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Steve doesn’t remember falling asleep.
Specifically, he remembers thinking about how he wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all on this trip. That between child-wrangling and the spooky fucking hotel they were investigating, he’d be lucky to get any blinking in, let alone curl up under a blanket and relax enough to drift off.
But here he is, staring into the dark of the room as the last bits of his dream fade around him.
It’s not a normal thing for him, dreaming. He can’t even really remember this one, just that there had been a trumpet, high and lofty, and the smell of cigarettes. Maybe a hand in his.
He’s still in that fuzzy inbetween, where he can feel the pillow he’s curled around and the scratchy upholstery of the couch, but if he keeps his eyes closed, pretends he’s back where ever he was, he can pull the music out of the white noise in the room.
If he doesn’t move, or think, he’ll just drift-
Something floats through the air, distant and so, so soft, but almost-
Steve opens his eyes, blinks at the clock.
Listens hard.
It’s dead quiet around him. The kind of quiet that buzzes at his ears and could almost be louder than a jet engine.
He’s making it up, conjuring the sound of it out of the atmosphere of this old, creepy hotel that he cashed in on with the Harrington name to get a spot for the kids. It’s something Robin and Munson like to poke fun at, how Steve can’t do spooky, how he’ll be up half the night, seeing things in the shadows of whoever’s living room they’ve camped out in after a scary movie night. Steve’s not in the habit of lying to himself about it either, and he knows he can’t trust himself with something like this.
The fuzz of the quiet is melodic.
Steve lays and stares. Wills the night into silence, real silence. But it doesn’t work, not while he’s still skating along the edge of consciousness and has ghosts on the brain.
So he takes a breath before forcing himself to kick off his flimsy blanket and sit up. He stares down at his hands, just visible in the dark of the room and tells himself that he’s awake.. That it is two thirty on a Tuesday night in a snooty hotel and no one would be playing music at this time.
His fingers look funny in the dim, too pale to be his.
It’s there again. Too quiet but there.
Steve stands.
The kids’ things are scattered around the room like a minefield, and Steve has to pick his way around in the dark. Be especially careful to not trip over Munson, who's sprawled on a camping pad after drawing the shortest straw, his arms and hair absolutely everywhere.
Steve makes it to the entryway without tripping or altering the cavalry. Stills.
Waits.
It comes again, but this time he can pull out a trumpet, quiet but distinct as it drifts through the air, leaking into their room from under the door.
He stands there for a minute, listening, the rest of the instruments filling in the empty space, wrapping Steve up in the melody.
He wants to get closer. Hear it for real.
There’s a camera they left on the table, already recording.
Perfect.
He grabs it and then gets a hand on the door knob.
This is stupid.
The thought is quiet. They have rules for this, rules he made up.
He just can’t remember them right now.
Then he’s stepping out into the hallway, carefully pulling the door closed behind him until it clicks shut.
The music is muffled but obvious now, like there’s a party down in the ballroom. Steve doesn’t even have to strain to hear the clinking of silverware on plates and a din of laughter spilling from inside.
It sounds fun.
He’s heading down the hall before he knows it, feet carrying him towards the music. The halls look different at night, the lights all dimmed, casting everything in a yellowed hue, the colors rich and shadows long. He turns a corner. A woman’s voice rises up to meet the trumpet, crooning through the halls.
It reminds Steve distantly of his grandpa’s old turntable, the one that he used to let spin on and on, playing ancient songs until the music ran out and the records were left skipping over nothing. His granddad flipping the vinyl with unsteady hands.
Steve makes the final turn into the main hallway. The chandeliers, dusty and drooping during the day are almost sparkling now, lit up for the party.
They aren’t the only thing that’s been spruced up for the gathering. The tables dotting the walls now host extravagant floral arrangements, greenery spilling over their vases, all leading up to the ballroom.
The music kicks up into something fast, something fun, and Steve can’t help but want to get closer.
He stops in front of the sealed up ballroom, doors shut against the night, like they’re trying to keep the party contained, going despite the hour, like the patrons might not notice they’re getting close to dawn. He must have made a mistake when he was booking this place for the kids. There wasn’t supposed to be an event going on.
It’s bad for investigating.
