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1 — June 14th, 1985. “Swimming is an art.”
Steve has always had a preference for swimming. If he had to choose between basketball or swimming, he’d choose swimming in a heartbeat. Not that he hates basketball. Yes, he doesn’t play it as much, but that doesn’t mean he’s left all of it behind. He loves basketball. It’s easy to play, easy to watch, and everyone can play basketball. Is everyone good at basketball? After observing Jason Carver on the basketball court, Steve can tell you that the answer to that question is a big fat no. But, that doesn’t mean that everyone can’t play. Basketball is simple, and he appreciates that.
Swimming, though, is an art. The feeling of holding your breath too long, then finally breaking the surface is so refreshing and feels euphoric every time it happens. Doing front stroke is similar to slapping paint on a canvas and not caring how it’d turn out because you know that it holds emotions that you can’t express in any way besides pure art. The burst of adrenaline Steve gets from pushing off of the diving block and going head first into the water is something he could live off of for the rest of his life, he thinks.
Though it may seem like Steve could only use these things for enjoyable purposes and practices, that is not always the case.
More times than not, he’s at a lake far away from anyone he knows and is forcing himself to swim laps without breathing and to wait until a certain number of laps to break the surface, trying to chase that euphoric feeling. But alas, that feeling is never captured, because when this happens it is because he is punishing himself.
It’s 1985, and Steve graduated high school a few days ago. His parents didn’t come to his graduation, naturally, leaving him with Mike, Lucas, Will, and Max. Did they sneak out of class to visit his graduation? Absolutely. Did they fight the entire car ride back to Steve’s house after said graduation? Obviously. No matter how annoying the constant bickering got, Steve couldn’t help the fond smile that would pull at the corners of his lips and pull them up into something akin to an exasperated yet content mother’s expression.
So if he had the little quartet of twerps with him during graduation, why was he punishing himself?
Because he’s done such a shit job at being a son, that not even his parents wanted to show up to his graduation. That’s… terribly simplified for the actual emotions that Steve is experiencing, but simple questions come with even simpler answers.
Steve finally breaks the surface for air, and greedily gasps in the cold Hawkins air. His lungs feel tight, and his ribcage almost feels like it’s shrinking—this is nothing like what it felt like when he was swim captain. Steve is shivering now, teeth chattering and everything, and decides that now is a good time to get out of the water. He swims to the other end of the lake where his extra clothes and water is, and walks out of the lake, ignoring the sharp pains in his feet from walking on the sharp rocks and wood chips. His calves strain with over usage, and his thighs feeling like jello, but he doesn’t let himself sit down. He bends over and picks up his towel, quickly drying himself off with the now cold material and puts an oversized Dio shirt he’s had hidden in the back of his closet and a pair of jeans that barely go over his waist. They feel uncomfortable on him, but he ignores it, instead picking up all of his things and walking back to his BMW.
Swimming was an art, and is now a punishment.
2 — July 3rd, 1985. “Who knew that King Steve could actually put in some hard work?”
The words feel like a slap across the face. Of course, Steve doesn’t show that it affected him, and instead gives his most fake-genuine laugh he can. Robin seems almost surprised that he’s laughing at her insult.
“You call this hard work? I’m slinging ice cream, Robin, this is pathetic,” Steve semi-jokes and semi-complains, relieved when Robin seems just a smidge less tense than she had earlier.
“We are slinging ice cream, dingus,” Dingus? “You’re not pathetic, because if you’re pathetic then I am pathetic by association.”
And if Steve spent more time in the back room preparing ice cream and purposefully making sure that his hands were frozen numb afterwards, then nobody needs to know.
He made sure that he’d keep his hands on the frozen tubs of ice cream for longer than necessary so that he could feel the icy metal through his nitrile gloves, hating himself for loving the feeling of the numbness that spread through his fingers and seemed to travel through his veins.
3 — September 1st, 1981. “Steve is 14, and he is home alone for what should have been the first time.”
Instead, it’s around the tenth time. About two years ago, his parents decided that hiring nannies and babysitters were a ‘waste of money’—as if they weren’t filthy rich—and decided to just start leaving him home alone with a wad of cash and a “Sorry. Had to go on a business trip. Do whatever the fuck you want because we’re gonna yell at you anyway when he get home.” note from his parents.
It’s been one time home alone too many for Steve. He lays on the couch and thinks about where he went wrong. Did he not do enough chores around the house? Was he too talkative? Too quiet? Too inactive? Too energetic? Less energetic than he should be?
Thoughts spiraled and turned into actions as he got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen, barely even paying attention to his body as he pulled out various different cleaners from under the sink, a clean rag, and a window squeegee. He let his thoughts spiral even further as he wiped down counter tops and windows with an obsessive train of thought that sounded something like if I clean the house, my parents will be proud, if I clean the house, my parents won’t leave me as much, if I clean the house, my parents will see that I’m not lazy, if I clean the house, my parents will think I’m responsible enough, because surely them leaving so much is a test of how responsible I am—
After days and days on end with endless cleaning and minimal food and water, Steve collapsed on the couch and fell asleep with a Windex bottle in his hand and woke up to the sound of his father yelling at him. How dare you fall asleep on the couch, why are you too lazy to even make it to your own bed?
He didn’t even notice how clean the house was.
4 — June 17th, 1986. “Eddie has yet to graduate.”
Nobody was surprised by the news that Eddie would be held back for yet another year. Not even the man himself. Of course, everyone had reassured him that ‘87 would be his year, and Steve almost envied how pumped up Eddie had seemed about it. How he could have so much energy all the time and seem so alive, something Steve wasn’t used to seeing in people anymore.
