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“If you are not out the door in five minutes there will be serious repercussions, young man!” A voice echoed up the staircase. Its tone was sharp, nearing angry, and sliced into the still air of the Harrington house.
Steve groaned, bleary eyes widening as they met the unforgiving 7:43 blinking back at him. He was on his feet and pulling on jeans before his brain could process, but his legs turned to shapeless jelly mere seconds later. He toppled back onto his unmade bed as his vision grayed around the edges and a cough erupted from his chest, adding further insult to injury.
As Steve stared blankly at his ceiling, more new symptoms fought to gain his attention. His head pounded to the beat of his heart, he suddenly couldn’t breathe through congestion, and a bead of cold sweat dripped ominously down his temple. He couldn’t be sick, though. He didn’t have the time or energy to lay listlessly in bed all day. He felt normal last night, maybe a little sore and a little more tired than normal, but he hadn’t been worried. Now, he felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler, dragged for a couple of miles and left by the side of the highway.
High heels clicking quickly on the hardwood floor brought Steve out of his daze. His mother, dressed for work and visibly irritated, appeared above him, foot tapping impatiently as she glanced between her half-dressed son and her dainty gold watch.
“You are going to be late to school, Steven. Get up,” she stated brusquely, yanking his curtains open and flooding the room with bright sunlight. “You’ve already been late this semester and I will not be meeting with your principal about this.” The rays aggravated the vice in his head, and he squinted at his mother.
“I’m sick, mom,” he groaned, and she paused to take in his appearance. “I don’t think I should go to school today.”
His mother didn’t look convinced, but something maternal deep in her chest must have flickered to life at the sight of Steve shivering and the harsh rasp of his voice. She helped him out of his jeans and pulled the sheets over him, but the moment of domesticity faded when she checked her watch once again.
“I’m going to be late for work, I have to run,” she said hurriedly. “Your father’s office has a function tonight and tomorrow in Indianapolis, so neither of us will be home until Sunday evening. There should be some medicine in the cabinet.”
With that, she was down the stairs and the front door slammed shut before Steve could gather his thoughts. Part of him was almost ashamed that he thought she might stay with him, coddle him like she used to when he was younger with at least some soup. He didn’t actually require her help now, he supposed, so he guessed it made sense for her to leave him there.
It took him about 15 minutes to climb to his feet and stumble down the hallway to the bathroom. He just needed to take enough cold & flu medicine to knock out and sleep this thing off. He flicked the light on and unfortunately caught his own reflection in the mirror.
It really was truly, deeply unfortunate. His hair was uncharacteristically flat, plastered to his face where his skin was damp with sweat, and he couldn’t help but cringe at the zombie-like bags under his eyes.
He looked like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. It was a good thing he wasn’t going to school; he had a reputation to uphold and showing up to class resembling the undead wouldn’t help his social status.
After taking in his sorry appearance, he dug through every cabinet and drawer only to come up empty-handed. Well, there was at least a thermometer and near-empty bottle of Tylenol that expired three years ago and a single pepto-bismol tablet, but those were of little use to him.
Flipping the thermometer over in his hands, he made a deal with himself. Over 100 and I go get medicine. Lower and I get to stay here.
He slipped the thermometer under his tongue and sat down heavily on the closed toilet seat while he waited. There was already a small splotch of sweat forming around the collar of his tee and the world was kind of swirling around the corners of his vision, so Steve wasn’t very hopeful that it would be a low reading and he could look like death in the comfort of his own home.
An indeterminable amount of time later, Steve blinked back to reality after the device began to beep. 102.6 glowed at him, answering his question whether to stay in or get medicine pretty abruptly.
He pulled on a sweatshirt and dragged his jean jacket over top, muscles protesting the movement. The heavy layers didn’t help the cold, biting ache that had taken residence in his joints, but they would have to do against the stupidly cold Indiana winter.
Admittedly, he probably wasn’t in the best shape to drive, but he didn’t really have a choice. Nothing would be as bad as Max driving and destroying a mailbox, though, so as long as he took things slow and stayed on the road, he figured he’d be okay.
---
Five miles and no broken mailboxes later, thank you very much, Steve eased into the nearly-empty general store parking lot. He sat for a moment after throwing the car in park to collect himself, blowing his already-raw nose into a napkin he found in the center console.
The bell above the door rang as he pushed inside. Along with the low hum of the heaters and quiet music from the radio, it was one of the only sounds in the empty store. Joyce Byers, who could normally be found at the checkout desk, was not there at the moment, and Steve felt the smallest bit of relief. He knew he looked awful, and if his own mother didn’t want to stay with him, he didn’t want the pity of others.
