Work Text:
What a Fool Believes | The Doobie Brothers
December 1978 | Minute by Minute | track 2
Steve is absolutely, totally, completely fascinated by Robin Buckley.
He figured this job would be a bust – a sticky, unrewarding bust, full of screaming kids, forced to wear a ridiculous costume, all so his parents might, sort of, maybe pay for community college in the fall. His mom gave him air kisses and said, We’ll see, darling, while his dad cleared his throat and shook his newspaper meaningfully.
Steve doesn’t want to go to community college, but he definitely doesn’t want to go to State, and he wants to keep living rent free and with an allowance, so.
Scoops Ahoy it is. With Robin Buckley. Who hates his fucking guts, obviously, but also occasionally gets flustered at the register, trips over her own feet, and spaces out when Michael McDonald comes on over the store speaker.
“Did you have a late growth spurt or something?” Steve asks, after Robin drops the ice cream scoop three times while Macee Higgins, bangs starched nearly four inches over the top of her head, waits for her three scoops of vanilla.
Macee taps her fingers impatiently on the counter and Steve throws a wink and smile at her. Macee frowns harder.
Robin is bright red by the time she hands over the cup, and she hisses at Steve like an angry cat.
Steve just leans into the counter and says, “Enjoy,” and shrugs off Macee’s huff as she walks away.
Robin says, “What was that?”
“What was what?” Steve says.
Robin waves a hand out into the rest of the store. It’s before lunch, so they haven’t hit their rush yet. “That!”
Steve squints at her. “I’m not sure it’s my fault you find Macee Higgins intimidating,” Steve says. “She runs that math club.”
“It’s the Academic Dec—you know what. That’s not what I meant.” She points a finger at him. “Do you flirt with everything that breathes?”
“Uh.” He didn’t think he was flirting with Macee. For starters, Macee’s three years younger than him.
“I mean, of course you do,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “It’s pathetic.”
“Okay, hang on,” Steve says, folding his arms over his chest.
Robin just points at him again, then disappears into the back room. She opens the window between spaces a minute later and hoists up their dry erase board. Written at the top, one side says, You Suck, the other side says, You Rule. She stares him down as she makes a tally mark under You Suck.
“What does that even mean?” Steve says.
“It means Macee thought you were a moron, and we need to savor this for historical purposes. King Steve strikes out.”
Steve probably should be pissed about it, but instead he finds himself fighting off a smile. Forced proximity, ribbing, someone close to his own age to talk to about things that aren’t monster related? He’s here for it. He’ll take Robin’s mean-edged humor if it means he can feel almost normal for once.
He says, “Gee, thanks, Buckley,” and Robin throws the marker at his head.
*
Two days in, Robin finds the source of the store radio.
She says, “If I hear one more Eagles’ song, I’m going to kill myself,” and spends her entire lunch break tearing apart every cabinet in the breakroom.
“Jackpot,” she says, standing up on the table she’s pulled over to the far side of the room. It’s high up in a corner, on top of a cabinet, and Steve’s holding her ankles, because at some point he knows her body’s going to try and fall flat on its face.
She says, “Know anything about rewiring radios, Harrington?”
Dustin would know about rewiring radios, but Dustin’s out of town for two weeks. Steve swallows hard and says, “No. Can’t we just change the channel?”
“I’m putting a tape deck onto this baby,” Robin says. “Think the guys at Sam Goody would know?”
“Probably not,” Steve says, resigned. “But I can ask.” There’s still a Radio Shack in town. He thinks if the music store nerds don’t know anything about this, he can go after work.
“I can ask,” Robin says, shaking off Steve’s grip and then hopping down onto the floor. She’s surprisingly graceful for someone who’s ungraceful eighty percent of the time.
Steve doesn’t really want to fight her on it, but, “Why can’t I ask?”
Robin makes a face. “Do you know who works at Sam Goody?”
“No?” He’s not sure why that matters. He’d be a customer in a store. He’s pretty sure any employee would have to help him if he asked. He can be dense, but he knows that’s mostly how retail jobs work.
Robin pats his head and then motions toward the You Suck/You Rule board. He’s got a little bundle of five You Suck tallies.
He says, “Are you saying because I’m, like, a little off my game I can’t—” He cuts himself off, because he’s actually not sure what she’s saying. Are there chicks at Sam Goody? There’s probably chicks there.
“I’m saying Gareth might just hate you more than I do.”
“Ouch.” Steve clutches his chest. “Right for the kill, Buckley.” He wants to tease her about it, but he’s still working on getting her to like him. Just a little. He’s trying to be charming. He used to be charming. “I’m the one going on break right now.”
Robin’s eyes travel from his sailor hat all the way down to his knee socks and a small evil smile spreads across her mouth. “You know what,” she says, “Go for it.”
“Whatever you’re implying, I’m not embarrassed by my costume,” Steve says.
Robin tips her head to the side. “Sure you’re not.”
“My legs make this work,” Steve says, and then her face gets all funny, and Steve refuses to feel embarrassed about that either. His legs do make this work.
“Sure,” she says, skeptical enough that Steve thinks, for a minute, maybe he has lost all his game. He’s only a week out of high school, but it’s not like his last year at Hawkins’ High was impressive. He spent almost half the time concussed. His grades had never been truly terrible, but he’s still half convinced he passed and graduated mostly out of pity.
It’s probably the hat, he thinks. He snatches it off his head before he leaves the store.
*
Steve’s never bothered to figure out where Sam Goody is, so by the time he finds it – one floor up, next to Sears – he’s dangerously close to running out of break time, and he hasn’t even eaten his lunch.
He’s determined to get this fixed for Robin, though. Maybe she’ll be in a better mood without “Hotel California” cycling through every forty-five minutes.
He’s not out of breath, but he’s a little stress-sweaty, and he’s got blinders on for the neon pink storefront outline, so he doesn’t know if it was on purpose, or if he just fucking missed it, but he trips so hard over a pair of legs that he hits the grimy marbled floor with both hands and knees. When he turns over, he sees dirty white high tops, ripped black jeans, and a lazily smiling Eddie Munson. Jesus Christ.
“What the fuck, Munson?” Steve says. There’s red marks on his knees, and his palms sting.
“Might want to watch where you’re going, Harrington. Could get hurt.”
“I am hurt, you moron.” Steve rubs his legs with a grimace, ignores Munson’s sharp gaze, and then hefts himself to his feet. “Fuck.”
“Sorry,” Munson says, not sounding sorry at all.
Steve huffs and puts his hands on his hips and says, “What are you doing?”
Munson’s still got his legs stretched out, hands clasped over his stomach, slouching down on a truly uncomfortable looking wooden bench.
“Enjoying the sweet, sweet AC, Harrington. What are you doing?” His grins seems to get even wider as he looks over Steve’s clothes. “My, yachting outfits have gotten fancy, haven’t they?”
“Fuck off, Munson,” Steve says, then chews on his lip, glances back at Sam Goody, and over to Munson again. “You work here?”
“Do I work? No. Do I work here? Definitely no.” He shrugs a little. “Jeff lets me loiter.”
“I don’t think you can loiter in a mall,” Steve says, and immediately feels like an idiot. He wants to get out of this conversation, but he, strangely, doesn’t know how.
“You can loiter legally in a mall,” Munson says, finally pulling his legs in and sitting up. “However. Security doesn’t usually extend that curtesy to me.” His grin is sharp, now, and a little bitter, but he says, “Can I help you with something? Finding the soft rock section maybe? You look like your boat needs a little Christopher Cross.”
“Um.”
“Tears for Fears?” Munson slides his hands along his thighs and gets to his feet, “C’mon, I’m sure they’ve still got a bunch of copies of Songs from the Big Chair.”
“Actually, uh,” Steve glances at his watch. He’s got exactly one minute to make it back downstairs if he doesn’t want Robin to yell at him. “I should go?”
“Sure.” Munson doesn’t drop his grin. It’s starting to, uh, weird Steve out a little. Kind of. The t-shirt with the devil on it isn’t helping, nor is all the… hair.
Still. “Do you know anything about rewiring radios?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Munsons says. “You’d have to ask Gareth.”
*
Robin asks Gareth about the radio.
Steve isn’t a coward, okay, but he’s pretty sure he heard cackling as he walked away from Munson and Sam Goody the day before, so he lets Robin take care of the tape deck situation.
He pays for it, though.
Gareth says, “I’m doing this for Robin. And for twenty bucks,” and holds out his hand to Steve before he even makes it into the breakroom.
Robin props herself up at the little breakroom counter and leans her head on a hand, the doors open to where Steve is slinging ice cream to the after-dinner crowd. She says, “Gareth’s in AV.”
“Cool,” Steve says absently, counting out change for a kid already slurping down an enormous hot fudge sundae. Even the coins are sticky. “Dustin’ll love that.”
“Who’s Dustin?”
Steve slides the drawer shut and sighs. There’s a break in the line. He slumps against the counter, pushes his hat back a little, and turns to face Robin. “My friend?”
“Is that a question? You don’t know if he’s your friend?” Her nose is wrinkled, like she can’t decide whether or not to feel sorry for him.
