Chapter Text
November 6th
There’s a chill in the air. It washes over him as he drives aimlessly, going down streets both familiar and not so much. “Karma Chameleon” plays through the speakers and he turns the volume up. Anything is better than the silence, the emptiness, the pristine fucking house that awaits him. That’s all that awaits him.
So Steve drives instead. He drives and sings along and doesn’t think about the fact that it’s been a week since he last even heard from his parents. Tomorrow, he’ll see if he can’t get Nancy to agree to go steady with him, then maybe he’ll have a few less lonely nights. It’s almost enough. Turning the bend, he skids and shouts, smacking the wheel in a fit of sheer terror.
You come and go, you come and go
A kid rolls into the leaves on the side of the road. His bike lies in the shine of the Beemer’s headlights.
If Culture Club kept his attention for two seconds more — Steve’s chest aches, he doesn’t want to think about it. The music shuts off. A deep breath. The car door shuts with a click. “Hey, kid!”
Scrambling to his feet, the kid stares up at him with wide eyes, and that face is a little familiar, which shouldn’t be too surprising. Hawkins isn’t that big after all. In fact, he looks a lot like his brother.
Steve snaps his fingers absently. Byers, that’s right. “Byers,” he says, and it’s not hard to soften his tone in the face of just how terrified the kid is, “Look, it’s late. You want a ride?” November evenings in Hawkins are dark, too. Honestly, he’s got half a mind to ask Jonathan why the hell his brother is biking home in the dark along bends in the road, but also, the chances of him bothering to approach Jonathan Byers are slim. He can settle for making sure no one else ends up smearing his brother across the pavement tonight. His chest aches. Yeah, he can do that.
Eyes darting behind him, little Byers doesn’t say a word.
“I go to school with your brother,” Steve offers. He doesn’t bother to lie and say they’re friends.
“I know.” The kid’s voice is small and shaky. “You’re Steve Harrington.”
That he is. He glances at the bike. Although it’s not ideal, he thinks they could fit it in the Beemer. His jaw clenches at the thought of the cleaning bill, but he remembers how attached he was to his bike back before he got his license. There’s no way the kid’s leaving it behind. There’s also no way Steve’s going to leave him out on his own. “Grab your bike if you want.”
Contrary to how skittish he seemed at first, little Byers doesn’t hesitate to take him up on the offer the second time. He’s not much help getting his bike into the car and he keeps looking around as Steve slides into the driver’s seat and jacks up the heat, but they are practically strangers. “My name’s Will,” the kid says as he peers out the passenger side window.
At least he has a name now. “Okay, Will, where exactly do you live?”
Will mumbles his address, still caught up in whatever he’s watching outside.
They don’t talk on the way. Honestly, Steve has no idea what to even say. He has a feeling sports isn’t the topic to go with and the last time he had to talk to Jonathan was maybe… two years ago? For freshman English. There isn’t anything to talk about. Besides, the lingering tightness of his chest keeps his attention firmly on the road in front of him. Maybe five minutes pass before he’s pulling up in front of a small one-story house, but the discomfort he’s feeling only grows.
There are a few lights on, which should mean someone’s home. The problem is that there are no cars to park around. No movement between the curtains.
It’s true that Steve’s parents were already leaving him alone by that age and maybe Mrs. Byers is just in the bathroom. Yeah, she’s probably in the bathroom. Her car might be in the shop. He’s almost successful at brushing the nagging feeling of wrongness off until he takes a look at Will.
Will, who only looks a little less pale and afraid in the seat next to him.
“Okay,” Steve says, turning the car off and pocketing the keys before he can change his mind. He glances out into the neighborhood. There’s nothing there, nothing out of the ordinary, but the tightness of his chest grows. “C’mon, I’ll walk you in.” It’s a school night, so Jonathan would be home, too, right? Though Steve realizes as he follows Will up the walkway that he has absolutely no idea what Jonathan Byers does in his free time.
As soon as they’re in, Will slides the chain lock into place.
It’s stupid, because Steve’s going to leave as soon as Mrs. Byers comes out of the bathroom, but something stops him from sliding it back. He swallows around the lump in his throat.
“Mom?” Will keeps his shoes and backpack on, moving further into the house at a fast walk. “Jonathan?”
The house is silent.
