Chapter Text
Look, Steve didn’t ask to be his mother’s favorite child. In fact, if he had a choice in the matter, he’d rather his mother neglect his existence for all eternity and beyond.
Well that’s a shit thing to wish for.
No shit. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew there were about a dozen kids back in Cabin 11 who’d pummel him on sight if he ever dared admit it, followed by another dozen spiteful half-siblings, some with the power to incinerate him with a mere glare if they wanted. Hell, a lot of them wanted to incinerate him regardless; the only reason they didn’t was because, well. It would make Mom very upset.
Which brought Steve back to his predicament as of current. And past. And probably future? His forever problem. His endless plague in life.
Steve’s mother loved him. Very much.
Oh, boohoo, little Momma’s Boy, flooded with love and attention — listen, there was nothing inherently wrong with a mother loving her child. It was the most powerful bond of love in the universe. But when it came to Steve’s mother? Well, being the favorite child was dangerous, and scary, and most likely would get him killed in a horrific, nasty way.
That’s a bit dramatic. How can being the favorite get you killed? What, is your family the mafia or something? — yeah, or something. Let’s just say, if his family (gods forbid) ever held a reunion, the seating chart arrangements were guaranteed to ignite a new World War. Half the branches of the family tree were loops; it was impossible to keep track of the ancient grudges and interpersonal slights on par with war crimes; a crazy cannibalistic father; enough cheating scandals to fill multiple soap operas; oh, and did he mention the literal monster kids? Many with an appetite for the sad, scrawny little halfblood bastards like Steve?
Look at it this way. If simply being born in this family was equivalent to eternally burning in the Fields of Punishment, then being the spotlight child was being tossed into the deepest pit of Tartarus, right next to the crazy cannibalistic father.
Well, that only applied to the mortal suckers of the family. Steve was a sucker. A very fragile, very mortal sucker.
Are you really claiming that some people in your family are NOT mortal?
Uh, duh. Did you miss the part about ancient grudges, war crimes, cannibalistic fathers, and monster offspring? Sure, they’ve fallen out of style these days, but they were really all the rage back in Ancient Greece.
You’re joking. Ancient Greece? What, you think the Greek Gods are real? — geez, bunch of skeptics. Honestly, Steve welcomed it. The more people living blissfully unaware, thinking the worst threats in the world were communism and Russian invaders, the better. No one should want to get involved in Steve’s family drama. Bad things happened to people who got involved in Steve’s family.
Like Ms. Margaret, Steve’s first nanny. She raised Steve from infancy, changing every diaper and feeding him every bottle. When he babbled “Mama” for the first time to Ms. Margaret, her skin erupted in horrific clusters of warts that no medical intervention could remedy.
It happened a few more times before Father wised up to it. He kept the nanny roster ever-rotating, and he banned any talk of “mother” or “mom” or “mama.” It was years before Steve understood why. Years where he believed mother was a cursed word, and he flinched anytime his friends said the forbidden words.
Or Juliet, his father’s frequent “lady friend” when Steve was four years old. In every baby picture of Steve, he wore the same bronze heart-shaped locket; he’s almost certain he’s worn it since birth and never taken it off, not even to shower or swim. Juliet hated the locket; she called it an eyesore, a bad memory of a spiteful woman. For Christmas, she bought a different locket of silver and sapphire — “My birthstone,” she smiled with a sneer — to replace his special locket. He threw a proper toddler tantrum, but it didn’t stop her from trying to pry his bronze locket off. Emphasis on try, since the moment she touched the necklace, all of her hair fell off her body. Eyelashes included!
Father was furious. The memory was blurry, but if he closed his eyes, he could feel the sting on his cheek, and his father’s raging voice: “What did I tell you about the stupid locket? I don’t want anyone fucking near it. I don’t want them to even look at it!”
He hid the locket under his shirt from that point forward. It pacified his dad, but the trouble with the locket — and the symbol it posed from the woman who gave it to him — persisted.
Barely half a year later, on Steve’s fifth birthday, his nanny tried to kill him for it.
-.-.-.-
May 14, 1972
It was impressive how, despite the constant noise and bustle from the city below, the penthouse could be so oppressively silent. Especially on a night meant to be filled with laughter and song: Happy Birthday to you…
It always felt like this when it was just Steve and his newest nanny, Ms. Nelly, home alone. Ms. Nelly was way older than all his previous nannies and always smelled like peanut butter and smoke, even though Steve never saw her light a cigarette. His father was away on business, or maybe traveling with a new lady friend. It was rare he was ever home, and birthdays were no exception. Steve was feeling lonely and sad and confused because his preschool teacher said his birthday fell on ‘Mother’s Day’ this year, and that was a lovely thing, that he could celebrate with his mother. All of his classmates decorated cards and hearts to give to their mothers, and none of them acted like it was taboo. No one sprouted warts and lost all their hair.