Steve scratches the back of his neck. Dustin’s, arguably, his best friend right now, given that the only age-appropriate people he hangs out with are his ex and her boyfriend. But Dustin’s also barely a freshman. “I mean, he’s more like my kid brother, probably.”
“He related to all your other children?”
Steve can see Gareth behind Robin, blatantly eavesdropping as he hooks up Robin’s electric blue boombox.
“I don’t have children,” Steve says.
“I’ve worked with you for three days,” Robin says. “And I’ve seen three separate groups of pint-sized people beg you for a,” she ticks off her fingers, “free ice cream, which you give them, and b, safe and illegal passage to the movie theater through our back door, which you freely let them use. Also, you try to hug at least one of them before they leave.”
Gareth snorts.
Steve scowls and says, “Technically, Erica isn’t mine.” Sinclair’s little sister is a menace. And he doesn’t give her free ice cream; he lets her abuse the samples. And he mainly does that because Erica is mean.
The hugging is usually reserved for El and Will. All the other kids act like feral raccoons.
Gareth says, “Got a tape for me to try?” and Robin scrambles to get one out of her bag.
Gareth turns the case over in his hands, says, “Sweet,” and then pops it in.
“What is it?” Steve says.
Robin’s cheeks are a little pink. She says, “It’s a mixtape,” as Vacation starts playing nice and clear over the front speakers.
Steve… did not expect that. He’s not sure why, but, “The Go-Go’s?”
“Shut up,” Robin says. “Belinda Carlisle is…”
“Hot,” Gareth says.
“Talented,” Robin says, even redder.
“Okay,” Steve says, hands up. He doesn’t say anything about any songs for the rest of the day. Robin’s got a stack of tapes she goes through, sometimes not even playing the whole mix, and Steve doesn’t complain. She tosses out band names that are meaningless to Steve, and seems strangely into hard and glam rock, which, unfortunately, reminds him a little too much of Billy Hargrove.
She says, “You can bring in yours, too, dingus. Maybe we can play them.”
“So generous,” Steve says, but can’t think of any he’d want to listen to. “This is fine.”
She tilts her head, looks at him oddly, but doesn’t say anything else.
Owner of A Lonely Heart | Yes
November 1983 | 90125 | track 1
Steve’s never made a mixtape.
He’s got plenty of them, from lots of different people – girls he’s dated, Tommy, that one strange friend he had freshman year – but he’s never bothered to make one himself.
Robin kind of makes him want to make a mixtape. Not, like, in the romantic sense, which is weird and not weird. He’s never wanted to make a mixtape for a girlfriend before, either.
All of Robin’s are eclectic and imperfect – sometimes a radio DJ cuts in, or the beginning chords are missing, and Steve realizes she’s tracked these songs down. She’s dedicated time, borrowed some, probably, and listened for radio stations to play the exact songs she wants to hear.
Steve would like to think he’d do that, if he needed to, but at this exact point in time his parents are in New York, and he’s got his dad’s credit card, and he figures he can just give the tapes to his gremlins after he’s done.
Munson’s in the store this time, when Steve shows up before his afternoon shift.
He’s clutching a tape in his hands and looking… pained? Conflicted? Constipated?
“All right, Munson?” Steve asks.
Munson startles, briefly, then says, “Peachy keen, your majesty.” He waggles the tape in the air. Steve sees a glance of a skull and bones. “Deciding whether it’s worth it to beg Jeff for his employee discount.”
Steve says, “Okay.”
Munson’s wearing almost the exact same thing he was wearing last time, except his shirt has a skull print, instead of a devil. It looks soft.
Steve says, “So, uh,” he glances over, sees they’re at the end of the rock section, and grabs blindly at an album that he belatedly sees has some kind of winged statue on the cover. “What do you think of this?”
Munson squints. “Are you… are you asking me if I like Whitesnake?” He looks down at himself and then back at Steve.
Steve feels like there’s a wrong answer here. He says, “No?”
Munson huffs a short laugh. He says, “If you’re thinking of Buckley, she’d probably like it.”
“You… really?”
“We had band together. She’s surprisingly into that kind of stuff.” He makes a face. “And Michael McDonald.”
Steve doesn’t know how that makes him feel, that Munson knows this much about Robin. That Munson also figured out about the Michael McDonald thing.
He lets Munson lead him over to a copy of If That’s What It Takes, though.
And then Munson looks at him, like he’s wondering hard about something, but all he says is, “C’mon,” and starts walking away again.
Steve follows him through the aisles, even though he’s not sure why. At the Bs, Munson drops All Over the Place into his hands, says, “Tracks one and three.”
“She’ll like that?”
Munson shrugs, pulls a piece of hair in front of his face, grins a little. “Probably. She won’t hate them.” He doesn’t ask why Steve’s getting tapes that maybe Robin will like.
Steve kind of wants him to ask.
“And you like the Bangles?”
“Hell no. Objectively, objectively,” Munson says, “they’re decent.”
“High praise coming from someone who listens to,” Steve cranes his neck to see the actual full cover of the tape Munson’s still clutching, “Megadeth.”
Munson’s grin grows teeth. “Let me know if you need any more help wooing your lady, Harrington. Word is you’ve lost your game.”
Steve narrows his eyes.
“What’s your You Suck tally up to now? Nine?”
“Seven,” Steve says, and he doesn’t even think they all counted. Steve’s just nice, okay, and he likes being friendly, and not everything has to be a crash and burn situation.
Munson waves him off, though, like he’s dismissing him, and Steve feels wrongfooted for a long second before going to check out.
*
“You’re sulking, why are you sulking?” Robin says an hour into their shift.
Steve thinks other people must work there, he sees their names on the shift calendar, but he’s yet to run into anyone else but Robin. No one’s said anything about the boombox, either, but there’s a steadily growing pile of tapes on the counter that Steve thinks must not all belong to Robin.
“I’m not sulking,” Steve says.
“I’m not letting you take a longer break just because you’re sad,” Robin says in a way that makes it seem like maybe she will let him take a longer break.
Steve says, “I’m not sad.”
He’s… Christ, is he lonely? Dustin’s been gone for five billion years, it feels like, and the rest of the kids only use him for rides and free stuff. Nancy and Jonathan are working at, like, actual grown-up jobs, even though they’re younger than him.
His parents probably won’t be home for another couple of weeks.
He got brushed off by Eddie Munson.
He hasn’t been on a date in three weeks.
Shit, he misses Tommy, how fucked up is that?
Robin says, “Earth to dingus. You better not be depressed, Harrington.”
“What difference would that actually make, Robin?” Steve says, just a little pissy.
She seems taken aback for a hot moment before narrowing her eyes at him. “Don’t make me feel bad for you.”
Steve deflates. “I mean. I feel like you already do?”
Robin stares at him. Someone out front dings the little bell over and over again. She stares at him some more.
Steve hefts himself to his feet and says, “I’ll get—” just as Robin says, “Do you want a hug?”
“Huh?”
“One time offer, dingus.” She holds her arms out. “Bring it in.”
She’s kind of got a pained look on her face, but her eyes seem genuine.
Steve says, small, “Yes, thank you,” and lets her fold him up in her arms.
*
They don’t talk about it.
Which is great, because Steve came out the other side of Robin’s hug feeling sort of good, instead of awkward, and he doesn’t want that to change.
He spends his off nights sitting in the living room in front of his parents’ dual tape deck stereo, listening to each of the tapes he’s bought all the way through.
He goes back to Sam Goody for Breakfast in America, because there’s a vinyl of it in the stereo cabinet, and Munson convinces him to get 90125, because, “Jon Anderson is a sound, man, Buckley’ll dig it.”
Steve says, “Do you just like watching me spend money?”
“Only on good things, Harrington, I swear,” Munson says, and hands him Cargo with a, “Track two, Overkill,” like he might actually be having fun.
Having fun with Steve, hanging out at a music store, and Steve isn’t going to point it out because he thinks Munson would immediately stop if he realized it.
Steve’s having fun, too, is the thing. Despite the fact that he’s half convinced Robin will like none of these songs, and Munson’s just fucking with him.
He also thinks maybe that doesn’t really matter. Steve likes listening to most of them, anyhow.
Munson follows him up to check out.
Jeff says, “Weird Al?” after he’s placed all four tapes onto the counter.
“That one is for a friend,” Steve says. He’s got a letter from camp hot in his pocket practically begging him to get the new release.
“Just that one?” Munson arches his eyebrows at him.
“I don’t know, Munson, none of these sound like anything she plays at Scoops.” He’s still going to get them all.
Munson slouches into the counter. “That’s the whole point of mixtapes, dude.”
Jeff nods his head toward him and says, “He’s right.”
Steve hmms and stands up each of the tapes so he can look at the spine – Supertramp, Yes, Men at Work.
Munson says, “You’re overthinking this. Are you trying to impress Buckley?”
“No,” Steve says. He, pathetically, just wants Robin to be his friend.
“Get these,” Munson says, pointing at them. “Get,” he cocks his head, looking at Steve with narrowed eyes, “get Songs from the Big Chair.”