Steve peers out the window and back-peddles so fast he nearly falls on his ass. “What the fuck?!”
There is something out there. Too tall, too thin, too wrong.
The soft padding of footsteps on the carpet grows louder as Will runs back. “Steve?”
And Steve has to curse again, because there’s nothing he can see that will work as a weapon. If they were at his house, he’d have a baseball bat at least, and —
Will peeks through the blinds and darts over to the landline.
It’s close. There’s no way anyone will get there before it reaches the house. Scrambling to his feet, Steve grabs the lamp on the side table by the couch and lets his feet take him to the front hall.
“Hello?” The panic in Will’s voice jumps up. “Hello?”
A shadow passes across the frosted glass on the door. Whatever it is growls.
Steve’s hands hurt from gripping the lamp so hard. “Does your mom have a gun?”
“What?”
“Does your mom have a gun?!” His father has a gun safe in his office. Steve doesn’t have the code to it officially, but it’s his parents’ wedding date. Tommy’s parents have a gun. Carol’s have a whole collection, too. Surely Mrs. Byers has one somewhere.
The chain lock slides open.
As it swings down, Steve feels a tug on his jacket that startles him so badly he drops the lamp. He only has a moment to get over it, because Will is leading him through the house and out the back door to an old shed. The actual act of running is easy. Steve’s tried every single sport Hawkins High offers and he even overtakes Will, nearly dragging him along. There’s no burn in his legs. No sweat on his brow. Just a spike of adrenaline that has nothing to do with the exercise and everything to do with whatever the fuck is chasing them.
Thankfully, Will knows where the bullets are. He fumbles with a box of them as Steve reaches over him to grab the rifle off the wall.
The problem is that Steve’s never fired a gun. He kind of doubts Will has either. It’s just point and pull the trigger, right? Grabbing the loaded rifle, he pushes the kid behind him and aims for the door.
“You have to cock it,” Will stutters out.
Steve nods and does it with shaking hands.
The light above them hums.
November 7th
The Beemer sticks out in their little neighborhood, but Joyce doesn’t think much of it. Not that morning. Not with her Will missing.
Not until Hopper asks if she’d seen anything odd in the area.
Across town, the first bell rings, signaling the start of homeroom in five minutes. Nancy bites her lip, and her shoulders slump as she finally heads to class. Part of her isn’t surprised. Barb had warned her, hadn’t she? But Steve seemed so sincere, so into her.
As they wait for the last bell to ring and the secretary to run through the announcements with as little excitement as she can muster, a torn piece of paper slides across Nancy’s desk.
Maybe he’s sick?
She looks over at Barb and smiles fleetingly. Maybe he is.
November 15th
Something’s choking him. It’s hard to breathe, and his mouth is covered, and the air is thick, thick and swarming with spores and —
“Will?!” Where is he? He should be right here. “Will?!” Steve squirms against whatever’s holding him, breaking free only to smash onto the floor beside his bed. The air is knocked out of his lungs. Instinctually, he gasps for more.
It’s fresh. He’s on the carpet in his room, and even in the dim light of dawn, he notices that there’s color here. The air is free of spores. He’s not in that fucking hellscape. His eyes ache with a fierceness as he curls up right where he is and tears gather without his permission. He can still feel it all over him. It clings like grime under his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubbed himself last night, no matter how hot he ran the shower. The water calls him again, but he’s shaking and there’s only one thing that will make it better. Grabbing his new bat from where it fell when he woke, he gets up.
The concrete floor of the garage is cool against the bare soles of his feet. He shudders and climbs into his car. It starts with a rumble. He fiddles with the stereo and Culture Club picks up right where it left off, bringing that night with it.
Steve shuts it off and scrubs a hand through his hair. “It’s over.” His voice cracks.
When he pulls out of the driveway, there’s nothing in the rearview mirror. In front of him, the sun peeks through the trees as it rises. Light splays across the asphalt, showing the clear road ahead. No spindly demons wait for him, no vines ready to trip him up, but it doesn’t stop the trembling of his hands on the wheel.
He shakes all the way to the Byers’ house.
The sight of his Beemer pulling up by the sidewalk has Mrs. Byers’ brow furrowing where she stands out front with a cigarette in hand. “Oh, Steve.” She pointedly does not comment on the weapon he’s still clutching.
