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Dustin lets himself in with the key Steve gave him two weeks ago. He doesn’t stop to knock. He’s panting, sweaty from the cycle even though it’s freezing outside. His heart is pounding, hands clammy.
He knows he’s being irrational. He knows Steve’s fine. He’s fine.
Inside, the house is warm, the hallway windows are sweating with condensation, and there’s music playing from the lounge, loud and upbeat. It’s some sort of post-punk band, heavy on the guitar; the kind of music Steve plays when he’s in a good mood.
Dustin takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down. He doesn’t need to freak Steve out. He doesn’t need to be freaked out. Steve is fine. He’s listening to music and warm inside his house and he doesn’t need Dustin barreling in, doesn’t need to be stressed out.
Like, everything is okay. The gates are closed. Steve is fine. Just because Dustin had a stupid nap and had the stupid nightmare about Steve floating in the air again, the blood pouring from his nose and the music not working, and –
It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s all okay.
It’s –
*
“Henderson?” Steve says.
Dustin jolts: he hadn’t heard Steve approaching. He clutches at his chest, gasping for air. His heartbeat is heavy, pounding like a drum against his palm.
“Christ, Steve. You scared the shit out of me.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. One hand is on his hip, and there’s a washcloth thrown over his shoulder.
“Oh yeah? Imagine how I felt when I rounded the corner to see your uninvited ass standing in my fucking hallway, Henderson. What the hell are you doing here, man?”
Dustin rubs his jaw, embarrassed.
Steve knows Dustin far too well. He scans his eyes over Dustin, his shoulders relaxing and his face going all cow-eyed and sad. His hand drops from his hip, and he takes a couple of steps forwards.
“Hey, I’m fine,” he says. “Totally okay, yeah? Slept a whole eight hours last night and everything.”
He claps a hand on Dustin’s shoulder, and Dustin sort of hates that he still needs this. Sort of hates that he still wants Steve to reach for him, comfort him. He wonders if he’ll ever shake the part him that still feels thirteen years old, waiting for Steve Harrington’s approval.
“I know you’re fine,” Dustin says.
“Sure,” Steve replies.
He’s using the tone he gets with Dustin, sometimes. The one he uses when he’s agreeing with Dustin, but actually isn’t agreeing with Dustin at all. Mike laughed at it, said Steve sounded the same way Nancy does when she talks to him and Holly.
Dustin socked him in the arm for that. He spent the rest of the week feeling funny, trying not to wish too hard that it really was like Mike and Nancy. Trying not to wish too hard that he could just call Steve his older brother, make everything clearer in his head.
Steve is still watching Dustin, hand pressed to his shoulder. His palms are warm, the heat pressing through the chill of Dustin’s t-shirt, still cold after his cycle. Dustin frowns at him.
“I’m serious, Steve. I know you’re fine.”
Steve holds his hands up, shaking his head. He pulls a face at Dustin, sticking out his tongue, and Dustin rolls his eyes. Steve is so lame.
He’s so lame, and Dustin worries about him so fucking much, and Dustin hates that he worries about him so fucking much because he’s so lame.
“Well, now you’re here, you might as well stay. I don’t want you cycling home when it’s this cold, you’re gonna get sick.”
“It’s okay. I mean, you could just give me a ride home, you know my bike fits in your trunk.”
“Can’t, I’ve been drinking wine, man,” Steve replies. “You can just stay the night, dude. I’ll call your mom. You had dinner yet?”
Dustin squints. “Depends what you’re cooking.”
Steve snorts, shoves Dustin’s cap down so it’s blocking his eyes.
“Don’t be a shit.”
He turns, walking off towards the kitchen. Dustin takes a deep breath in, readjusts his cap, then follows him.
*
Whatever Steve is cooking smells good, but that’s not surprising; Steve is a good cook. He says he likes the rhythm of it all, whatever that means. He’s a good baker, too; he makes cookies for Lucas after basketball games and trays of brownies for Dustin’s mom.
Sometimes, Dustin thinks that there’s not much Steve tries he isn’t good at.
The large pan has meat browning in it, mince cooking down with wine and tomatoes and – he’s making Bolognese.
Dustin swallows.
Bolognese is Steve’s go-to date night meal. He says it’s impressive enough the date always digs it, but easy enough he won’t stress himself out trying to make everything perfect.
Dustin looks around the kitchen, catches his eyes on the two plates set out on the table in the corner of the room. It’s the smaller one, the one Steve likes to eat at because he says the dining table is too fancy. There’s a bottle of wine between the plates, two glasses beside it.
Dustin wants to sink through the floor and never come out again.
“Steve, why the fuck would you invite me to stay over when you’re having a date tonight? I’m interrupting.”
“You’re not interrupting it because it hasn’t started yet,” Steve points out.
“Oh my god. That doesn’t answer the question as to why you would invite me to stay.”
Steve shoots him a look that’s pure stink-eye.