“I already have it,” Steve says, and he grins a little at Munson’s snort and, “Of course you do.”
“Get things you like, that you want Buckley to like,” Jeff says, and Steve thinks: is that what all his mixtapes are supposed to be? Songs other people liked, and wanted him to like? He feels kind of bad; half the time he tosses them into the bottom of his closet and doesn’t even listen to them.
Maybe he should.
He thinks about Munson’s Megadeth tape, and how his shirt today says Judas Priest, and he wonders if that’s something Munson would want Steve to listen to, for him.
Jeff says, “Is this everything?” and Steve sighs and says, “Yeah.”
Here I Go Again | Whitesnake
November 1982 | Saints & Sinners | B side, track 1
Head Over Heels | Tears for Fears
February 1985 | Songs from the Big Chair | B side, track 3
Nearly three weeks into summer, and Robin’s You Suck board is starting to get less funny. Not because of Robin, but because Steve apparently really does suck.
Jeff slips him Fables of the Reconstruction, “On me, man,” when he catches Steve staring blankly at the Mötley Crüe cardboard cutout in the front of the store, and Steve figures it’s probably the perfect music to be completely depressed to.
He hasn’t spotted Munson yet – Steve’s not willing to admit out loud he’s looking for him and actually ask Jeff if he’s around.
Gareth smirks at him from behind the register. He says, “At this point I’m not sure I’d recognize you if you weren’t wearing the sailor outfit.”
“I work eight hours a day in this place, you think I’m going home and coming back?” He places the R.E.M. tape on the counter.
Gareth wrinkles his nose and says, “Jeff literally just gave that to you.”
“Wait.” Steve looks over at Jeff where he’s reorganizing the alternative section. “Really?”
“He’s susceptible to your sad, tragic puppy eyes, Harrington.” Gareth folds his arms and leans onto the counter.
“I’m not sad,” Steve says, but he still pockets the tape.
“Ah, but apparently your face says otherwise, my liege.” Munson reaches for his chin and gives his head a shake before Steve ducks out of his hold and bats his hand away.
Steve doesn’t know what his face is doing now, but Gareth seems to think it’s hilarious.
Munson’s got a sleeveless shirt on, probably because it’s hot as balls out, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and neck. Munson’s jeans are so tight, though, Steve doesn’t think even the rips are helping with the heat any.
Steve’s in polyester, but he’s happy his knees can breathe.
Gareth grins wide and says, “Did you run here, Eddie?”
Munson flips Gareth the finger.
“So, Harrington,” he says, turning to lean his elbows on the counter behind him, nudging a sneaker against Steve’s, “any progress?”
“Eh. Half done?” He’s got all of the first side done, but it took him three tries to get it right. At this point, he’s not even sure he’s going to give it to her, but he figures the process is what counts, right? He could even just play it at Scoops, and maybe she’ll stop looking at him like he’s a wet kitten every time he says he doesn’t have a favorite song.
“Okay, but Buckley?” Gareth says. “Don’t you think—” He cuts himself off as Munson raises a hand.
“We’re not judging feelings, Gareth,” Munson says, and Gareth makes a face and says, “Since when?”
Munson’s shirt is a mouth. Steve says, “Is that… is that the Stones?”
Munson grins at him, dimples flashing. “My little boy’s growing up.”
“Fuck off,” Steve says, feeling a flush travel up his throat.
Munson laughs, pushes off to swing an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and says, “C’mon, sailor. I’ll walk you to your job.”
*
El looks… different. It might be that she’s wearing actual clothes that fit, and not Hopper’s flannels.
Steve says, “You do something different with your hair?”
El beams at him. She says, “I dumped Mike.”
Max, scowling at him from over El’s shoulder, says, “I dumped Lucas.”
Steve distinctly thinks the face Max is giving him is because she thinks he’s going to be a dick about this. He just says, “Bitchin. Want a free scoop?”
“You can’t keep giving away ice cream for free,” Robin says, but she doesn’t actually stop him.
Max crosses her arms and says, “That’s it? You’re not going to ask us why?”
“I mean,” Steve shrugs, “I can guess.” Mike can be a douchebag and a major pain in the ass. He’s not sure what Max’s problem with Lucas is, but he’s not going to tell her she’s wrong.
El says, “I would like strawberry, please.”
“You got it, Supergirl.” Steve winks at her and flips his scoop. “What about you, Mad Max?”
Robin snorts, says, low, “Sure they’re not your kids.”
Steve grins at El. “These ones I’ll gladly claim.”
Max relaxes her stance, gives Steve a small smile. “Chocolate,” she says. “With rainbow sprinkles.”
El glances back at Max then over to Steve again. “I would like sprinkles as well.”
“She’s my favorite,” Robin says, stepping up to help Steve. “You’re polite.”
El nods and says, “Max is polite, too.”
“Sure,” Steve says easily, because he’s seen El throw a demodog through a door with her mind, and Max take down her brother with a nail bat and a syringe. These badass girls can be anything they want to be, including polite.
He hands over El’s strawberry with sprinkles and leans onto the counter. “What are you two up to for the rest of the day?”
“Max is taking me shopping,” El says. “Then we are having a sleepover, because boys are stupid.”
“Absolutely,” Steve says.
Robin hands Max her cup of ice cream and says, “Steve here’s the king of stupid.”
Max tenses back up into a scowl and narrows her eyes and says, “Whatever.”
El frowns at Robin. “Max doesn’t think Steve is stupid.”
“Uh.” That’s news to Steve, but then again, they were all in the tunnels together. Steve is absolutely sure Max thinks he’s as dumb as any other guy, but he understands the need to be protective here.
Robin’s eyebrows disappear up under her bangs and she silently holds her palms out, fingers spread.
When the girls slip into a booth on the other side of the shop, Robin lets out a noisy breath and says, “Is it sad I’m a little scared of a twelve-year-old?”
“She’s fourteen,” Steve says, plunking his scoop back into the cold water. “And her brother is Billy Hargrove, so.”
“Holy shit,” Robin says. “How did you become friends with Hargrove’s little sister?”
“Babysitting,” Steve says, which is his rote answer, and she can probably tell it’s not exactly true.
Robin gives him a long, considering look. Finally, she says, “You know, you’re really fucking weird, right?”
Steve wrinkles his nose.
“I mean. Like,” Robin waves a hand, “I wish I knew this when you were in school, Harrington. You’re just really fucking weird.”
“Thanks?”
Robin squeezes his shoulder and says, “I appreciate that you think that’s a compliment.”
Robin is constantly making fun of him, but he’s pretty sure this is some kind of progress.
*
Steve’s got his windows down to blow out the stifling hot air, backing out of his parking spot, when Gareth slaps his hands down on the open window frame and scares the shit out of him.
“What the fuck, man,” he says, slamming on his breaks so hard his whole body jerks.
Gareth tosses something at him and says, “Here.”
Steve catches it one-handed, thumps it up against his chest, and blinks at Gareth’s face. “What?”
“Eddie’s been staring at that all week. No clue if it’s any good, but, like. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“What are you even doing for me?” Steve says, confused. He looks down at the tape. Accept. Metal Heart.
“It’s some German band, man, I don’t know.” He points at him. “You owe me seven bucks.”
“For this?”
Gareth ignores him. He says, “Listen to it first. He’s never gonna take it if he knows you bought it for him.”
Steve isn’t sure what’s going on here. “What if I hate it?”
Gareth rolls his eyes and rubs a finger over the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t matter if you hate it, Harrington. Actually, yes, tell him you hate it. Make him take it that way. And don’t tell him I gave it to you.”
“You’re making me pay for it, so technically you didn’t give it to me.” The front album art is, predictably, an actual metal heart. He tosses it onto his passenger seat. He shifts up and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, counting out seven dollars before throwing the wallet onto the seat with the tape.
Gareth takes the money and stuffs it into his pocket, grinning. “Nice doing business with you, Harrington,” he says, like this is some kind of drug deal.
And Robin thinks he’s weird.
“Sure, man,” Steve says, and Gareth backs up so he can drive away.
Voices Carry | ‘Til Tuesday
April 1985 | Voices Carry | track 5
Steve hears Robin shout, “Harrington, there’s an unknown child asking for you,” while he’s hefting out a new bin of butterscotch out of the deep freezer.
He drops it into the front ice cream well and sees Dustin grinning at him.
“Henderson!” Steve throws up his hands and jumps the counter.
“Steve!”
He can feel Robin’s judging eyes on him, but he doesn’t care. Dustin’s back, and he came to see him, and Steve also doesn’t even care that all he wants to talk about is a secret code he overheard on some long-distance radio thing he made.
“Russians, Steve,” Dustin says between bites of the banana split Steve made him.
“Okay, but how did your thing—”
“Cerebro.”
“—make it all the way to Russia?”
“Maybe they aren’t in Russia.” Dustin stabs the air with a spoon.
Steve grins at him. He missed Dustin’s stupid face.
“Break’s over, dingus,” Robin shouts, and Dustin says, “Okay, but you have to help me translate. Right, Steve?”
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Steve says, sliding out of the booth.