He lets her fold him up into her arms, feeling like a child all over again. Honestly, he has no idea when he last felt the warmth of his own mother’s hug, and not for the first time since that night, he wonders how long his parents bothered to stick around in Hawkins before heading out of town again. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Keeping an arm around him, she stubs out her smoke and ushers him into the house and down vaguely familiar hallways. The door they stop in front of is ajar, but she knocks on it anyway before pushing it open further. “Go on.”
Will is a lump in the bed. Or, the bed has a Will-shaped lump in it.
Steve staggers towards it. There was talk of super realistic dolls or something last night, and some part of him is convinced that’s what he’ll find. He needs to confirm it for himself. He needs to be sure.
But he’s not the only one on edge. Will scrambles up and meets him partway, smooshing his face into Steve’s chest as he clings to him. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I know,” Steve says hoarsely. The only reason he had was sheer exhaustion.
“You weren’t here, and I couldn’t sleep.”
The door creaks as Mrs. Byers closes it enough to give them some more privacy.
As much as Steve would never say it out loud, being alone with Will releases a measure of tension in his shoulders. He knows it’s just the kid’s mom. He knows they’re not in whatever demented version of Hawkins they were in anymore. He knows. His instincts only know that they’re the safest when there’s no one — nothing — lurking around them. With steadier hands, he pulls the rest of Will’s blanket off the bed and wraps it around the two of them. The bat stays in his grip.
Eventually, the smell of eggs rouses both of their stomachs. All they had to survive off of for the last week was dusty granola bars and canned goods. The slightest hint of cheese in the air causes a cacophony of grumbling noises that brings giggles first out of Will and then Steve.
“You made a new one,” Will says, quiet but smiling, as he reaches out to touch the bat. There are dark bags under his eyes.
Steve knows he has a set to match. “I had to.” He couldn’t sleep until he had it. His arms shook as he hammered nail after nail into it just like he had with a similar bat days before. The same one actually — the whole parallel world thing still fucks with his head. He stands, stretches, and winces as he curls his toes against the worn carpet. They’re a little dirty from walking around barefoot. Thankfully he hadn’t fallen into bed in just boxers the night before, but the soft sweatpants and faded Hawkins Tigers shirt he’s wearing are clearly pajamas.
Will doesn’t care. “C’mon.” He grabs Steve’s free hand like a goddamn lifeline and pulls him out into the kitchen.
Where Jonathan is setting a fourth fork down on the table. He meets Steve’s eyes for the briefest moment before looking at his mom and the coffee she’s pouring. “We have coffee and milk. Orange juice, too.”
“I’m fine,” Steve blurts out. He leans the bat against the wall, grimacing as he parts with it. “I’m good. You don’t have to feed me.”
Mrs. Byers puts two spoons of sugar in her mug. “Did you eat at home, honey?” The soft smile on her face isn’t patronizing but knowing.
Yeah, Steve is starving, and even though it’s just cheesy eggs and toast, the smell in the kitchen is almost making him drool.
(Jonathan still isn’t looking at him.
Will squeezes his hand, silently pleading with wide eyes.)
Running a hand through his wild hair, Steve gives her an unsure smile. “Orange juice sounds good.” Milk does, too. Fuck, even water would be a godsend now. The pipes ran black there, spitting irregularly and never clearing no matter how long they left them on.
There’s a soft scrape as Jonathan butters up the last piece of toast. Two by two, he brings the plates over and sets them down. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush even though it’s a school day. Steve must stare a beat too long because he clears his throat. “I called in sick. To be with Will.”
Beside him, Will starts eating. They must have talked about it the night before. Or maybe he’s not listening. He’s eating fast, like he’s expecting not to have anything for a while, like it’s the first bite of hot food he’s had in years. If not for the death grip he has on Steve’s hand, he’d likely have a piece of toast in one hand and his fork in the other.
“We both have,” his mother says, pulling the carton of orange juice out of the fridge. It’s the cheap kind.
Steve doesn’t care. He quietly thanks her before gulping down half the glass at once; he feels rude for it, but he hasn’t had anything so good in days.
None of the Byers say a word about it. Mrs. Byers just fills his cup to the top again before slotting the carton back into the fridge. “When do you go back to school, Steve?”