Was mother not a cursed word? Or was it just the locket? There was a lady in the locket, a beautiful woman who looked different every time he looked at her. He wondered, not for the first time (and certainly not the last), who she was.
There was no cake for Steve’s birthday. Ms. Nelly said his dad forgot to put the order in, and then sent Steve to bed early when he complained. Later that night, he grabbed a floral candle from the guest room bathroom and snuck into the kitchen for matches. Crouched behind the island, he broke the first match, burned his thumb on the second, and finally lit the candle on the third. The locket pressed over his chest radiated warmth just like the candle cupped in his palms.
“I hope you have a special day,” he whispered, picturing the dazzling smile of the woman in his locket — the one consistency in her appearance. The locket thrummed against his heart, and he felt an odd tingling on his tongue as he blew out the candle.
Seconds later, a sharp pain erupted from his cheek to his jaw, and his nanny towered over him with a kitchen knife.
“You,” Ms. Nelly hissed, voice rattling like a snake.
Ms. Nelly looked wrong. She jerked around, as if possessed. Her old, wrinkly skin melted away into patchy specks of green and gold. Pools of red light replaced her eye sockets. She smiled as she raised the kitchen knife, revealing rows of razored teeth.
“You don’t deserve it. Give it to me!”
Steve screamed, “Daddy!” but he knew it was pointless. Ms. Nelly knew it too.
“Cry out all you want, little boy. No one’s here to save you. Not your daddy, and certainly not your mommy.”
Steve tried to run away, but a rough, clawed hand snagged his ankle and dragged him across the pristine tile floor. Ms. Nelly pounced, gripping his jaw tight. A claw dug into the tender wound on his cheek, and he cried out.
“Her prize will serve me far better,” said Ms. Nelly. The hand gripping his jaw moved over his mouth, maybe to silence his screams? But then two fingers dug inside, talons pinching his tongue, and-
Steve bit down. Hard.
With a demonic screech, Ms. Nelly yanked back her hand. “YOU BRAT!”
“Go away! GO AWAY!”
And, inexplicably, she listened. She dropped the knife, walked out the door, and disappeared, never to be seen again. A new nanny was there when he woke up the next morning, and when he dared to ask his father’s assistant about Ms. Nelly, she looked at him all strange.
“We never hired a Ms. Nelly. Are you feeling alright, Steve? Do you need me to contact your father?” she said.
Yes. I need him. I’m scared. I want my Dad. I want…I want my Mom.
“No.”
-.-.-.-
There was a saying among his half-siblings — the ones far less capable of incinerating him with a glare (though it didn’t stop them from trying).
The more Mom loves Dad, the less she loves you.
And Steve’s dad? Well, he was arguably the least lovable man in existence.
He wasn’t unattractive or undesirable by any means. No, when it came to their mother’s choice in partners, dastardly good looks and impeccable charm were a baseline. Richard Harrington was sinfully handsome and disgustingly rich, but those were the only highlights of his character. The millionaire playboy had no shame in having a different woman hanging off his arm at every public appearance. To him, having the most beautiful date in the room was a badge of honor, and he hated to be upstaged.
It was 1967. A charity gala in uptown Manhattan for a cause Richard had no interest in, other than to flaunt. That’s when she arrived, stealing all the attention to herself, but caring for none of it. Unfortunately for Steve (not that he was around to object), it was not long until the beautiful woman and sleazeball Richard Harrington crossed paths. Steve didn’t care much for the story, but he was forced to hear it anyway.
“You have quite the reputation, Mr. Harrington. Always accompanied by the best-looking woman in attendance. I fear your streak comes to an end tonight.”
“Why would you think that?”
The arrogant, asshole mortal didn’t know how close he came to danger that night. Unfortunately for Steve (again, not around to voice his extremely contrary opinion), the woman found the brazenness…intriguing.
“My family made its fortune telling diamonds apart from crystals. It would be a disservice to a treasure like yourself, to compare you to a sea of beautiful women, when you are so clearly a goddess among them.”
Personally, Steve called bullshit. Richard Harrington never used such poetic language in his life. Either it was an embellished fantasy, or Apollo possessed Richard’s tongue with the prose to seduce a goddess. Honestly, both seemed plausible. It would only be fitting if Apollo were to blame. That sunny asshole was obsessed with Steve…
Point being, there was no lost love story between Steve’s parents. No star-crossed lovers, no summertime fling. Just a one-night stand between a millionaire playboy and a goddess seeking to humble a mortal. Personally, Steve felt it could’ve been accomplished without dragging him into the middle of it; unfortunately, his mother’s method for teaching mortals a lesson was what literally brought Steve into existence.