“What about her?” Dustin looks over at Robin. He starts to do his teeth-purr thing, and Steve slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Stop. No. Never do that to Robin again.”
“Robin,” Dustin says, waggling his eyebrows when Steve lets him talk again.
“Robin can hear and see you, small child,” Robin says, folding her arms and leaning onto the front counter. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I’ve discovered Russian spies,” Dustin says, shaking his tape recorder in the air. “Wanna help us translate?”
Robin looks around the nearly empty ice cream store and shrugs. “Sure. Why not.”
*
It takes most of the day, but Robin makes a large dent in the translation by the time they have to close up and leave.
Watching Robin and Dustin nerd out about it makes Steve feel warm in a way he will never ever tell anyone.
“I swear I’ve heard that music before, though,” Steve says as they’re walking through the mall.
“What music?”
“Holy shit,” Dustin says, tripping forward and clutching his chest. “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“Language,” Steve says.
Munson drapes himself over Steve’s back and says, “Yeah, language, man. Who’re you?”
“I’m—”
“Steve’s kid brother, basically,” Robin says. “It’s weirdly adorable.”
Dustin looks torn between being delighted and still kind of terrified. Steve understands the feeling.
Then Steve spots the Indiana Flyer. “Hang on, wait. Anyone have a quarter?”
“You wanna ride the horse, Stevie?” Munson says, and Steve elbows him in the stomach.
Munson lurches off him with an exaggerated oof.
“Fuck off, Munson.” He holds out his hand toward Robin and Dustin, snapping his fingers. “Quarter?”
Robin sighs but digs one out of her bag. “Seriously, why?”
Steve doesn’t answer until he’s got the coin in and the machine running. As the horse starts to move, and they can hear the plinky music accompanying it, he thrusts his arms out and says, “Ta dah. I knew I recognized it.”
“But that means…” Dustin trails off, staring down at the floor, then up at the domed ceiling above them.
“Are we sharing this knowledge?” Munson says.
Steve says, “No,” just as Robin says, “The signal’s coming from inside the mall.”
*
Steve wishes he could say he had a good night sleep, but he never has a good night sleep anymore.
He gets up at 3 AM and starts Robin’s mixtape over from scratch. He times it wrong and accidentally cuts off a song at the end of side two, but he grabs it on his way out the door anyway. Stuffs it in the back pocket of his shorts. FOR ROBIN in block letters, filled in on the spine in black ink, just like all the FOR STEVE’s he’s got piled in the bottom of his closet in his room.
He keeps thinking he should go through them, but he doesn’t even remember who half of them are even from. That matters, right?
Dustin’s already in the Scoop’s breakroom when he gets to work.
“Uh,” Steve says. They’re not open yet, but Robin’s blasting what sounds like AC/DC.
“Fly On the Wall,” Robin says absently, chewing on the end of a marker. “Gareth dropped it off.”
“Gareth did,” Steve says, one eyebrow raised.
Robin’s face does a complicated spasm. “Gross, no.”
“You could do worse,” Steve says. Gareth’s got a baby face and okay hair. “He always looks like he’s smelled something bad, though.”
“Oh my god, right?” Robin says, waving a hand.
“Guys,” Dustin says, “this curiosity train isn’t going to drive itself.”
“I mean, it might,” Steve says, hopping up onto the counter. “How long have you been here?”
“Your pest followed me in from the parking lot,” Robin says, “but I admire his dedication.” She’s got Dustin’s translation book open, and the whiteboard is half full. The week is long, above The silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west.
“You got more,” Steve says.
Robin grins at him winningly. “If you take over opening up, I think we’ll be done by noon.”
*
The only reason Steve can think of that he’s on top of a roof, spying on the loading dock behind the mall, is that no one can actually hear him talking.
“Seriously, am I invisible? Am I the only one here who thinks this is a terrible idea?” He doesn’t know why Dustin even has binoculars in his backpack, but he’s honestly not surprised. Sadly, they’ve been taught to always prepare for the apocalypse.
Steve still keeps the nail bat in his trunk.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a terrible idea, Steve,” Dustin says, “Those Russian guys have guns.”
Steve thinks that’s probably a good reason to involve adults. Actual adults, that are not him. Or Munson.
Munson, who’d spotted them running through the mall, and didn’t even ask about coming with. He seems pretty pumped about it all, too, which is alarming.
Robin’s tucked into Steve’s side as they peer over the edge of the building. Steve says, voice low, “If I get Dustin shot, his mom’s going to kill me. Hopper will kill me. Joyce Byers might kill me.”
“Nobody’s going to get shot,” Robin says, but she really doesn’t sound too confident about it.
“We need to figure out a way past those guns,” Dustin says, and Steve sighs and says, “I could sneak up on them,” because, ultimately, he’s faced a lot worse.
Dustin snorts, says, “When have you ever won a fight?”
Munson grins. “I like this kid,” he says and tugs Dustin’s hat down over his eyes.
Steve feels ganged up on; something uncomfortable sits in the center of his chest. He’s proved himself more than capable with monsters, thanks very much. But he shoves a hand through his hair and says, “Fuck, fine, what do you suggest?”
Hero Takes a Fall | The Bangles
May 1984 | All Over the Place | track 1
Steve’s mouth is both sour and kind of numb, and he can feel a throbbing ache starting up directly behind his busted eye. Whatever drugs they’ve been pumped full of are slowly wearing off. Still, he laughs a little when Robin insists Tammy Thompson’s the bees’ knees.
He says, “First Gareth, now—”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Robin says, but she’s laughing, too. A relieved sort of laugh, with an edge of hysteria, and Steve spares a second to think about how this entire thing could have gone to shit, if he’d decided to be a dick about it.
Steve never wants to be a dick about anything to Robin.
Propped up side-by-side on the grimy bathroom floor, leaning onto the stall wall, Steve says, “I made you a mixtape.”
Robin’s eyes go round. “What?”
“I made you a mixtape,” he says again. “I think all the Russian torture cracked the case, though. Sorry.”
“Are you sitting on it?” Robin says, giggling.
“Maybe.” He’s definitely sitting on it. It’s sharp against his ass cheek.
“What’s on it?” Robin says, leaning into his side.
“No, no,” he says. “I gotta remake it first. You gotta wait.” He’s not going to give it to her broken.
She pouts. Then goes pale. And then goes to throw up again.
Steve thinks, okay yeah, and scrambles for the toilet just next door.
*
When Dustin and Erica finally find them again, Steve’s feeling more like himself. Every part of him hurts, and he’s holding himself together with thin pieces of string, but there’s bigger things to worry about. Upside Down things. Billy Hargrove things. Monster things.
They’re halfway down the ramp from the theater with everyone else, as Back to the Future lets out, and Steve sees Munson fighting the crowd, coming up from the opposite direction. He’s got a bandana around his head and a smudge of dirt high on his cheek.
He says, “Where the fuck have you guys been?” and, “What the hell happened to your face, Harrington?”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, because Munson was supposed to be a lookout. He was supposed to call Hopper if things went sideways. If they didn’t come back out of the loading dock door.
“Which I did,” Munson says, digging a finger into Steve’s chest. At Steve’s involuntary wince of pain when he presses on a bruise, Munson quickly pulls his hand back and says, “Yesterday. The chief wasn’t answering. Neither was anyone else you told me to call. Who the hell knows where Wheeler is. I don’t know why you’d want Mrs. Byers in a crisis, but no one answered there, either.”
“Guns,” Dustin says. “Russian guards with guns, guys, turn around.”
“Did they follow you?” Munson says, but Steve just grabs his wrist, turns, and runs.
*
Steve doesn’t think the previous years of Upside Down bullshit have properly prepared him for whatever goes down in Starcourt. Things just keep getting worse, after each encounter with the other dimension. So many fucking people dead. Hopper gone. Billy fucking Hargrove.
Munson sits next to him on the back bumper of the ambulance. They’ve forced an oxygen mask on his face and a foil blanket around his shoulders, but Steve still doesn’t feel like he can breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Munson says.
Steve tugs the mask down and says, “What? Why?”
Steve’s the one that dragged him into this fucking mess. Or maybe it was Dustin, but Steve’s responsible for Dustin, so it’s basically all his fault anyway.
“I don’t know, man.” Munson looks small, curled into himself, shoulders around his ears. “If I knew all this shit was going on, maybe I wouldn’t have been such an asshole to you.”
“You…” Steve looks at him incredulously. “You feel bad because you were mean to me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I mean. You’ve been going through monster shit for years, apparently.” Munson waves a hand. “And I tripped you in front of god and the entire mall.”
“I fucking knew you did that on purpose,” Steve says, but gives Munson a small smile. “You think I didn’t deserve it?”
“You definitely deserved it,” Munson says.
Steve spent over half of his high school career honing the art of being a major douchebag. He knows he probably deserved it.
Munson shakes his head. “But you’re alright now, Harrington.”
“Gee, thanks, Munson.” Steve wants to say, I like you, too, but the words get stuck in his throat.
Robin, exhaustion shadowing her eyes, walks over and presses a kiss to the side of Steve’s head. Natural, like they do this every day. And Steve catches her hand and squeezes her fingers and says, “Love you, Buckley,” like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.