It’s a good question. One he probably needs to call the school to find out the answer to, no parents at home to do it for him. His gut fills up with dread at the thought. He idly scoops up some eggs. The news has definitely spread, of course. They live in Hawkins, where most people know each other’s first and last names. He half wonders if they’ve already called his house.
“You know what?” Finally taking her seat, Mrs. Byers takes a sip of her coffee and smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I doubt they’ll be expecting you today.” She pats his shoulder.
That simple little touch is so warm and kind that all he can bring himself to do is nod. He snaps out of it enough to put the forkful of cheese and eggs in his mouth, and fuck, he knows he’s copying Will now, but it tastes so good. The cheese is gooey as it pulls away from the rest of the eggs. The eggs themselves are light, cooked just long enough without going rubbery, and the fact that he’s shoveling them in his mouth is the only thing that’s keeping him from getting down on his knees and begging Mrs. Byers to marry him.
“They’re very good, sweetheart,” she murmurs to Jonathan.
Or Jonathan, apparently. He’d probably have a heart attack if Steve got down on his knees in front of him. Steve nearly chokes at the thought of the face he’d make, and thankfully the bite of eggs goes down smoothly enough that he only hiccups.
None of them are surprised when Will finishes first. He pushes his plate forward and sips at his milk.
Steve joins him a minute later.
Taking another sip of coffee, Mrs. Byers gets up and grabs both of their plates. “We have fruit or more toast if you’re still hungry.”
Part of him wants more. It tasted so good, and fruit sounds even better right now. His stomach is so full that he feels sick, and he’s going to regret it later, but he’s seriously considering it until a brisk knock at the door interrupts the thought.
She smiles at him and Will, patting Jonathan’s shoulder as she stands. “I’ll go see who that is.”
Steve can’t help but watch her go, not because he’s actually harboring any feelings for her that would lead to something like him getting down on his knees and proposing, but because it was only a week ago that something horrible threatened to come through that door. The hair on the back of his neck rises. His lungs are paralyzed.
There’s a soft screech as Will shifts his chair closer to him. He’s staring in the direction of the door, too.
“...having breakfast, Hop.” Mrs. Byer’s voice becomes louder as she walks back to the kitchen on the heels of the Chief. “Can’t it wait?”
“I won’t be more than a few minutes.” Hopper’s gaze isn’t as stern as Steve’s used to. Though, to be fair, the last time they were in the same space together, he was driving Steve’s hungover ass back to the empty Harrington house after a night in the drunk tank. Noise complaints, speeding, suspicion of having a blunt or two — they’d met more than a handful of times since Steve’s freshman year at Hawkins High. Now, his expression is almost soft. Almost, because it’s also awkward.
It’s unsurprising, because, well, the last time they actually met was three days ago.
Steve averts his eyes. For a split second, he catches Jonathan staring at him. Not that Steve blames him after this whole clusterfuck. He’s not looking forward to going back to school where the stares are guaranteed to be a million times worse. “Hey, Chief.”
“Harrington.” Hopper shifts, clears his throat. “When you’re done eating, come find me out front for a talk.” He pours himself a cup of coffee and winks at Mrs. Byers when she snorts.
The atmosphere he leaves behind him is a bit stilted.
Squeezing Will’s hand, Steve reminds himself that he’s fine. They’re both fine. They’re both fine and they’re not there —
Then
The first thing he was aware of was the pounding on his chest. He rolled over and retched, black strings of slime clinging stubbornly to his lips, but he could breathe again, even if the air was still thick with spores. Each breath grated on his ears. A gasp, a wheeze, a cough that jarred his lungs something fierce.
The second thing he was aware of was that Will was no longer in his arms. Although his last memories were a confusing fuzz, he knew he’d tried to shield the poor kid in that moment. He hadn’t been successful. He’s never fucking successful at the one thing he needed to do, was he?
Thing was, no one can say Steve Harrington’s a quitter either.
Pushing himself up on his hands and knees, he tried to get to his feet only to tumble back onto his ass, eyes burning. “Will?” It came out as a croak, and it hurt worse than it sounded. Jesus, it felt like he was gargling shards of glass.
Something grabbed him.
He struggled against it with every pitiful drop of energy he had left. “Will, hide!”
There was a sob somewhere to his left. It was too high to be Will.