Three months later, the goddess and the asshole reunited with a golden bassinet in tow.
“I normally pop them out much quicker,” his mother once told him. “There’s nothing more sexy than a baby bump, but you know I hate sticking to one look too long. It’s so tacky and boring. But you…you were just the cutest baby bump in the world! All the nymphs were so jealous, I almost didn’t want to give you up! But then Hera was rambling about some silly mortal holiday, and I knew…that was our day.”
May 14, 1967.
Mother’s Day.
-.-.-.-
There was another saying, not from Steve’s half-siblings, but about them — that they were lucky, because they were always loved by their mortal parents. Most mortals did not take kindly to having a baby dropped on them, even by a goddess. Mortals, however, were usually kind to those they loved. And no one knew the power of love better than Steve’s mother. So, as a parting gift to her halfblood children, Steve’s mother took a portion of her motherly love, and forced it upon her mortal lover.
But Steve’s mother was a jealous one. And she loved Steve. She did not want to share their bond of love with anyone else.
So she didn’t. Instead, she took a piece of her love, and shaped it into a heart locket of pure celestial bronze. She tied it into a necklace around the newborn babe’s neck, to protect him with all the power of her love.
Personally, Steve would’ve taken the option to be loved (or at least liked) by his father. Not that he had any choice in the matter. You can’t tell the gods what to do, and you certainly can’t tell the goddess of love to love you less.
-.-.-.-
Hawkins, Indiana. Home of the Hawkins High Tigers, an archaic downtown, and a whole lot of farms and trees. Most residents, who barely knew life outside of midwestern America, called the town quaint and charming. Uneventful, but safe. Those aware of what life had to offer — or those who didn’t fit the perfect white-picket fence ideal — knew what Hawkins truly was.
The most mundane prison in the world.
For Steve, it was both. Hawkins was safe. For someone like Steve, that’s not just a big deal. It was downright impossible. People like Steve — with parents like Steve — didn’t get to live in safety. Camp was the closest they got, but it was far from paradise. If the risky journey out to Long Island didn’t do you in, then it was the martial training with razor-sharp blades, or the rockwall that poured lava, or monster attacks from a border patrol duty gone wrong, or a spiteful god, or a deadly quest, or a deadly quest from a spiteful god-
You get the idea.
Nothing bad ever happened in Hawkins. Not to the mortals. Not to Steve. There were no monsters in Hawkins. It was safe. But it was not a haven. Not like camp.
Hawkins was a prison. His prison, since he was 14 years old.
Steve tried not to resent it. There were far worse places to be trapped — like the underground Harpy fighting ring from his first ever quest, at the ripe age of 10. Being literally locked in a chicken coop with bloodthirsty chicken ladies was a traumatizing event. It took years before Steve could stomach a nugget again.
Besides, it was Steve’s fault. He knew what it took to break free of his chains. He was just too stupid, too in over his head, and too useless to figure it out.
So Steve adapted. He wore his armor of Mist and glamor for hours on end because the scariest thing in Hawkins was being seen as a freak. He befriended Tommy Hagan because he sneered like the meanest kid from Cabin 5, and Carol Perkins because she was a perfect fit for Cabin 10 — pretty, flirty, and shamelessly vain. He used his silver tongue to become king of the school, and stop anyone from asking too many questions about his past. He was so successful, many people forgot he moved to Hawkins freshman year.
Steve became normal. Mundane. Safe.
But when he was alone, and the glamor finally dropped, Steve wished for his haven. He reached under his mattress and pulled out the ratty scrapbook that he made in arts & crafts with Cabin 6. He cradled the photos of his friends and half-siblings back at camp. He sharpened and polished every carefully concealed weapon. He scraped a portion of his dinner into the fireplace, and prayed.
“Mom. Please give me a sign. I need your help. I don’t know where to go from here...”
“Please, Mom. Nothing is changing. The trail is cold…no, who am I kidding. There is no trail.”
“Gods, if you’re listening. I don’t know if this was all an elaborate setup. But if it’s not, and this quest is real, can you please give me a sign? Make something happen? Anything!”
You know that old saying? Be careful what you wish for? Well, at camp, you learn it a little differently: Be careful what you wish for in your prayers to the gods, because they are perpetually bored and have no concept of simplicity. Steve knew that, but after three years of zero progress, well…desperation hit, and it hit hard.
“Did you hear?” said Carol as she saddled up next to Steve before first period.