“You’re totally right,” he says. “I should have forced you to cycle home while you’re still hyperventilating about a nightmare you totally didn’t have, just so that me and Eddie can eat some Bolognese without your presence.”
Dustin scowls. “I told you I’m fine,” he snaps.
He goes to leave. He gets as far as his hand on the door, but Steve darts across the kitchen before he can get any further. It’s alarming, sometimes, how quickly Steve can move. Dustin thinks he should have a fucked-up knee, or a messed-up shoulder, or something after four years of fighting monsters, but Steve always seems fine.
He always seemed fine, that is, until he was floating three feet in the air in Eddie’s trailer and Dustin didn’t know his favorite song and –
“Hey,” Steve says. He’s crouched down a little, so he’s eye to eye with Dustin. Both his hands are resting on Dustin’s shoulders again. “I really don’t give a shit about my date right now, okay? I see Eddie pretty much every night. You, however, haven’t been bothering me anywhere near as much as usual, and I miss you. I’m sure Eddie misses you too, man. Plus, I’m serious; I don’t want you cycling home if you’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out,” Dustin says.
“You’re a fucking liar, Henderson.”
“I – I just fell asleep on the couch earlier. I, um. Bad dreams, that’s all. I just – I wanted to see you.”
Steve doesn’t look surprised, but he also doesn’t laugh in Dustin’s face or anything. Instead, he squeezes Dustin’s shoulders tighter and tilts his head to the side.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
Dustin pauses. Sniffs again.
They don’t, like – they don’t talk about this stuff. They never have.
After Billy, Steve hugged Dustin and told him it sucked about Max dating Lucas. Then, he spent three weeks in Dustin’s house, talking to his mom, bringing casseroles, and helping Dustin pick out the best outfit for the Snow Ball.
After Starcourt, Steve hugged Dustin and thanked him for getting him and Robin out from the Russian’s. Then, they spent two weeks driving around in Steve’s BMW, Steve turning his Queen cassette up louder and louder, while Dustin tried not to think about the Russian guard he electrocuted, or Steve’s swollen eyeball, or the hours he spent crawling through the vents with Erica.
They don’t talk.
Except – this year, Steve didn’t even tell anyone he was fucking cursed by Vecna until he was literally about to die – so maybe they should, like, start to talk about this stuff.
Dustin opens his mouth, tries to steel his shoulders.
He’s going to be so cool about this. He’s going to be like Steve in the tunnels. He’s going to be so calm, and collected, and he’s going to explain what his nightmare was like easily, and -
“You could have died,” he wails. “We put the Walkman on you, and you didn’t even wake up.”
Steve’s eyes go wide. He straightens his back, standing up fully before pulling Dustin into a hug. His arms loop over Dustin’s shoulders, holding him close. Dustin shoves his head into Steve’s chest, breathing in, ragged and wet.
Steve smells like Old Spice and cigarettes and his Bolognese sauce. Steve smells like clean laundry and chili pepper and fucking home, and Dustin’s not even ashamed anymore to admit that he’s one of Dustin’s favorite people, like, ever.
“I didn’t die, Dustin. I did wake up,” Steve says. “Sure, it took me a little longer than you and Max thought it would, but you know it takes a while for things to get through my skull, right, Henderson?”
He’s holding Dustin tighter, now, talking basically into the crown of Dustin’s head. It should make Dustin feel small, or stupid, or something – but mostly he just feels safe.
“You’re not stupid,” he says.
“Christ, dude,” Steve says. “This must have been some fucking nightmare if you’re being this nice to me.”
Dustin finally moves away. He’s still breathing a little uneasily, and his eyes are wet, but Steve’s just smiling at him.
“Don’t be a dick,” Dustin says.
He punches Steve in the stomach, but gently. Steve’s smile widens into a grin, and he shoves Dustin back, just as gentle.
“I really am okay,” Steve says.
“Now. You weren’t, though.”
“I know.” Steve’s eyes are brown, and unusually serious. “And I’m sorry that, like, I kept a lot of information hidden from you. I know how scary it was seeing Max in the graveyard, so I can imagine a little about how you felt seeing me the same way. I am sorry, okay?”
Dustin sniffs. “You’re not allowed to keep stuff from me anymore. You didn’t tell me about the fact you were dating Eddie, and you didn’t tell me about the fact you were cursed by Vecna, and if you’re keeping any more huge secrets from me, I am going to be so mad, Steve, I swear to God.”
“I hear you, kid,” Steve says. “And, I –”
Whatever Steve is about to say is lost to the unlatching of the front door; the sound of thick, heavy boots being kicked off in the hallway.
“Oh my god,” Eddie’s voice calls out. He’s muffled through the wall and the sound of Steve’s music that’s still playing, but Dustin can hear him coming closer. “That was the worst fucking day of my life, and before you say I’m being dramatic, I got chewed up by a demon bat and that was still – Oh. Hey, Henderson, you’re here.”
Eddie’s hands are on the frame of the kitchen door, peering between Steve and Dustin with a crease between his eyebrows. He bites his lip.