Her eyes are big and dark and red-rimmed. “Ditto, dingus. My parents are here. You need a ride home?” She gestures over her shoulder toward an idling beige station wagon, and Steve shakes his head.
“I’m fine.” He’s not fine, but he’s got his BMW, and the smoldering ruins of a mall behind him, and Munson doesn’t seem to be moving from his spot next to him, even though he’d been cleared by EMTs at least an hour ago.
Robin gives him a look, like she knows he’s lying, but she lets him do it anyhow.
She gives him a small, four-finger wave out the backseat window as her parents drive away.
Munson says, “Wanna hitch a ride with me?”
Steve does, but he also doesn’t. He thinks he’d be terrible company, right now.
He squeezes Munson’s knee and says, “You can take off man. I think I’ve got a couple fingers I still need set.” Fingers, maybe ribs, maybe a broken eye socket.
Munson stares down at Steve’s hand, clears his throat. He says, voice hoarse, “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”
Can’t Get There From Here | R.E.M.
June 1985 | Fables of the Reconstruction | B side, track 1
Steve is one hundred percent sure Keith hires them at Family Video because of Robin. Steve’s still sporting the shadow of a bruise around his eye and a crusted over split lip, and he’s got another couple weeks of his left pinky and ring fingers in a splint – he’d think maybe Keith felt bad for him, but he knows Keith pretty much hates him.
Robin drapes herself over the front counter and says, “I know, like, the entire Starcourt fight was a nightmare, but I left all my favorite mixes. And my boombox, Steve! And now it’s a hole in the ground.”
Steve’s got the splintered remains of a case on top of his dresser at home to remind him. The tape itself is okay, but he’s second guessing at least half of the songs.
With the mall gone, and the old record store on the strip out of business, he’s not sure where he’s going to get anything new.
Steve says, “I’ll get you a new boombox.”
“You don’t have to get me a new boombox,” Robin says.
“Yeah, duh,” Steve says. He leaves the I’ll still get you one unsaid, because he knows Robin’ll hear it anyway.
“You owe me a mixtape, too,” Robin says. “If you thought I’d forget, in my, like, Russian cocktail comedown—”
“I didn’t think you’d forget.” Steve’s pretty sure their bathroom confession session’s gonna be a core memory forever.
Robin’s cheeks pink a little, but more pleased than embarrassed. “Thanks for sticking with me,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Thanks for sticking with me.” Steve’s well aware he’s the loser in this scenario. “You want to come over after we close up?”
“Yep,” Robin says. “We should call Eddie, too.”
Hanging out with Eddie happens because Robin likes Eddie, and Steve obviously likes Eddie, and that makes two people sort of around his age that he can commiserate with about interdimensional monsters that aren't his ex-girlfriend and Jonathan.
Eddie doesn’t know everything about the Russians, though. Sure, Steve definitely looks like he lost a fight or three, but he doesn’t actually know about the torture.
He doesn’t really tell anyone about the torture – it seems kind of small in the aftermath of Hopper and Hargrove – and he’s pretty sure Robin hasn’t told anyone either.
The Byers are planning on moving, planning on taking El with them, and that’s really all his pack of teen miscreants can focus on, right now.
Steve says, “You wanna invite Munson to a sleepover?” because it’ll be almost midnight by the time they lock the doors, and he’s got money on Robin probably passing out on the car ride back to his house.
“He’ll come if we get pizza.”
“You’re making him sound like a stray dog.”
“Eh.” Robin shrugs, then her face cracks in a huge yawn.
Steve says, “Let’s save the party for when we’re not zombies. We’ll snuggle and put on,” he reaches for the first return he sees on the counter, flips it over, “Police Academy.”
Robin shuffles through them and holds up Romancing the Stone instead, one eyebrow arched.
“Wait, wait,” Steve says, “I thought I saw… aha!” He waggles Muppets Take Manhattan in the air.
Robin says, “We have a winner,” and goes to grab the broom.
*
Steve’s parents come home briefly to fuss over his wounds, complain about his minimum wage job, and remind him it isn’t too late to think about ‘real’ college.
In a weird twist, they love Robin.
Which is great, because Robin spends nearly all her free time in his pool.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been friends with someone with a pool before,” Robin says, floating on a giant flamingo. “That should’ve been priority number one in school. I’m a senior. If I’d known you were this much of a dork three years ago, I could have been doing this every summer.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame you weren’t around for the demon hunting fiasco of ’83,” Steve says. He only says it a little sarcastically, mainly because he thinks being friends with her is awesome, and he absolutely would’ve taken a few more years of it. Does he wish the trauma of demogorgans on her, though? No. No, he does not.
She takes an obnoxious slurp of the Hawaiian punch his mom made specifically for her. He can’t wait until they leave again, if only because it’s obvious who the favorite child is. He can’t really blame them, either.
Madonna is playing through the open sliding glass door, because his mom is wine drunk and making antipasto and Robin thinks it’s hilarious.
Steve sighs and says, “She’ll be gone by tonight. My dad has some conference out west, and then they’re spending the rest of the summer in Hawaii, and hopefully they won’t find out I never signed up for community college until, like, after Christmas.”
Robin slides her sunglasses down to the end of her nose. “Dingus.”
“What? What am I gonna take, anyway?” Steve has no idea what he wants to do with his life, he’s pretty sure he should figure that out first.
She frowns at him, takes a long sip through her straw, then slides her sunglasses back up her nose and thankfully lets it go.
When Robin’s shuffled home, sunburnt and sleepy, and after his parents are finally gone, Steve sprawls out on his back on the living room rug and stares up at the textured ceiling. He blindly presses his big toe onto the front of the stereo, and “Metal Heart” gets louder.
It’s the first thing he’s listened to for Eddie. Steve can feel it vibrate through the floor. It’s not something he typically likes, but he can understand the appeal.
The first side finishes, and Steve’s ears ring with the sudden silence.
He leaves all the lights on when he heads up to bed.
*
Eddie says, “You’ve got some life, Harrington,” as he commandeers Robin’s flamingo floaty. “Gareth’s going to be seething with jealousy.”
“I’m starting to think you and Robin only like me for my pool.” Steve kicks his feet out, splashing. He’s sitting on the edge, because most days he doesn’t actually feel like getting all the way in. “You know, you can just bring Gareth with you. And Jeff.”
Eddie gives him a funny look.
It makes Steve’s chest feel tight. He crosses his arms defensively and says, “What?”
“Nothing, man. Just,” Eddie shakes his head, “that’s really nice.”
“Whatever.” Steve cheeks flush. “It’s not like the kids aren’t trashing my house every other day, anyway.” The community pool has taken on a horrible connotation for all of them, apparently, because of Hargrove. And they’re trying to fit in as much Will and El time as possible, with their move to California looming.
Steve doesn’t mind.
Eddie grins at him. He says, “And how’s the mixtape going, King Steve?”
“It’s going,” Steve says, and Robin, from her sprawl over the diving board, says, “It’s not going, because otherwise I’d already have it in my hands. And in my favorite new boombox.”
Right now, her new favorite boombox, a neon pink dual tape deck Steve got her to replace the old one, is playing A-ha, selected by Munson, probably because he thinks it’s funny.
Eddie’s grin grows wider – his hair is damp, and curled up even more than usual, and his dimples are showing. The top of his shoulders are pink, and Steve wants to tell him to put sunscreen on, but he doesn’t want Eddie to know he’s looking.
He knows he shouldn’t be looking.
Eddie almost definitely doesn’t want him looking.
Steve rubs his hands down his thighs and hefts himself to his feet and says, “Okay. Who wants beer?”
*
Steve says, “How did you know you liked girls?”
Robin shrugs, leans against the counter at Family Video and pours some M&Ms into her mouth, crunches through a garbled, “How did you know you liked girls?”
“Point taken,” Steve says, and knocks their shoulders together. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “How do I know if I like boys?”
Robin tenses up beside him.
Steve doesn’t look at her, and she’s way too quiet, and finally Steve says, “Don’t get weird on me about this.”
“Steve, Steve.” She turns to face him, grabs his chin and says, “Steve,” again.
“Yes.”
Her eyes are a little watery. She says, “I think my answer’s gonna be the same. How did you know you liked girls?”
Steve lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
“You know you can like both, right?”
“I figured.” He absolutely still likes boobies. He just thinks he might like more.
She moves in to give him a hug and says, muffled by his shoulder, “If this is about Munson, I’m gonna make fun of you so hard.”
Steve hugs her back and says, “Fair.”
Heartland | Real Life
November 1983 | Heartland | track 4
The rest of July feels like an endless buildup to saying goodbye to the Byers.
One ‘final’ trip to the arcade after another; near constant sleepovers at Steve’s, because any one of them could be their last. Steve trips over kids left and right out in his backyard, because he can never say no to them, and they’ve decided that means they don’t even have to ask.
They help pack up the Byers’ cars, and clean out the house, and everyone tries to drag it out as long as they can.
Eddie pulls a lock of hair in front of his mouth and says, “This seems wrong,” low enough that only Steve can hear.
Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything out loud. El says the gate is closed, and Steve doesn’t want to argue with anyone, but he thinks they’re all forgetting the fact that El, honestly, probably wouldn’t even be able to tell right now, since she doesn’t have her powers. Joyce – the only adult still able to, like, guide them – moving over eight thousand miles away is fucking terrifying.
Steve’s nineteen. Eddie’s twenty going on fifteen, if his goofball behavior with the party is any indication.
Robin can’t even drive, and Steve’s the only one still not in high school.
Everything that can go wrong is probably going to go wrong, but he’s still not going to dump that on the Byers, after all they’ve been through.
They’re all lined up to say goodbye. Steve feels awkward, and a little strung out, and stands as close to humanly possible to Robin. When Will gives him a hug, head bowed, shoulders hunched, it feels like getting a hit to the gut. There’s a small, uncertain part of him that thinks maybe he’ll never see him again.
He numbly watches Eddie mess up Will’s hair, pull him into a mock headlock, before Will moves on to literally sob against Mike.
Whatever this is, whatever they’re doing, bizarrely, feels like losing Hopper all over again.
Jonathan’s last to leave, hangs back after his mom pulls out of the driveway, and he hands Steve a cassette while Nancy waits for him over by his car. He says, “I made this for you. Well, me and Will made this for you.”
Steve frowns, flips the tape in his hands. On the spine, Jonathan’s written ‘Hair’ Bands over a sketch of the nail bat. Steve snorts.
Jonathan claps his shoulder, says, “Eddie mentioned you’re collecting songs.”
That’s… a weird way of putting it.
Steve’s chest is tight. He clears his throat, says, “Thanks, man. Good luck in California.”
Jonathan doesn’t quite smile, says, “Take care of yourself,” and walks away.
*
Despite the play on words, Jonathan’s mix is mostly just Smith songs that make Steve feel like he’s depressed. And because he is kind of depressed, he follows it up with some synth-pop and thinks about getting high.
He doesn’t. Both because that would require calling Eddie for weed, but also because he’s been gun shy about getting high since the Russian drug torture. He doesn’t think it’ll trigger some kind of paranoid freakout, but why risk it?
He’s lying on the couch with an arm thrown over his face, listening to fucking Real Life, when someone knocks on his door.
No one actually knocks on his door anymore. He’s surprised he doesn’t have a couple of kids already in the pool by now, it’s creeping up on noon, but on the other hand – it’s only been a couple days since the Byers left.
He thinks about answering, but doesn’t actually do it. The next thing he knows, Eddie’s tapping at the sliding glass door and peering in at him with a manic grin.
Steve lazily flaps a hand to wave him inside, and Eddie bounces on his toes.
“Your highness!” he says. “What are you doing this week?”
He’s bright-eyed and bushy tailed, which Steve doesn’t really get. He likes it, likes Eddie’s smile, his energy, the way his shirt rides up when he throws his arms out… but Eddie’s seen the mindflayer destroy both Billy Hargrove and the mall, and he doesn’t seem as thrown as he probably should be.
Then again. Steve’s first time around, when he’d thought it was good and done, he’d been filled with giddy relief for at least a couple of months. And even then he’d had the reality of Nancy and Barb slowly pulling him down. What does Eddie have? A cop he sort of knew disappearing into the ether? An absolute douchebag and crazed lunatic getting gutted? The thrill of shooting fireworks into a monster and winning is probably gonna stoke him up for a while.
Steve says, “Work, mainly,” because that’s all he does nowadays.
Eddie drops down onto the floor next to the couch, leaning back into the coffee table. Legs bent, wrists resting on the bare skin peeking through the holes in his jeans. “Mornings? Afternoons? Nights?”
“Uh.” Steve wrinkles his nose, thinking. “Mornings, mostly, except Friday I close with Robin.”
“Excellent.”
“Is there a reason you needed to know this?”
“Yep,” Eddie says, but doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t move, either, just tips his head back and hums along to “Openhearted,” and Steve most definitely does not stare at his throat.
Steve coughs a little and sits up, running a hand over his face. His limbs are too heavy for the middle of the day. He needs to start running again. He says, “Want to get lunch? We can order pizza, if you want to swim.”
“Yep, yes,” Eddie says, dimples flashing. “Perfect.”
Steve wants to press his hands along Eddie’s jaw and kiss his stupid face, and crawl into his lap, maybe, just to see how it feels. Shit, he thinks, flushed. He’s totally fucked.
*
Eddie’s van screeches into the parking lot of Family Video just as Steve’s about to get into his car, skidding to a stop just behind him.
Robin’s still on shift. He’d been thinking about grabbing some lunch and bringing it back to her, just so he doesn’t have to sit at home alone all afternoon. The boys are still mourning the loss of Will, and Max has picked up an unhealthy habit of brooding alone that Steve’s strategically planning to confront her about. Soon.
Steve closes his door. He glances at the front windows of Family Video to see Robin squinting at him.
The back doors of the van swing dramatically open.
Eddie leans out the driver’s side window, thumps a palm against the panel, and says, “C’mon, your majesty. Your chariot awaits.”
“What the fuck, Munson?” Steve says, biting his lip to hide a smile. He looks over at Robin again, where she’s practically plastered up against the windows, now giving him an aggressive shooing motion.
Gareth hops out of the back and says, “It’s Dio day, Harrington. You coming or what?”
“I have no idea what that means,” Steve says, but he takes the invite, shucking his Family Video vest, dumping it in his trunk, and then gamely hefting himself inside the van.
Jeff’s up front in the passenger seat. He says, “There’s a music store in Indy.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot of music stores in Indy,” Steve says, and Gareth shoves him in the middle of the back and says, “Don’t be a dick.”
The back of Eddie’s van is a mishmash of junk, blankets, and a single bench that Steve’s not entirely confident is even bolted into the frame.
Eddie grins at him in the rearview mirror and says, “Take a seat and hold on.”
Gareth plops down next to him and braces a foot on the hump of the center console. He takes mercy on Steve’s bemusement and says, “It’s album release day for a band Eddie likes,” because for some reason Gareth has, like, decided Steve’s worth the effort. Not a friend, exactly. Friend-adjacent.
Jeff’s generally nicer to Steve, but he doesn’t seem as dedicated to making Steve less of an accidental asshole.
“It’s about a two-hour drive,” Eddie says cheerfully. “Who wants McDonalds?”
*
The music store is a corner shop with big windows, which throws Steve when he first sees it. Posters plaster the bottom half of the glass, and a wide staircase leads up to the front, elaborate metal railings lining each side.
“What, were you expecting a hole in the ground?” Eddie says, slipping an arm around Steve and maneuvering him toward the steps.
“Kinda, yeah,” Steve says.
The album release they’re apparently there for is some band called Dio, which Eddie grabs triumphantly as soon as they get inside. After that, everyone scatters.
It’s smaller than the mall’s Sam Goody, but seems packed with more stuff. Vinyl on one side, tapes on the other, with an entire used section in the back, along with narrow listening booths.
Steve doesn’t have anything specific in mind to get – he feels like he’s got enough random music at home, and Eddie seems more focused on his own stuff than shoving tapes at Steve. Which he definitely feels completely normal about.
He sees Eddie pick up a cassette that has a familiar cover and says, “Oh, I have that one.”
Eddie looks over at him incredulously. “You have… a copy of Metal Heart?”
“Yeah, man. The cover looked interesting.”
Down the aisle, behind Eddie’s back, Gareth gives him two thumbs up, then drops his hands when Eddie swings his gaze over to him.
Steve says, “You can have it. Turns out it’s not really my scene.”
“German heavy metal is not your scene,” Eddie says slowly.
“Right?” Steve shrugs. “Who knew.”
Eddie stares at him like he’s kind of crazy, but puts the tape back and says, “Thanks, man,” with a small uptick of his lips.
Jeff walks toward them juggling several cassettes and a thoughtful frown. “Hey, Harrington, how do you feel about power ballads?”
“Uh. Okay?” He doesn’t really have an opinion on power ballads. He’s not exactly sure what they are.
Jeff glances over at Eddie, says, “I’m borrowing Steve,” and then pulls Steve back toward the listening booths.
*
Steve leaves Indy with a copy of Theatre of Pain, for some reason, because Jeff didn’t want to buy both that and Night Ranger’s Midnight Madness, and now Steve feels obligated to slip it into Jeff’s bag somehow. It’s not like he’s going to listen to Mötley Crüe. He’s stared at their cardboard faces in a depressed funk way too often to enjoy any of their songs.
Then again, it’s kind of cool when Jeff says, “We’ll just share, man,” like they’re friends who listen to music together, who trade tapes.
Jeff even lets him have shotgun on the way home.
Eddie opens his busted center console with a flourish and says, “Put on anything you like, your highness.”
Inside is a mess of tapes, most without cases, and a bunch of 8-tracks that Steve doesn’t even think will play in the van.
Steve pulls a tape out at random. “Rumours?” Steve says.
“Top notch album, Harrington,” Eddie says, turning over the engine. “Can’t complain about the classics.”
“Classics, huh?”
“He’s got a bunch of Beatles shit,” Jeff says, leaning forward. “And, like, the Who.”