“About what?” Steve feigned disinterest, but they both knew he was a glutton for gossip. He couldn’t help it. It was practically in his DNA. His mother started and won wars by spreading rumors.
Lucky for him, Carol Perkins was the top gossip in Hawkins.
“The missing kid, duh.”
Steve’s head snapped. “Missing?”
Steve knew a lot of ‘missing kids’. Hell, he was one for a brief moment, when some dumbass monsters snatched him off the playground in front of half of his elementary school. Most of camp’s new arrivals were technically missing kids. Extraction was hard and messy; by the time a Seeker could pick up a scent, so could a monster.
There are no monsters in Hawkins, dude, he assured himself. Get it together.
“Probably just some dumbass prank,” said Tommy, saddling up on the other side of Steve. “Bet the kid is pissing himself hiding in his buddy’s basement.”
“Probably,” Steve echoed. He did not reach for the beaded necklace tucked under his collar, or the bronze locket, because that would be abnormal. It wasn’t normal to get worked up over a kid he knew nothing about, because as weird as it was for a kid to go missing, it was still normal. So instead, he slipped his hands in his pockets, and felt the crumbled paper of the note he planned to slip into Nancy Wheeler’s locker. He welcomed the distraction with open arms.
Nancy Wheeler was special.
Not special in the way Steve and the other people from camp were special. Definitely not special like how Steve was to his mother. No, Nancy was normal in the way all of Hawkins was normal, but it felt wrong to compare Nancy to sleepy little Hawkins.
Steve was practically an expert on beautiful people, and Nancy Wheeler blew them all out of the water. Gentle, brown curls. Freckles painted across angled cheekbones. Big, Bambi eyes. Blue, almost gray. Sharp and calculating, like the whole world was a puzzle to solve. The first time he looked into Nancy's eyes, it was like he was eleven years old again, and Cabin 6 was scrutinizing if he’d be any good for Capture the Flag. But above all, Nancy Wheeler was a good person. A strong person, and far smarter than him.
And if she was the first girl Steve failed to seduce with a wink…well, what about it? It was as refreshing as it was disconcerting — having to try to capture Nancy’s attention, and work even harder to keep it. When he slipped the note in her locker to meet him in the bathroom, he wasn’t sure she’d show. It was terrifying. It was thrilling.
For someone like him, terrifying and thrilling were typically a terrible combo. It was terrifying, getting chased by a multi-headed dragon on your way to the grocery store. It was thrilling, driving your blade through its heart, walking away alive and covered in golden dust. It was terrifying, kneeling before the King of the Gods, praying he won’t smite you for existing.
There was nothing terrifying or thrilling about sleepy little Hawkins, a normal town full of normal people, where monsters couldn’t reach him. Feeling the thump of adrenaline, the buzz of victory as Nancy showed up to their secret bathroom meetup, it made him feel alive again. And gods, when they kissed-
He decided to press his luck. A date, tonight.
“No, I can’t. I have to study for Kaminski’s test.”
Even her rejection made his heart soar. Even with his Mist and glamor and charm, to Nancy, it was like Steve was just a normal handsome jock.
“Fine, then, I’ll help you study.”
“You failed chem.”
He didn’t fail chemistry; a C- was definitely passing, considering that’s what most of his grades consisted of. It wasn’t his fault that he was born to understand a completely different kind of chemistry.
Before he could point this out, the large bathroom stall swung open. They both flinched, with Nancy jumping away from him as the bane of Steve’s existence and mission to be normal walked out.
Eddie. Fucking. Munson.
“Oopsies. Am I interrupting something?”
Steve wished he could punch the shit-eating smirk off Munson’s face, but it would bruise his knuckles. He hated the look of bruises.
“I- I should go,” Nancy said, clutching her books to her chest.
“Nancy-” Steve tried to stop her, but she was already halfway out the door. She paused, looking conflicted.
“Steve…” she started, and Steve saw the wisps of pinkish curiosity clinging to her curls, and a faint, blushing red dusting her cheeks. She liked him. She must, or else Steve wouldn’t see anything at all.
The moment was shattered by a squeak of metal, followed by a fwoosh of rushing water and- whistling?
“I’ll see you around.”
And she was gone.
“Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day. Everyone’s favorite golden boy fails to woo the girl.”
Steve closed his eyes, pondering which god he had pissed off that condemned him to this hell. The list of potential candidates was extensive.
The water shut off, and Munson’s gross, wet hand slapped against his back.
“Don’t take it too hard, your majesty. Rejection is normal.”
Steve shrugged the hand away and kicked up his bag, not even sparing Munson a glance. It didn’t stop Munson from calling after him,
“Or you can just cry to your mommy about it later!”