“Did I, um, did I get the dates wrong again?”
“Probably not,” Dustin says. “Steve wasn’t expecting me.”
“Ah,” Eddie says. He raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything else. He swings on the frame of the door, looking like a vampire that’s scared to cross the threshold. “Dinner still on, though?”
“Yeah, asshole. Dinner’s on for you and Henderson. I swear, you both only want me for my food,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “I just need to put the pasta noodles on, then we’re all good to go.”
He walks back to the stove, turning down the Bolognese burner’s heat, poking at the sauce with a spatula. There’s a heavy, cast-iron pot already filled with water, and Steve flicks the burner underneath it on.
“Ah, Steve. Don’t break my heart here, man. You know I don’t only want you for your food,” Eddie says.
He finally swings through the doorway, socked feet quiet against Steve’s kitchen tiles. He comes up behind Steve, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist, picking him up and spinning him around. Steve places his hands over Eddie’s wrists and cackles, the big, loud, honky laugh he usually gets embarrassed by when he does it in front of anyone but Dustin, or Robin.
Dustin, in the corner, rolls his eyes.
Eddie swinging Steve around is the same sort of shit Steve used to do for Nancy, or the way Mike tries to be for El – all goofy affection and hands everywhere. Part of him thinks it should be weird to see Steve – monster fighting, nail-bat wielding Steve – in the position of the girl, but it just sort of makes sense. Steve looks happy, genuinely happy, to let Eddie shove his cold hands under his shirt, and Dustin wants to find it gross, he really does.
“You two are gross,” he calls, just to convince himself that he can still rag on Steve.
It doesn’t really work. He can tell there’s no conviction in his own voice. From the way Steve sticks his tongue out at Dustin, he can tell too.
Eddie staggers away from Steve, though, clutching at his heart and gasping like he’s been shot.
“A critical hit! Abused and judged for my love, Henderson cares not that my affection for his brother is pure. I’ve been cruelly dismissed and demeaned!”
Dustin’s heart does a funny jolt at Eddie calling Steve his brother. He looks at Steve, waiting for Steve to correct Eddie, to say something. He’s half expecting Steve to point out that they’re not related, not even close.
Instead, Steve has his arms crossed and he’s leaning with one hip against the kitchen counter. He looks at ease, smiling over at Dustin and Eddie like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t worry, Eddie. The only opinion you really need to worry about is Robin’s,” Steve says.
“What?” Dustin’s voice comes out screechier than he wants it to, and Steve laughs. “You’re seriously telling me that if I actually had a problem with your boyfriend you wouldn’t listen?”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Do you have a problem with my boyfriend?”
“Yeah, Henderson, d’you have a problem with little old me?” Eddie says. He presses his hands together like he’s praying, batting his eyelids. “I mean, I’m shocked you would! I’m so good. You might even say I’m the most beloved figure in Hawkins. What fears could you possibly have? You think I’m going to corrupt your good family name?”
“Obviously I don’t have a problem with Eddie,” Dustin says. “But what if you were dating some douchebag? You wouldn’t listen to me then?”
Steve laughs. “Okay, Dustin. If Eddie and I ever break up again and I do end up dating someone else, as my family, I will take your opinion into consideration. How’s that sound?”
Dustin feels his heart jolt again. He looks at Steve, thinks, family.
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“Can’t help but feel like I’m getting a little shafted here, Steve,” Eddie says.
He doesn’t actually look bothered that Steve is talking about a potential break-up between the two of them. Instead, he’s smiling as he looks between Steve and Dustin in turn. There’s a hole in one of his socks that means Dustin can see his left big toe, and his hair is frizzy and loose around his head. He looks relaxed, like he knows he’s always going to be welcome in the kitchen when Steve and Dustin are there.
“Aw,” Steve says. He grabs Eddie by the wrist, pressing a kiss to the space on his cheek where his dimple appears. “Well, you can postpone the break-up and raise yourself in mine and Dustin’s opinions by setting a place for him at the table, dude.”
He bumps Eddie’s hip with his own, and Eddie laughs. He goes to the cupboard where the pasta bowls are kept, pulling one out without even hesitating. In the labyrinthian nightmare of Steve’s kitchen, it’s an impressive feat.
Dustin watches Steve dump the pasta noodles into the now boiling water. He watches Steve’s shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. He watches the warmth of the kitchen, the easiness of Steve and Eddie’s smiles.
“Hey, Steve,” he says.
Steve turns to look at him, and the stupid washcloth is still thrown over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I – um – thanks. I, you’re right, I wasn’t fine. But, um. I am now.”
Steve’s face does something funny, expression wobbling between happy and smug so quickly that Dustin still isn’t quite sure what one he’s settled on when he finally speaks.
“Yeah, yeah. I gave you that key for a reason, dude. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He turns back to the stove, stirring the pasta easily. Then, he swivels back to Dustin, eyebrows furrowed.
“You’re still not getting a glass of wine with the food, though, asshole.”