He grabbed a basket with a thick sniffle and went straight towards the cold & flu aisle. Before him sat rows and rows of medicine, all claiming to cure his symptoms with the added delight of artificial berry or bubblegum flavors, and he was mildly overwhelmed.
The bell above the door jingled weakly, signaling the entry of more customers and the end of Steve’s privacy. Not bothering to read the labels in depth, he dumped a bottle promising to be a cough and fever reliever into the basket and turned to leave the aisle.
However, the next breath he took caught in his throat and before he could stop himself, he was coughing harsh, chesty coughs into his elbow with little time to breathe in between. A rush of heat rose to his head and his vision began to fade around the edges.
A hand was on his back and another eased the basket out of his grasp, freeing his hand to futilely claw at his chest in an attempt to breathe.
He couldn’t fucking breathe. He was going to die right here on the linoleum.
His surroundings came back to him in pieces as the attack began to taper off. At some point, he had sat down on the probably very dirty floor, and one of the hands that helped him had guided his head between his knees. During the whole ordeal a worker must’ve turned the heat up as well, because Steve couldn’t remember the last time he was this hot. Was this what lobsters felt like when they were dropped in a pot to boil?
“Deep breaths, kid, you’re gonna be okay,” a deep voice spoke above him, likely the owner of the hand that was still rubbing between his shoulder blades. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it while his brain was actively melting. “Joyce,” the voice called, “can you grab him a bottle of water?”
That caught Steve’s attention. He had wanted to avoid her when he entered the store, but now her presence would be somewhat of a relief. She was a good mom, she would know how to help him feel less like death.
Steve slit his eyes open, raising his head slightly to put a name to the voice. To his utter surprise, it was Chief Hopper looming over him, his typically annoyed expression tinged with something that Steve could only describe as concern.
“Chief?” he ground out, throat completely shredded.
“Don’t stress your voice, Harrington,” the man said. “You breathin’ ok?” Steve nodded; he wasn’t on the verge of passing out in the middle of the general store anymore, so that was technically better. His chest felt just as tight and he was in desperate need of a tissue, though.
Next thing he knew, Joyce was kneeling down in front of him, eyes stormy with worry. She was carrying a bottle of water and, almost as if she could read his mind, tissues. She wasted no time placing a palm on his forehead, the cool relief of her skin prompting him to close his eyes.
“Hey honey,” she murmured, hand expertly traveling from his temple to his cheek. “You’re burning up. You must feel pretty awful, sweets,” Steve simply nodded again. Joyce placed the tissues in his hand, letting him blow his nose to his satisfaction before replacing the used tissues with the bottle of water.
“Small sips for now,” she instructed as she rose to throw the tissues out for him. He sipped dutifully, but as he was drinking he actually became aware of the embarrassment of the situation. Here he was, sweaty and grossly congested in front of both Hopper and Joyce. Hell, without Hopper he probably would’ve cracked his head open on the hard floor. He glanced up at the officer, hoping that his fever would cover up the blush forming on his cheeks.
“Thanks,” he whispered, trying to speak as less as possible, “not lettin’ me die.” Hopper chuckled at that, patting his back once more before getting up from his crouched position.
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said just as Joyce returned to the pair.
“Hopper or I will drive you home just to be safe,” she told Steve. In her hands was a bag with what he originally dragged himself out of bed for and a few extra items he hadn’t even thought to get- medicine, more tissues, cough drops, menthol rub. Gratefulness washed over him, but was dulled quickly by guilt. He knew both Joyce and Jonathan worked hard to provide for the family, and the supplies she got him were not that cheap.
“You didn’t have to buy those for me, Mrs. Byers,” he said softly. She only smiled, reassuring him that, “I wanted to, hon. Now let’s get you home and in bed, how does that sound?”
It sounded heavenly. He longed to be horizontal more than anything, but the thought of an empty house loomed over him. He didn’t want to be a bother, though, and if his own parents decided that he could take care of himself then he didn’t want to burden Mrs. Byers.
After a moment’s hesitation, he responded with, “That’d be great.” Hopper and Joyce helped him up from the floor and each took an arm to support him on the short walk to Joyce’s car. By the time he was deposited in the passenger seat, the dizziness was returning. The cool glass against his temple was grounding and he could only half focus on the conversation outside the car.
“I don’t know, Hop, he’s really sick. I don’t want to drop him off where he won’t be cared for,” Joyce fretted as she and Hopper watched the teen doze off in the car. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were not known for their loving household, and both Hopper and Joyce knew that more often than not, Steve was left to his own devices in the house.