-.-.-.-
Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson met under a tree, moments after Steve’s flaming arrow exploded in his own face and burned off half his hair.
In Steve’s defense, he never asked for a flaming arrow. This hell camp was just full of psychopaths who gave flaming arrows to nine-year-old kids who had never even seen a real bow, much less used one.
The instructor — a man named Chiron who wasn’t really a man because his bottom half was a horse — trotted over, but not before the other kids from his new cabin started snickering. Apparently (just like half-horse-men were apparently real), they were his siblings. Well, half-siblings. They shared the same mom, Lynda Carter. Or, not Lynda Carter? She looked like Lynda Carter, but apparently just to Steve, because their mom was a goddess. Because apparently, gods were real.
Steve didn’t understand what was going on. But there were no soft colors dancing around his supposed siblings when they looked at Steve, so he knew they didn’t love him.
His mom loved him. She was a blinding rainbow of rosy colors when she looked at Steve. But she was gone. She left again, just like she always did, but this time she left him in a strange summer camp with winged horses and kids with swords and trees that turned into pretty ladies who giggled when Steve walked by.
Tears pricking his eyes, Steve turned and sprinted for the large hill just beyond the archery field. He didn’t know where he was going; he just needed to get away. A large oak tree sat near the top, offering an illusion of privacy. Steve collapsed against the rough bark, curled into a ball, and cried like a baby.
“Um.”
Steve jerked up. Another boy, maybe a little older than Steve, peered around the wide oak tree. He had wild curly hair and a leather jacket covering his bright orange t-shirt. His face was flushed, eyes puffy and rimmed red.
Steve didn’t know what was more embarrassing. Getting caught crying under an oak tree, or not even being the first crybaby there.
“You- You’re the new kid, right? The one the goddess brought to camp?”
Steve sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Why does everyone care about that?”
The kid threw his head back and cackled. Before Steve could stomp off and find a new tree to sulk, he explained, “Dude, none of the gods bring their kids to camp. Not even Mr. D, and he lives here! Pretty sure you’re, like, the first ever.”
“Oh.”
Steve didn’t know what to say to that. It didn’t make much sense to him, but nothing about this place, this world did.
“Is that why they hate me?” Receiving a weird look, Steve clarified, “My- the other kids. In my cabin.”
“Your siblings?” said the boy, and Steve shrugged. “Probably. Seeing your mom parade you around like a prized jewel, while barely even saying hello to them? I bet most of camp hates you a little bit. I know I do.”
Steve flinched. “What?”
“To be fair, I resent any lucky bastard who gets claimed. Not as easy as you made it look, Goldilocks. I’ve been here for three years, and my godly deadbeat has yet to remember I exist!” He shouted at the sky, as if he expected it to answer. It didn’t.
Steve rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault, is it?” The boy glared at the sky. Steve wondered who was up there to challenge. “If you got any tips, though, I’m all ears.”
“Tips?”
“To get the gods' attention! What’d you do? Kill the Minotaur? Or claim Medusa’s head? Did you kill the Minotaur with Medusa’s head?”
“No?” Steve didn’t know what a Minotaur or a Medusa was. His hand clasped the bronze heart locket around his neck. Somehow, it still felt warm from where his mother kissed it yesterday. “I…I don’t really know what I did.”
The boy studied Steve, like he didn’t quite believe the answer.
“Well, it must’ve been something real special ‘cuz I don’t know any other brats that can regrow hair in a flash.”
The boy cackled at Steve’s shocked gasp. Steve ran his hands over his head, feeling the patchiness and roughness from the short lingering hair follicles where his bangs should be. Tears welled in his eyes.
“That’s not funny!” The boy stopped cackling as Steve’s lower lip wobbled. “Why are you so mean?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m not pranking you! I’m serious! Err, lemme…” he dug through an overstuffed black bag tied to the tree. “Holy Hera, I know your cabin is crazy about hair routines, but how much volume do you need? Grow any more, and you’ll look like Cousin Itt.”
“I can feel it’s gone! I’m not stupid,” Steve spat, and Eddie rolled his eyes before digging out a black sheathed weapon. He unsheathed it and held it up flat to Steve.
“See?”
The shortsword was probably the coolest Steve’s seen — and there were a lot of cool weapons at camp. The tip appeared to be a perpetual molten red, casting a golden glow on the rest of the blade. It looked like the weapons he saw the kids pull from the forge, hot and malleable. The blade curved back and forth, shaped like a wave, connected to an unassuming brown wood handle.
Steve sniffled. “Nice…sword?”
He winced at Eddie’s sharp laugh. “No, dumbass. Your reflection!”