Steve thought, as a ‘ungraduation’ gift, he’d clean the new trailer gifted to the Munson’s after the whole Upside Down ordeal. He’d brought all of the supplies with him, and chose the only day Wayne would be out of town to sneak into their trailer and clean it till it was spotless. Did what he was doing count as breaking and entering? Absolutely. Will that stop him? The answer to that is: A big fat fucking no!
And it was all worth the hours of scrubbing away and hacking at the crust that had already started to gather in the trailer when he saw how happy Eddie and Wayne were. A mixture of “You didn’t have to do that, son.” and “Stevie, you are the most metal janitor I’ve ever fucking seen.” met his ears and the praise and disbelief rolling of the Munson’s tongues left him happier than he had felt for the past decade.
5 — July 4th, 1986. “The fourth is a touchy subject for everyone.”
Not including those who weren’t in the accident at Starcourt, obviously, but it was still touchy for the party and most of the older teens and adults. For Steve, it was very touchy. No matter how tough he liked to act, everyone else knew how much even bringing up July 4th affected him. From slight flinches to a glaze settling over his eyes that reminded everyone all too much of Vecna, they decided it was best to create a code word for July 4th. Thus, Code “God Bless” was born.
“Code God Bless, everyone, over,” Lucas’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.
“That’s such a stupid code name,” Steve responds, “... over.”
“Hey! It’s short for God Bless America, you lobster-backed asshole,” Erica’s yells signal through the walkie-talkie as a faint “Erica!” is heard from a voice that could only belong to Lucas, “Learn to be more patriotic, nerd.”
Steve cackled at Erica’s faux insult and stopped responding to the walkie-talkie after that. He sighed and looked at the counter tops. They were grimy, he could tell. There were little bread crumbs all over the usually pristine white counter tops and it felt wrong not to wipe it off.
Now, Steve swears he didn’t mean to break out the entire cleaning supplies box, it just happened. He blinked and suddenly he was drowning in bottles of Windex and various sponges he had bought over the years.
He wiped down his entire house and used up 4 different bottles of cleaner in the last 10 hours he’d been cleaning. It was 5 am now, not even July 4th anymore, but he still felt like his house wasn’t clean enough. He could still see the Mind Flayer’s arms poking about in the corners of his eyes, and whenever he whipped his head around to get a better look at the horrid creature’s limbs, it was gone. The arms always left a gooey trail of blood, though. Sometimes he thinks he’s the only one who can see the blood because nobody else seems to acknowledge it but it’s there and Steve knows it.
+1 — July 7th, 1986. “Stevie? It’s Eddie.”
Eddie frowned as no replies came through. He shrugged and lifted the doormat, revealing a gold key that opened the front door with a click when he used it. He walked through the doorway and took his shoes off by the door, setting the key down on the ground next to his shoes and closing the door shut behind him. The sound seems to finally get Steve to come to the front door, who freezes at the sight of Eddie. Eddie notices the bottle of vinegar in Steve’s right hand and the bundle of sponges in the other, and finally looks up at Steve’s face where he’s staring at Eddie from the stairs. And holy shit, someone get this boy in a bed immediately. His under eye is a dark purple that could almost be passed off as a black eye, and his cheeks are almost sunken in. Eddie immediately gets hit with a wave of heartbreak just looking at the younger man.
“Steve… ‘s it okay if I come up there?” It takes Steve a moment to answer Eddie’s question, but when he does it’s answered with a slight nod and the moment his head is even moving Eddie is already almost halfway up the stairs. He takes the cleaning supplies out of the frozen boy’s hands and notices how Steve is looking down at Eddie’s hands like he wants to do nothing more than use them as a pillow. To compromise that thought, Eddie slowly moves to hold Steve’s hands, giving him time to back out. When Steve doesn’t, Eddie holds the tired man’s cold hands in his contrastingly warmer ones and rubs the back of Steve’s hands with his thumbs.
“When was the last time you slept, Stevie? You look like you haven’t slept in a century,” Eddie says, voice soft and worried. Steve doesn’t speak and that’s an answer that screams I feel like I haven’t slept in a century, and that simply won’t do. Eddie gently tugs on Steve’s hands and guides him towards his bed, where Steve seems to avoid even looking at the mattress. Eddie frowns.
“How long have you been awake?” Eddie asks. He waits patiently for Steve to answer, who hesitates before saying, “3… 4 days.”
“4 days?” Eddie asks, flabbergasted. Steve nods and Eddie looks at him with shock that slowly melts into sadness.
“Couldn’t sleep. Had to clean off the blood,” Steve says simply, leaning into Eddie more than he probably should. Eddie has a double take at Steve’s words.
“The blood?”
“From the Mind Flayer. It’s arms are everywhere and I can’t get rid of all of the blood and everything is dirty and I have to clean it before anyone else comes over or else—”
“Steve, sweetheart, slow down,” It’s the pet name that makes Steve stop talking, “You’re hallucinating. You need to sleep, honey.”
Maybe Steve is just too tired to fight back and defend himself like Eddie expected him to, because all he does instead of that is nod and melt into Eddie’s side further. Eddie guides him to the bed and lays him down under the covers, pulling the covers over him and getting up to walk away before a hand latches itself onto his wrist. He looks back at Steve, who’s hiding his blushing face into the pillow. Eddie fights a smile back and comes back closer to Steve.
“You want me to stay, honey?”
“If you don’t mind…”
“Of course I don’t, Stevie. Not one bit.”
—
Eddie had slept next to Steve all night, unknowingly becoming the big spoon overnight.