But there’s obviously one tonight. Even though there’s no light coming from under the doors. Steve shivers. He’d left his jacket back in the room, should have grabbed it-
A piano takes over the song, loud and fast and there’s a burst of cheering from inside.
Steve misses parties, hasn’t been to one, not for a while, not since he got back.
He presses forward, with a chill at his back. Gets both of his hands on the wooden double doors.
He stares down at his fingers spread on the ornate carvings, warmth seeping through.
He’d been holding something, hadn’t he?
There’s a push against his back, gentle but cold and Steve is suddenly stumbling through the doors-
Steve very narrowly misses bumping into someone as he finds his feet. But he can’t apologize. The music, no longer muffled, loud and right there, envelops him, as does the warmth of the crowd.
And it is a crowd. Steve’s jaw drops at the absolute crush of people, all moving and dancing and laughing. He follows the pull of the piano, finds a band propped up on a far stage, just visible through a haze of smoke in the air.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
Steve turns, still a little slack jawed, to find a man dressed far too well, a blue coat with cut lapels and a bow tie. The man’s got a raised eyebrow and a tray of champagne flutes in one hand, held steady despite Steve’s best efforts. His other hand is tucked behind his back.
“Are you quite alright?”
“Oh.” Steve says, voice rusty. “Yeah? I’m sorry. I just… didn’t know there was an event tonight.”
“Sir.” The waiter levels him with a look. “There’s always a party here.”
“Right.” Steve says. Maybe that’s how he missed it.
“It’s a great set up.” Steve offers in the silence that follows. He used to be so good at these things.
He means it though, about the party. He’s not sure how they transformed the space so fast from-
From what? It’s always like this, isn’t it? Curtains and streamers and low lit lamps. Twirling couples and tables of people dressed to the nines, celebrating.
A woman appears at his side, blond hair swept up in curls. Steve knows from experience the army of bobby pins that are holding her hair in place, and just about the same amount of gel Steve uses in the mornings.
She smiles up at him.
“I just love this song.”
Steve does his best to smile back.
“We should dance, shouldn’t we?” She continues. “It would be a shame not to.”
He looks out at the floor, where couples are spinning around, hopping through the beats, feet tapping and skirts twisting.
It would be a shame, except.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the steps.” He tells her.
“Silly.” She says, and then takes him by the arm. “Everyone knows these steps.”
She looks behind him, smiles at the waiter. “Good evening!”
The waiter inclines his head. “Good evening, Miss Cunningham.”
Then they’re off, ducking and dodging through the fray of swirling couples, out to the middle of the floor. The woman, Miss Cunningham, is laughing as she gets his hand in hers and his other around her waist.
Then, the music slows. A single lofty trumpet raises above the slow pluck of the piano, high and wistful.
“Oh shoot.” She frowns. “We missed it.”
“I think I can figure out the steps to this one.” He says, tries to smile down at her like he used to be able to smile at dames. “Swaying is well within my repertoire.”
She smiles, sad, and shakes her head at him, blue eyes twinkling in the light. “It’s much too slow for me.”
And then she’s gone, disappearing through the crowd of dancers, who have all slowed to a gentle sway. The trumpet quiets and the singer’s voice rises to replace it, crooning through the ballroom as the couples curl into each other.
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again.
Steve stands, an island in the slow moving tide of dancers. Skirts and coats brushing against him as their owners get lost in their own little worlds of two. He’s heard this one before, somewhere. A living room somewhere, on a gramophone-
It’s been a long, long time.
The singer is gorgeous, dark hair and red lips wrapped up in the haze of the evening. Even the diners go quiet so she can have the room.
Haven’t felt like this, my dear
Since can’t remember when
He used to love parties like this, the press of people, the hooch, the girls. The dancing. But the smell of tobacco like this makes his head spin, and the pops of champagne bottles bring him right back to the front-
You’ll never know
How many dreams I dream about you
There’s a pair of eyes on him. A gift from the war, one he can’t shake. Can always feel stares, and this one is burning into the side of his head. The person isn’t hard to find. They’re the only other still soul in the sea of swaying couples, pressed brown of their uniform popping against the dark suits.