Steve was scared it was another cruel prank, but the boy seemed so earnest. He risked a glance, expecting the worst.
“Huh?” Steve shot to his feet, pulling the boy’s arm closer to get a better look. Instead of missing eyebrows and blackened, singed bangs, he found thick wavy longs and perfect brows — far more symmetrical and shaped than he remembered them before.
“Um. Believe me now?” the boy said tensely, pulling back against Steve’s tight grip. He sheepishly let go, falling back down to the grass in disbelief.
“Sorry, I…it’s not real, but…”
The boy shrugged. “Glamour spell. Obviously.”
“What?”
“You know what they say,” the boy waved his hands at the sky. "Gods work in mysterious ways. Best not to question them.”
“Sure…” Steve rubbed his browline, waiting to feel the follicles he saw in his reflection. First meeting his mom, not-Lynda Carter, then the half-horse man, then his supermodel siblings who hated him, then the whole camp filled with freaks and deadly weapons and goddamn flying ponies — and now this?
Was this his life from now on? An unstoppable descent into stranger and stranger things?
The boy eyed him skeptically. “You better say thanks.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Steve echoed with rushed eagerness. He looked the boy in the eyes, because Father said it was the polite thing to do when expressing gratitude. For all the boy's harsh laughs and shouting at the sky, his eyes were surprisingly kind.
“Not- Not me!” The boy ducked his head, like he was hiding behind his wild hair. “Your mom. Thank your mom. She’s the one-” a deep sigh, and then, “-look, the gods? They like feeling appreciated. And if they don’t…well, it usually doesn’t end well.”
Steve frowned, unsure how to thank his mom when she wasn’t here. He couldn’t look her in the eyes. After a moment, he reached for the heart-shaped locket. His mother kissed it, just before she left. It still had a smudge from her lipstick.
“Thanks…thank you, Mom,” he said, placing his lips on the same spot. A jolt of warmth ran from the metal and enveloped Steve’s body like a hug.
“Gods, aren’t you a little charmer? No wonder she loves you,” the boy muttered, hiding in his hair. Curious peachy wisps clung to the ends, covering the parts of his face that the hair didn’t. Steve’s shoulders relaxed at the sight of the colors. Guess the boy didn’t hate Steve as much as he claimed.
“I’m Steve. Son of, uh. Aphrodite, I guess,” he said, holding out his hand like his dad always taught him. The boy cackled again.
“Yeah, I know, Goldie.” He took Steve’s hand, but instead of shaking it, he flipped it around and brought Steve’s knuckles to his lips. “Eddie Munson, at your service. Son of No One.”
-.-.-.-
Steve wasn’t shocked to learn the identity of the missing kid. Honestly, he was embarrassed he didn’t piece it together sooner.
The week before the kid went missing, Steve saw three grannies cut a string, and knew the kid was destined to die.
Hawkins Middle was located right next to the high school. Coach let them out early from basketball practice, so Steve just reached his car when the middle schoolers got out of school. As he opened the car door, he felt an itch down his spine, the kind that screamed danger, monster, get away!
But that couldn’t be right. Because there were no monsters in Hawkins.
An instinct was an instinct, and he scrambled for the dagger in his glove compartment. That’s when he saw them: three frail old ladies sitting on a park bench facing the middle school, knitting the most horrendous sweater. The one on the left, managing the balls of yarn, was completely failing at her job. The tangle of knots in the different yarns was so extreme, it almost looked intentional.
Steve abandoned the dagger, jamming his keys into the ignition. If Steve had to guess, those demon grannies were about to go scissor crazy on that knot, and Steve didn’t want to be anywhere near them when they did.
But then he saw it.
A scrawny, mousy middle schooler with a horrendous case of Bowl Cut Syndrome stared directly at the grannies. Not through them or around them like everyone else. Right. At. Them. To make it worse, the kid stumbled into the street, walking forward like a mystified zombie.
Steve shouldn’t care. He should flee before something terrible happened. But…
He laid on his horn. “Hey, kid! Get out of the road!”
The kid jolted, teetering, and his swarm of Shitty Haircut buddies got their heads out of their asses quick enough to pull their friend out of the road. Steve threw his car into gear and sped out of the parking lot like it was a motor freeway. Even with the growl of his engine and the radio blaring, Steve still heard it.
Snip.
He risked a glance in his rearview mirror. The park bench was empty; the three grannies vanished into thin air.
There was no omen worse than a visit from the Fates. He knew Bowl Cut Kid’s fate was sealed a week before he disappeared. He just didn’t know the kid’s name until he saw his brother hanging ‘missing’ posters on the bulletin.