“I know,” Hopper sighed, “but we should at least check that his mom isn’t waiting at home for him or something.” Joyce wasn’t impressed.
“If this was Jonathan or Will, I would not have let them out of bed while they were this sick, let alone out of the house by themselves,” Joyce began with a huff. “I know you would do the same for El. If the Harringtons left him alone like this, he’d be better off somewhere else.” Jim had to agree.
“Ok, ok, you’re right. I’ll get one of my guys to take his car back to the house if you’re fine with taking him to your house. Are you supposed to leave the store?” Joyce just waved a hand and got into the car. “I have more important things to do,” she shrugged.
---
“Steve, honey, you need to wake up for a little bit. We’re home,” a hushed voice and a gentle hand shaking his shoulder roused him, and he removed his head from the window with a weak jerk. He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his limp hair before he noticed what home Joyce was referring to. They were parked in front of the Byers residence instead of his own, and Joyce was already helping him out of the car and into the house.
He weakly protested as she guided him to the living room, but she only shushed him and pulled a blanket over him on the couch.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, I’m gonna go grab you some medicine and a mug of soup,” she said, and Steve was vaguely aware of her puttering around the kitchen moments later. The comfort of the domesticity began to lull him- the clink of silverware, the gentle hum of the microwave, the rustle of a plastic bag- all sounds that couldn’t be found in his empty house.
He was only half awake when Joyce returned. She coaxed thick cherry medicine and salty broth into him and he pliantly accepted, more asleep than awake. His shoes were eased off and the blanket was tucked up to his chin; with a gentle hand brushing his forehead, Steve closed his eyes and dozed.
---
Waking up was notably less pleasant than falling asleep. He was boiling under the blanket and coughs ravaged his already-sore throat. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, only knew that it was now dark outside and he felt, for lack of a better word, shitty. The day’s events came back in pieces as he caught his breath and oh yeah, the Byers house.
He threw the blanket off and peeled off his hoodie, the skin underneath slick with sweat that erupted with goosebumps the moment it met the cool air. Blindly grabbing at the coffee table, he found tissues and fought to ease some of the congestion that had settled behind his eyes while he slept.
Thirst clawed at his throat and refused to be ignored, so on unsteady legs he found his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a cup from the counter, but the moisture on his palm didn’t allow him to grip it, and the glass slipped onto the floor with a noisy shatter.
He froze, unable to react, and within seconds feet were thudding down the hallway. Joyce ran into the kitchen with her eyes wide and panicked, obviously expecting an intruder or something supernatural breaking into her house. Instead, she saw Steve, shirtless and shivering, surrounded by broken glass. He was slow to meet her gaze, but when he did, her heart shattered just as the glass did.
Tears had begun to leak out of his eyes, and he greeted her with a choked, “I’m so sorry, I’ll clean it up I swear.” His parents would've screamed at him by now. She rushed forward to stop him as he leaned down to pick up the glass by himself. Jonathan suddenly appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes and obviously woken up by the commotion. His eyes widened, but he grabbed a broom and dustpan without asking questions. He set to work while Joyce carefully guided Steve back to the couch.
“Steve, sweetheart, it’s okay. It was an accident and you’re not feeling good,” she soothed, talking to him as she did her boys when they were feverish or scared. “Jonathan’s got it taken care of.”
She measured out another dose of medicine and unwrapped a honey cough drop for him, both of which he took with shaking hands. With her thumb, she wiped away the hot tears that made their way down his flushed cheek. “I’m going to take your temperature,” she told him as she placed the thermometer under his tongue, “and grab a cool cloth for your head.” She made a move to get up, but Steve caught her wrist in a weak grip. She turned back to him, and his eyes were bright and glassy with fever.
“Please,” he mumbled around the device, “don’ go.”
“Oh, honey,” she cooed, eyes sad as she looked at him. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”
She sat down next to him on the couch and guided his head into her lap. They waited in silence until the thermometer beeped, and Steve was almost too out of it to see the number 103.5 before Joyce was calling Jonathan to bring them cool washcloths and a cup of ice. He brought the items and mumbled something about going back to sleep, leaving Joyce and Steve alone.
He drifted off as she ran the cloth across his neck and back and her other hand stroked his hair away from his face. Her ministrations were practiced and infinitely soothing. As sick as he felt, Steve could favor this moment forever.
“Thank you,” he whispered into the darkness. He was moments away from sleep, but didn’t miss the soft response and lips that brushed his forehead.
“Of course, honey. It’s what mothers do.”