“Shit, kid, stop.” The man — because now that he heard the voice, Steve could tell they had normal human length arms — held him so tight he could barely move. “He’s fine.”
It wasn’t enough. He needed to see him for himself. He needed to be sure.
“Steve?” The voice was small, tired, and undeniably Will Byers. He was curled up in his mom’s embrace, safer than he’d been in days.
With a pained sob, Steve went limp in the man’s arms. Everything hurt. His throat, yes, but his stomach was so empty it twisted and turned, his legs so overworked they burned, his head pounding from dehydration.
“I’ve got you, Harrington,” the man grunted as they hefted him up to his feet.
And Steve got a look at him for just long enough to realize who it was before his body gave out.
Chief Hopper grimaced.
The world went black.
Now
Steve doesn’t want any more food. His ravenous hunger withers so fast he feels sick, and that’s the point. If he eats anything else, he will get sick. Probably all over Hopper’s shoes.
(It wouldn’t be the first time.)
Although he doesn’t want to, he gets to his feet and lets go of Will’s hand.
“You’re coming back, right? Please.”
A week ago, Steve wouldn’t have looked at the kid twice. Now? Now he knows he’d do pretty much anything he asks. “Yeah. Be back in a jiff.” He reaches out and ruffles his hair with a trembling hand.
It earns him the smallest of smiles, which means it’s a win.
Just like he said, Hopper’s waiting for him outside. He’s leaning against the house and drinking his coffee with a casualness that’s too stiff to actually be casual. There’s no way he doesn’t hear the door open a few feet away from him, but he doesn’t turn to face Steve. “Any luck getting ahold of your parents?”
A handful of things he could say pass his mind. Instead of voicing any of them, Steve shrugs.
Hopper finally looks at him. He’s grimacing just like he had that night. Just like then, however, there’s no weight in it. At least not directed at Steve. “We’ve started the process of declaring both of you alive, but I can’t do jack shit about your bank account. Far as I know, they aren’t selling the house.”
“They won’t.” It’s the one thing he knows for sure. Steve stares down at his feet, still scuffed and dirty. “They’d lose money if they did.” If he’d been gone a few weeks more, he’s sure his stuff would have been packed away. Or thrown out. Very little in that house that belongs to him holds any importance with them. Hell, they might have even donated his trophies to the school. He idly wonders if the janitors had to take a memorial out of the trophy cases.
Hopper shakes his head. “Saw you signed yourself out of the hospital.”
He had. He hated being there. He hated being stared at, because no one there stared at him the way he was used to. At school, it was jealousy, longing, annoyance, maybe a little respect. At the hospital, he was a fucking mystery to gawk at. And the whispers. Steve had enough of the whispers. The doctors reluctantly admitted that he was fine, that his tests were coming up normal, though he needed to take it easy for a while, and he signed himself out shortly after.
(His first destination was Will’s room. It was next to his, which worked out, because more than once, he’d wheeled himself in to see him. That afternoon, it was also filled with kids laughing and bickering, and it didn’t feel right to go in.)
“Doc said I was fine.” Physically, maybe.
Exhaling loudly, Hopper throws back the rest of his coffee. “Look, I’ll keep calling, but if you need anything — anything — in the meantime, you know where to find me.” He pushes off the wall and stares at Steve. It’s a different stare. Not so much gawking as an inspection.
Steve glances away under the weight of it and catches Will watching them through the front window. Somehow it’s comforting enough that he turns back to Hopper.
Whatever he sees in Steve must not worry him too much. He nods to himself, just a slight dip up and down. “And Harrington? School’s not expecting you back until next week.” He holds out his empty mug.
It’s still warm to the touch. “Thanks.”
When he goes back inside, Mrs. Byers is waiting for him and the mug. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, sweetheart.”
As long as he wants? Right now, he’s not sure he can put a limit on that. The Byers home is so small and cramped and run down. The version of him that hadn’t yet spent a week in hell with Will wouldn’t have been caught dead inside it. His own empty house, however… No. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but when it refuses to go down, he gives her what he hopes is a smile instead.
And she hugs him. She’s slow about it, gives him a good chance to avoid the contact, and the embrace itself is gentle. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
He slides his arms around her back.
Will quietly joins them.
From his place at the sink, a rag in one hand and a freshly cleaned plate in the other, Jonathan looks… conflicted.