Will Byers.
The kid saw the Fates. There was no denying it. At best, the kid was a clear-sighted mortal. At worst, the kid was like Steve. An unlucky offspring of mortals and (asshole) immortals. A half-blood.
A demigod.
If there was any hope the kid was still alive (and to be frank, there was very little), Steve hoped it was the former. Because, infamously, unlike their godly parent, demigods were not known for their prolonged lifespans. In fact, many demigods never reached adulthood. The world was a walking hellscape filled with monsters hungry for a half-blood steak, or arrogant, trigger-happy gods with petty grudges, or quests for glory that always turned gory, or…well, you get the idea.
“Steve? Are you okay?”
Steve blinked, meeting Nancy’s worried gaze. Behind her, Tommy and Carol eyed him with disgruntled frowns. Beyond them stood Jonathan Byers, not-so-subtly watching their group as he finished pinning a flyer with his brother’s picture to a bulletin board. Apparently, Steve stared long enough for everyone to notice. That was a problem. He probably looked like a freak.
What were they talking about? Party at his place? Another one of Tommy and Carol’s ideas. Steve only agreed so he wouldn’t be home alone…and maybe, just maybe, he could convince Nancy to join them.
Steve flashed his signature smile, the blinding kind that made any mortal weak in the knees. “I’m fine, Nancy. Just thinking…”
Tommy snorted. “That’s a first.”
“Don’t be a dick, dude,” said Steve, lightly whacking his friend's shoulder. “I just…feel a little bad, you know?”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Why? It’s not like you have anything to do with the freak’s missing brother.”
But didn’t he? He was the one who prayed for a sign, something to lead him back on track, so he could finally finish this stupid quest. Was that why the Fates appeared in front of Baby Byers? Was this tragedy supposed to be the shitty answer to Steve’s prayers? Find who took the kid, find why there are no monsters in Hawkins?
So, yeah. Steve felt kinda fucking guilty.
He should drop the topic. Go back to planning a stupid party in his stupid, empty house. That was the normal thing to do.
“Should we say something?” Nancy asked, because she was beautiful, heart and soul included.
Will Byers’ disappearance wasn’t normal. Kids don’t go missing in Hawkins. Even if there were no monsters, the Fates don’t appear for normal reasons.
“Why not?” Steve said, nodding for Nancy to lead the way.
Jonathan’s eyes flickered between them as they approached, tense as cornered prey. Steve smiled, soft and honey sweet, all wrapped in the Mist, but the panic in Jonathan’s eyes only intensified.
Well. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Hey,” Nancy greeted gently. “I just…we wanted to say…we’re sorry about everything.”
Jonathan’s shoulders pulled a little away from his ears. Feeling the kid might not immediately flee, Steve added, “Yeah, man. Something like this, happening to your family…I know it sucks.”
Jonathan huffed. “You know? Really, Harrington?”
It was a sunny day. Not a cloud marring the pinkish morning sky. The ocean, crystalline blue and white foam. The grass, pear green and blood-stained red.
“It’s okay, Marco. You’re okay. Chiron is coming. Eyes open, yeah? Shit. The trees! C’mon, what color are the trees, dude?”
“Gold…” A shaky thumb brushed against Steve’s cheekbone, leaving a warm, sticky trail.
“Hey, hey, don’t worry about that. Just monster dust. Focus on the trees.”
Marco’s eyes, glossy and pained, darted everywhere but the treeline. “Mon…ster?”
“It’s gone. You killed it, remember? You saved us. You’re a hero.”
“A hero…” Marco’s eyes finally steadied, his gaze further away than ever. “The trees…they’re…”
“He didn’t- he meant…you know. We can only imagine…” Nancy's voice dragged him back to reality. Again. Steve didn’t have the energy to cover it up with a smile this time.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m sure he’s okay. Hawkins is a safe place.”
Jonathan squinted skeptically. “Maybe for people like you, Harrington.”
Steve didn’t laugh, because that would be weird. But gods, it was hard to keep it in.
The bell rang before anyone could say more. Nancy stuttered awkwardly about getting to her chem test. Jonathan nodded and mumbled something about hanging flyers before slipping out the school doors. Steve lingered at the bulletin, committing the flyer to memory.
Will Byers. Age 12. 4’9”
Common age for new arrivals at camp. A demigod’s scent grew stronger at puberty.
Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, 73lbs.
But Steve wasn’t aware of any Seekers in the area. And even if there were, and Will Byers was a half-blood, there was no way to smuggle him out of Hawkins.
That was the cost, wasn’t it?
Any information, call Joyce Byers 555-0141
There were no monsters in Hawkins.
And no demigods could leave.