“Eclectic,” Steve says, rifling through more as Eddie backs out of the parking spot. “John Denver?”
“Got most of them from my dad.” Eddie flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My old man was a piece of shit,” he says, “but he had good taste in music.”
Steve stares at the side of his head, the tight corner of his mouth. Slowly, he holds up an 8-track of the Starland Vocal Band. “Are you sure about that?”
Eddie snorts, tense shoulders loosening. He shoves at Steve’s face with one hand and says, “Shut the fuck up and put something decent on.”
Overkill | Men at Work
April 1983 | Cargo | track 2
Steve ends up starting Robin’s mixtape over again, mostly because of the cut off song on side two. It requires strategic cuts and Jeff’s expertise, and Gareth only makes fun of him a little.
He isn’t much of an artist, but he’d taken a cue from Jonathan and carefully filled in Bird Songs along the spine with a light blue marker and drew a stick figure gray and red robin next to it. Robin’s definitely going to laugh at him, but he thinks she’ll appreciate the effort. Something’s gotta be at least halfway impressive, since it’s taken him over a month to finish.
He solemnly slides it across the counter to her when he gets into Family Video.
She picks it up like it’s precious and says, “You realize my brain has hyped this up to, like, professional proportions.”
“You will be sadly disappointed,” Steve says. “Jeff made me add Night Ranger.”
“Oh, Jeff did,” she says, grinning and clutching the tape to her chest.
“If you hate it, just remember my expanded musical journey started in June,” Steve says, “and was mostly captained by Munson.”
“I’m not gonna hate it,” Robin says, then wrinkles her nose and tilts her head and says, “Well, okay, there’s a good chance I’ll hate some of it, at least, but, you know. I’m gonna love it anyway, because you made it for me.”
“Thanks,” Steve says, dry, but actually pretty fucking pleased.
She shoves it into her pocket and leans onto the counter, eyebrows arched, “And how is Eddie?”
Steve arches his eyebrows right back. “I’m pretty sure we were both together when we last saw him.”
Specifically, they’d all been in his pool. Jeff and Gareth included.
She leans closer to him. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Fine?” Steve’s not entirely sure where she’s going with this, other than, “You know I’m not going to say anything to him, right?”
Robin makes a face. “I mean. You could.”
“I could,” Steve says amiably, “if I wanted to never see him again.”
“Pssh.” She waves a hand. “I honestly can’t see that happening. But, like,” she sinks down lower onto the counter, like she’s deflating, “if he takes it badly, like, how good of a dude would he be anyhow, and would you even want to be friends?”
“Eddie’s not a douchebag.”
She pinches her thumb and forefinger together and says, “He is. A little bit. But I don’t think he’d be one about this.”
“Counterpoint,” Steve says, and Robin mouths counterpoint back at him like he’s being ridiculous, “would you tell any girl at all that you had a crush on them.”
Robin narrows her eyes at him. “No,” she finally says.
“Right. So I can be friends with Eddie,” Steve says, and not tell him that all the sun and chlorine is turning his hair a little gold, on the ends, and that the sunburnt, peeling skin on his nose is endearing, and that he wouldn’t mind holding hands.
Robin says, still narrow-eyed and visibly disgruntled, “Fine.”
*
“Okay, wait.” Robin hits stop in the middle of Whitesnake and says, “There seems to be a theme here. How sad were you when you made this?”
“Not very?” Steve says. He didn’t think he was that bad, but listening to the tape back with Robin, with company, with someone to judge him, is not very flattering. They’re not even through the entire first side of the mix, but he’s not actually sure the other side is much better. And this is the revised version.
It’s almost sunset, and they’re sitting on the pool deck. Steve’s anticipating the kids at some point, because there’s only two weeks left before school starts. He’s already ordered pizza.
Robin wraps him up in a hug and says, “You’re really fucking weird, Harrington.”
Steve hugs her back and says, “I know.”
“You made me a mixtape, and I love it,” she says, still clutching him tightly, “but we’re gonna make another one together, okay, and it’s gonna be all about best friends, and not being lonely. Sound good?”
Steve drops his forehead onto her shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”
She pulls back, hands on his cheeks, frowns at whatever expression she must see on his face, and says, “Now point me to all the tapes Eddie and your two other idiot friends made you buy.”
“They’re not—” Steve stops himself.
Robin squishes his cheeks, says, “Yes, Steve, Gareth and Jeff are your friends. They’re like larger versions of your children, because you’re really fucking weird.”
“You love me this way,” Steve says, slightly garbled.
“I do,” Robin says earnestly, nodding. “I’m gonna make a tape about it.”
*
Robin starts by stacking all his tapes neatly around the stereo in the living room and complaining about his lack of girl bands.
“I’ve got the Bangles,” Steve says. “And Blondie!”
Robin ignores him and says, “I’ll just bring all of my tapes over, too, don’t worry,” and then promptly gets distracted by pizza.
Shortly after the pizza arrives, Dustin, Mike and Lucas show up. The distinct lack of Max is concerning. Steve keeps trying to talk to her, but he never knows exactly what to say. Sorry your brother killed a bunch of people and then got skewered to death right in front of you, wanna swim in my pool?
Lucas says, “Max is moving.”
“Moving,” Steve says. “Like, out of Hawkins?”
Lucas shakes his head. “Forest Hills.”
“Isn’t that where Eddie lives?” Robin says through a mouthful of pizza.
“Yeah,” Lucas says, a dejected slump on Steve’s sofa. “He radioed me when he saw her and her mom. She didn’t even tell me.”
“She apparently didn’t tell anyone,” Steve says, which again: concerning.
He thinks about Max and thinks about how she’d absolutely hate an ambush, and under no circumstances should any of them just show up at her house unannounced, but. He could visit Eddie. He could wave at Max. Coax her over like a feral kitten. Trick her into a warm hug.
He claps his hands together and says, “Okay, pool, ice cream, movie. Are we sleeping over?”
“Duh,” Dustin says, already struggling out of his shirt. “Mom says she’ll drop off breakfast in the morning.”
Robin whoops, because Mrs. Henderson always makes them cinnamon buns.
Mike says, “Can I use your phone to call El?”
Steve should say no, because his dad’s gonna bitch about the phone bill, but Mike’s been almost too depressed to be a douchebag, and it’s kind of freaking Steve out.
“Yes,” he says, “but you only get twenty minutes.”
Mike doesn’t even argue.
Outside, Dustin presses play on Robin’s boombox, and “Here I Go Again” starts blasting out over the yard. The theme might be depressing, but the tune is catchy.
Lucas yells as Dustin’s cannonball splash drenches both him and Robin.
Steve likes all the sound.
Sister Christian | Night Ranger
October 1983 | Midnight Madness | track 4
Goodbye Stranger | Supertramp
March 1979 | Breakfast in America | track 3
The day Dustin and Mike find out about Hellfire Club, and Eddie’s role in it, is the last day Steve has any kind of peace.
“Wait,” Dustin says, mouth full of potato salad, “there’s a club for DnD? That we can join? In school?”
They’re having a barbeque at Eddie’s, because no one has seen Max in three days, and it’s Labor Day weekend, and school starts on Tuesday.
Wayne’s manning the grill.
Robin and Gareth are having some kind of whisper-shout fight over the music.
It doesn’t really matter, though, because Max is aggressively blasting Kate Bush out her bedroom window.
Lucas has been pouting about it all afternoon, and staring longingly at her trailer, and has already been stopped four times from banging on her front door.
When the smell of burgers hadn’t coaxed Max out, Steve had given up and perched a plate on her windowsill, with a short knock and a, “Dinner’s up!”
The curtains swished after he walked away, but at least the plate had disappeared into her room. She’s alive and she’s eating, and Steve will continue his baby steps until she wants to talk.
All Dustin and Mike want to talk about is Hellfire.
Steve grins and says, “It’s a freaks and weirdos club, right up your alley,” and twists Dustin’s cap around his head.
Jeff snorts.
Eddie says, “Absolutely,” with wide, twinkling eyes, and Steve thinks he never could have said that three months ago without some kind of sneering reaction from Munson, but now everyone just knows he’s joking.
Even Gareth, who flips him off.
It makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Dustin pulls out an honest-to-god notebook and starts grilling Eddie, and even Lucas gets into it after a while.
He’d been worried, a little bit, about his kids and high school, and how he was pretty sure they were going to get eaten alive. He doesn’t think Eddie’s going to let that happen, though. It’s just—one more thing Steve can file away in the inadvisable crush on Eddie Munson folder in his brain. Takes care of his dorky kids. Ugh.
Steve goes and digs out another beer from the cooler.
*
It’s well past dark when Eddie flops down next to him on a rickety lawn chair, bumps their elbows together. Says, “The gang’s fizzling out.”
Dustin’s actually passed out, coke can already dropped out of his dangling hand, half-spilled on the dirt, head back and mouth open. Lucas and Mike have Dustin’s notebook open between them, heads together, talking quietly.
Robin’s sprawled out on the old couch that’s set up under a faded awning off the side of the trailer, eyes half-closed.