Or just how empty they all seem without you
Steve’s eyes lock with his, a rich, bottomless brown that Steve’s been missing since the last second he saw them. It’s been ages and yet, even a room away, Steve can see how his mouth curls up, his own rising to match, knows the crinkles around his eyes that will follow.
Cannot wait to see them. To count them again.
So kiss me once
And kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It had been the train platform, the last place they had seen each other, wearing the same suits that they are tonight, shaking hands. The calluses on his fingers, the last thing Steve ever felt of him.
It’s been a long, long time
The singing fades out and the lone trumpet comes back, high and mournful as it carries the song up and away.
The lights glitter above and the haze twists through the crowd and Steve has to go, has to take a step forward, toward him-
The lights shutter off, winking out of existence. The people and decorations swirl away like the tobacco smoke, swirling away until all that’s left is the empty ballroom.
And Steve is left standing there, alone, his face still working on a smile he no longer feels.
It’s freezing, right down to the bone.
“-Steve! Christ.”
Whoever is talking is loud, loud enough to echo, bounce off the empty domes of the ballroom and ricochet, the ones meant to carry sound, singers and trumpets. Steve tries to turn, he really does, but it’s like he’s moving through molasses.
It’s okay though, because he doesn’t have to, because whoever is in the room with him crosses the room in seconds, wood of the dance floor creaking with age under their feet, until they’re right in front of Steve.
Steve’s eyes can’t focus.
“Steve, I swear to God, this isn’t fucking funny. You know the kids care about this and you’re out here pulling a prank-”
Hot hands land on his shoulders. They drag Steve up and forward to the present and then some, until Ed- Munson’s face is all he can see, big, dark eyes shadowed in the low light of night, popping out of a pale face. He stops talking immediately, stares at Steve like-
Steve’s knees wobble. Gets hands on Munson’s arms as he sags, stomach roiling. All he can see are his too pale feet and Munson’s socks against the dark of the dance floor.
“Guys! I found him!” Munson says, yells over Steve’s shoulder. And then gently, to Steve. “I got you, Harrington.”
Steve blinks.
For a second, Munson’s socks look like they gleam, like they’re polished and-
“Sweetheart, c’mon.”
It’s so soft. Softer than Steve has ever heard Munson speak and right against his ear, the vibration of it going straight to his head. It draws Steve like a moth to flame, and he leans into the furnace of the body in front of him, hand sliding to fit Eddie’s in his.
The room is quiet. But if Steve listens hard enough, if he strains for it, he can still hear that trumpet swelling softly, trickling in from the walls and domes, like they saved it all this time, just for them. He hums along with it and sways, stares down at the buttons of Eddie’s jacket, the purple heart pinned to his chest. Smiles as he thinks about the crisp condition of the uniform that Eddie has always hated.
He can’t remember the last time they got to do this, maybe in a bunker, bombs driving them underground, or an abandoned farm house in the French countryside, the quiet of the night blanketing around them-
Eddie’s hand pulls away from him. Steve doesn’t have long to mourn though, because it lands on his face instead. The trumpet crescendos around them, and Steve knows what he’ll see when he looks up. Eddie’s hair, bryclreamed into the style he makes fun of Steve for, that permanent smirk that’s starting to wrinkle the side of his cheek. The smile lines around his eyes that Steve will finally, finally be able to count again because-
There are none. He gets smooth skin, eyes wide with surprise. Too long hair that runs down to shoulders and then some. Steve looks down to their hands, finds rings, chunky and skin warm, and tattoos curling around his bare forearms.
“Steve!”
That hits him like a bullet, brings him back. It’s the kids, Dustin and Mike and Lucas and Will, his brain yells, can identify them just from the sound of their feet against the floor. He looks up, just for a second and Eddie, no Munson is still staring at him like-
Steve pulls back fast, peels himself off the guy, and tears himself away from his face.
Cold blooms between them immediately.
It’s too sudden a move for Steve and he stumbles, head somewhere closer to the stratosphere than his body. There’s hands on him immediately, two spots of warmth on his ribs as they steady him.
“Easy there, Harrington.”
It’s a ghost of a thing, like the trumpet, and Steve knows now it didn’t come from Munson.