he sees you!”
It’s not until the four of them are crammed inside the woodshed that Steve has any idea what’s going on – that his heart rate begins to lower from protective panic. The three turn toward him and all start speaking at once. Brain shutting down entirely at the onslaught of sound, Steve instead turns to collecting context clues in an attempt to understand his current predicament.
Perched on a stack of logs to his left is a canvas painting of what Steve can confidently identify as being the cover art of Joy Division’s Closer. A large piece of paper is nailed to the wall behind it, with a myriad of words scrawled across it in horrendously messy handwriting.
Music (too much to list); Photography (film?); Weed (kind of illegal guys, where to source?); Hot Chocolate (from Sleepy’s); Apple Pie (extra cinnamon; Mrs Byers’ recipe); Invite List(?); and in all caps and underlined at the bottom: STEVE.
“Right,” he says. “Jonathon’s birthday, then? But what the shit do you need from me?”
The three pause, varying levels of calculating. When Mike smiles sweetly, Steve wonders, lightly, whether he should be genuinely worried for his own physical safety.
-
Steve ducks into the house to grab a glass of water before heading toward home, and – either because luck would have it, or because God hates him – comes face to face with the man of the hour.
“Oh,” Steve startles. “Hey, man.”
“Yeah, hey, man,” says Jonathon, glancing first at Steve, then out toward the woodshed. “So… Will’s secretly planning my birthday, huh? And he wants you to try and figure out how I want the day to go, but without me realising. Right?
“Well,” says Steve. “Shit.”
-
In the end, Steve and Jonathon decide on coffee and a walk around the neighborhood for the following morning. It’s cold now, the first of October; a bit icy, sure, but not yet snow-cold by any means. As they set out into the cold air, Steve finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
The things I do for these damn kids, he thinks, uncertain and thrown off kilter. He and Jonathon, while comfortable now, still don’t speak all too much – at least not in comparison to Steve’s interactions with a lot of the rest of the party. They’ve teamed up during board games at dinners a few times, but they’ve never hung out as a solo pair. Jonathon saves him the trouble of trying to find an ice breaker.
“So, I gotta admit,” he begins, “all this time, and I still don’t really know how to talk to you, dude. Which isn’t- I mean- I’m not judging you or anything. More myself. Sorry- that’s weird to say, huh?” Jonathon’s cheeks turn a deeper pink the more he speaks. Steve reckons he’ll let him pass it off as a reaction to the cold; does his best to find the right words in response.
“Ditto. But- as you say, it’s not judgement. I guess I just don’t really know you as much as- as much as I feel I should, by now.” He snorts, then, shaking his head. “Yet here I am, info-gathering for your birthday party. How does this shit always happen to me?”
Jonathon laughs, quiet, self-conscious. “Fucked if I know, dude. But- same here. It’s- There’s a lot I still cringe about, from before.” And boy, if Steve doesn’t relate to that.
“Tell me about it. Well, actually, maybe don’t. I think about that shit far often than is probably healthy, but still probably not as often I deserve-”
Jonathan cuts him off, physically bringing them to a stop in the street. “Steve, man.” He loses his words, shakes his head. “Look, let’s- Let’s not go that route today. Let’s just-” He shakes his head again, and clears his throat. “I hear you’ve been getting into music pretty seriously lately. We could- start there? Half my life and time is taken up by music, at this point.”
-
They wind up walking and talking for three hours, and Steve- he has fun.