“If you really care that much, Harrington, why don’t you join the search parties? Oh, wait, that’s right. Too busy hosting a royal banquet in your palace, huh?”
The hallways were empty at this point, but like always, Steve couldn’t shake one annoying little pest.
“Don’t see you scrambling to lead the charge, Munson. Oh, wait, that’s right, you’re too busy stalking me, apparently.”
Eddie leaned back against the bulletin with a crooked grin. He reeked of smoke and weed, like always.
“What can I say? I am but a mere mortal, cursed to coexist in the presence of the gods’ special little flower. The most brilliant blossom in the garden,” Eddie gestured grandly to Steve, and to himself, “and the dirt on the bottom of the gardener’s boot.”
Steve bit his tongue. “Sure. If you say so.”
He turned heel to leave, but of course, Eddie never let him off so easily.
“What? You disagree?”
“Not doing this with you again, Munson.”
“Hmm. No, no, you’re right, it’s far too aggrandizing. Dirt on the gardener’s boot? Like the gardeners would ever allow me so intimately in their presence. I’m more like the rock they dug up and threw out.”
“Or the weed that keeps regrowing,” Steve muttered under his breath, before saying more clearly, “Don’t you have Algebra II to go fail again?”
Eddie laughed, sharp and obnoxious. “Low blow, especially coming from you. King Steve, rule the scholar he does not.” He took a wide step out in front, forcing them both to stop face-to-face. Steve huffed, rolling his eyes, which only made Eddie’s smile widen. “If you really want me to fuck off, why don’t you make me? C’mon. We both know you can.”
When Eddie got worked up like this — the twisted smile, the bitter tone, the baiting jabs — it brought Steve right back to seven years ago. His entire first year at camp, he trailed after the boy who wore a leather jacket and challenged the gods at every turn. Back then, Eddie directed his spite towards everyone but Steve. Steve felt special. He liked feeling special to Eddie. Liked seeing the curly peach wisps extending past Eddie’s already impressive mane of hair.
It broke a piece of Steve. The day those peach wisps disappeared, and Eddie aimed his spite at Steve.
To this day, Steve’s not sure Eddie knew how close he came to death. How Aphrodite nearly ripped the boy’s heart straight from his chest, if not for Steve’s pleas.
“I should’ve let her,” he mumbled bitterly. Unfortunately, he didn’t mean it. Even when Eddie was being a total dick.
“Come again, Your Majesty?”
Steve clicked his tongue and met Eddie’s dark eyes. “We both know I’m not going to do that to you, Munson.”
Eddie blinked, smirk dropping and brow furrowing. For once, Eddie was on the back foot. Steve took his victory and stepped back.
“I gotta get to class, man.”
A strong grip caught his bicep. “Wait, Harrington.” The jesting tilt to Eddie’s voice was gone, and his expression grim. “This missing kid — you think it’s involved in…you know. Our bullshit?”
Steve paused, unsure how much he cared to share with Eddie. They might both be demigods, but they were hardly allies. Not anymore.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Family tree fiasco?”
“Maybe? Right age. But…”
“Can’t leave.” Eddie gnawed on his cuticles. Like any proper child of Aphrodite, Steve couldn’t help but wince. “That’s a good thing, right? Easier to find if he’s in Hawkins.”
“And if he’s in Hawkins, it can’t be monsters.”
“You mean, not our monsters. Mortals got plenty of monsters of their own!” Eddie kicked at the nearby trophy case for the basketball team. “Isn’t that right, ya assholes!”
“Geez, chill, dude!” Steve hissed, ducking his head. “Listen, we should go before someone sees us. We can discuss this later, but only if you promise not to fly off the handle like a massive weirdo, got it?”
Eddie scoffed. The sharp tilt returned. “Right. Yeah. See, I know it’s hard to wrap your head around, Golden Boy, but not all of us can hide behind the Mist. Not all of us are blessed by mommy to have super special glamor and charmspeak to make everyone like us. Some of us will always be massive weirdo freaks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.”
Eddie bowed, deep and dramatic, and marched down the hall before Steve could get another word in.
“What an asshole,” he groaned. It was infuriating. No, worse. It was outrageous. Even monsters knew how to blend in!
How did his sister put it once? Hanging around Munson was like standing in the archery field with a bullseye on your face. It didn’t matter if there were no monsters in Hawkins. Every demigod knew there were far worse things than monsters out there, and Eddie seemed determined to paint himself into the largest target in the world. Practically begging, please, gods, smite me down!
Truly. Of all people from camp — from all of Mythology, really — to be stuck in a mundane prison with, Steve couldn’t think of a worse person than Eddie Fucking Munson.