He doesn’t see Gareth or Jeff at all.
“I should get the scamps home,” Steve says, thinking about heaving himself to his feet, but not quite doing it yet.
Food, sun and beer have made him sleepy and slow, and he yawns into his fist.
There’s still music floating down from Max’s house, but it’s not nearly as loud. She’s moved on from Kate Bush to Heart, and Steve only knows that because Jeff shoved their new album on him a week ago with a pointed, track two, that Steve’s trying not to think about. He absolutely did not listen to “What About Love” on repeat for an entire sleepless night. By dawn, he’d convinced himself that Jeff could not possibly know anything, and any pointed look was because of Jeff’s thing for power ballads, and his commitment to get Steve to love power ballads. That’s all.
Eddie says, “I, uh,” and stops.
Steve glances over at him.
He’s got a piece of hair in front of his mouth, like he’s nervous, and one hand fiddling with a cassette on his lap.
“Yeah?” Steve says.
“I made this for you,” Eddie finally says, holding out the tape.
Steve grins and reaches for it, a flush traveling up his throat, a flutter in his belly that he ruthlessly tamps down. “Really?”
Eddie shrugs, shoulders tight. “No big deal.”
“Sure,” Steve says, still grinning. He doesn’t look at it when he shoves it his jacket pocket. Doesn’t stop looking at Eddie’s face, the slight amused curve of his mouth, the rings flashing in the florescent streetlights on the fingers curled into the divot just under his lower lip.
Dustin wakes up with a snort-shout when Mike whips his notebook back at him, and then Robin is groaning, and Lucas asks if they can sleep at Steve’s, and the quiet around Steve and Eddie, whatever it meant, is solidly broken.
Eddie rubs at his cheeks and gets to his feet.
Steve says, “Help clean up first, like polite miscreants, and maybe we’ll pick up ice cream on the way home.”
*
In the morning, the kids waste no pool time. Warm days are counting down, and high school will have them within its cold, dead grip all too soon. Steve, although he will never ever tell them to their faces, will miss this.
“What are you listening to?” Robin says, looming over him with fantastic bedhead.
He pushes the toes of his feet into the couch arm, stretching. He’s already had coffee and cereal, he can see the kids hitting each other with pool floaties out the sliding glass door, and he’s contemplating a morning nap. “Eddie made me a mixtape.”
Robin scoops the empty case off the floor, snaps it shut, and frowns at the list of songs on the back. “Huh,” she says.
Something in her tone makes him instantly tense up, like a warning. “Huh, what?”
“Steve,” she says, slowly, “you realize these are all love songs, right?” She waves the case in the air above his face.
Steve snatches the case out of her hands, flushing. “Uh. No, they’re not?”
“This is literally Space Age Love Song,” Robin says, pointing at the stereo, “playing right now. He’s not even going for subtle here.”
It feels like a fist is squeezing his heart. “Do you think he knows?”
Robin heaves a sigh, shoves at his legs until he makes space for her on the couch. “I don’t think this is about you, Steve.”
“What could it possibly be about, then?” He sits up, legs crisscross on the cushions, and leans into the butterfly of his knees. “Tell me why he’s giving me love songs, Robin, if not because he thinks I—” He stops, throat closing up, voice gone hoarse.
Robin stares at him. Arches one eyebrow.
The growing tightness in his chest pops, suddenly, and something terrifying and thrilling courses through his body, white hot. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” Robin says, poking him on the nose.
Steve’s quiet, looks down at his hands curled in his lap. Thinks about Eddie last night, flushed and anxious. “You really think?”
“I really think, dingus,” Robin says, soft. “But you shouldn’t be asking me.”
These Dreams | Heart
July 1985 | Heart | track 4
Steve swallows all his fear and dread, because he’s an expert at that by now, and knocks on Eddie’s door. It’s late enough that Wayne’s left for work, Steve made sure of that, and the first day of school is the morning, but he knows Eddie isn’t asleep. Could hear the thud and wail of his music through the ground when he stepped out of his car. His window shade is down, but light pours out of the cracks and into the dark.
No one answers the door, though, and he’s not sure Eddie can even hear it over the noise, the pulsing thump of what Steve is sure is Dio. And then he hears the electric scratch and thrum of a live instrument, and knows Eddie’s definitely not going to hear him over his own guitar.
He goes to knock on the window instead.
The shade zips up and Eddie’s face presses up against the glass, startled, and Steve can hear a muffled, “Jesus Christ, Steve.”
Steve waves, like an idiot.
Eddie rolls his eyes, then disappears, shade dropping.
Steve hears the front door open. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and feels every beat of his heart through the bottom of his feet as he slowly walks back.
“My liege,” Eddie says, hanging off the doorframe. He’s wearing threadbare plaid pajama pants, and the sleeveless Stones’ shirt. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this late at night?”
Steve would think he was mocking him, except for the affectionate tone.
Steve’s suddenly at a loss for words. He thought he was prepared enough for this.
Eddie’s eyebrows scrunch up, and Steve continues to just fucking stare at him, and then Eddie says, “Do you want to come in?”
Steve used to be smooth. He used to be charming. He used to have less friends, though, and was, arguably, king of the assholes.
Eddie’s hair is a complete mess, the harsh light from the trailer a halo.
“Uh. Steve?”
Steve clears his throat, says, “Yeah, yes.”
“You’re not here for drugs, right?” Eddie says, head cocked as he steps aside to let Steve in. “Because I typically don’t deal out of my trailer, but I could make an exception. For you.”
That jerks Steve into, like, real boy mode, because what the fuck? “When have I ever bought drugs from you?”
Eddie arches an eyebrow.
“Lately,” Steve adds. “You know, after the Russian torture.”
Eddie tenses, Steve can feel it without even looking at him. “Russian torture?”
“Um.” Steve grins at him winningly. “Forget I said that?”
“You said you were just fighting Russians,” Eddie says.
“I was,” Steve says. “That’s what I meant.”
Eddie narrows his eyes at him. “Steve—”
“Listen, I’m not here to buy drugs,” Steve says, hands out. They’re standing in the small clearing between the living room and the kitchen. There are remnants of dinner on the table, one of Wayne’s mugs, still half full of coffee, sitting on the edge of the counter by the sink. He says, “You made me a mixtape.”
“I did,” Eddie says. He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression is blank, and his eyes look guarded.
“And,” Steve bites his lip, makes himself stare at Eddie’s face, “you meant to give me that exact mixtape, right?”
Eddie flinches, a there and gone flash.
Steve almost thinks he imagines it.
“Uh,” Eddie says, shifts on a hip, uncrosses his arms to fidget with his rings, “I mean, unless you—”
Steve takes the opening, the fall of his arms, to step in. It’s weird, being practically the same height, but also nice.
“What are you doing?” Eddie whispers at him, eyes wide.
Steve swallows hard and says, “I’m going to kiss you. All right?”
Eddie’s eyes go wider. Says, “Yeah. Okay,” and then, after a few moments of silence, flicking his gaze to Steve’s mouth and back up, while Steve watches in complete warm fascination, the deepening flush on Eddie’s cheeks, he says, “Now?”
Steve laughs a little, brings his hands up to Eddie’s neck, his jaw, the back of his head. “Yeah, Eddie. Now.”
“I’m not forgetting about the Russian torture,” Eddie says against his mouth, but Steve bets he can make him forget about it for at least a little while.
*
Steve’s not sure what he was expecting – a sudden quiet, maybe, like an empty nester – but every single kid shows up at his house after school. Including Max, who looks sullen and refuses to get into her bathing suit, but takes a box of pop tarts out to the pool deck to watch the boys make fools of themselves, headphones hanging from around her neck.
He has to work in two hours, a half shift and closing, because Keith has a date, and Robin specifically took the first day of school off, and apparently nobody else works at Family Video but the three of them and some guy named Dave that’s never on shift but is listed on the payroll.
Robin says it’s money laundering, but Steve doesn’t think it works that way.
Eddie shows up with Robin, who spreads out her homework—“On the first day, Steven!”—on Steve’s kitchen table and begs for snacks.
Eddie steals a bag of pretzels, puts his mix on in the living room, because he’s a sap, and tugs Steve down onto the couch to sit with him.
“You know,” Eddie says, threading their fingers together, curling his knees up so he’s half in Steve’s lap, “I still don’t even really know what music you like?”
Steve glances over at his stereo. The piles Robin left there are still standing, their best friends mix a work in progress. The record cabinet is open, a messy stack of vinyl on the carpet, since Robin’s discovered his mom’s love of musical theater.
He knows Jeff’s been driving his little brother crazy with “Home Sweet Home,” and he knows Gareth’s favorite band is AC/DC, and that Eddie has been playing the whole of Sacred Heart on repeat since the middle of August. He knows Robin likes Michael McDonald and the Doobie Brothers because of her dad, and Chicago because of the trumpets. He knows Dustin thinks Weird Al is cool, that Lucas hates Kate Bush, and that Mike has no musical tastes whatsoever. Steve really can’t throw stones.
Steve says, “I don’t really have a favorite,” and Eddie squeezes their hands tighter and says, “That’s okay.”