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"Really, guys?" Steve knows he's whining, he does, he can tell from the way Mike raises a brow, incredulous. "What is so special about Sunday? Why do we all have to have a Dnd game at my house?" He's scrubbing a tired hand down his face, palm landing on his mouth.
He hated being in his house - his parent's house. It was too big and too empty, the white walls devoid of any love or memories, there was maybe a single picture frame in the whole house, and it was in Steve's bedroom. Steve slept in his car when he could manage it, cannot stand the way the pool feels like it's taunting him with the echos of screams and blood. It hasn't been used since the incident, it was drained before the next summer. He shakes his head roughly to clear his thoughts.
"We're having one of our last campaigns," Dustin declares, with a finger pointed to the sky as if in triumph. "And we need room for the whole party to be there, everyone. We can't all fit in Mike's basement, or Eddie's trailer."
Steve snaps his fingers, an idea arose past the fog in his head, and his lips pull in a smile of victory. "Sunday is Mother's Day, so you guys have to be home, to celebrate with your moms."
The kids are exchanging looks at each other, silent for once in their damn lives, and Steve cocks his head to the side in confusion. Pursing his lips, he tries to open his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by Lucas.
"My parents are on vacation," he blurts, thumbs circling each other nervously. Which is true, Steve remembers that Lucas mentioned that a week or two before, remembers putting "Sinclair Vacation - pick up Lucas from school" on his little kitchen calendar starting Friday - which is today.
"Mine too," Mike nods, eyes wide, which Steve squints at. Since when have Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler ever been on vacation? Before he can retort, he's interrupted again.
"My mom is going to see her parents for Mother's Day," Dustin says, bouncing on his feet. Again, Claudia probably would have mentioned that to Steve, he thinks, because Dustin goes with Steve to the arcade after school on Thursdays, and she never said anything yesterday. His eyebrows are scrunching.
"I don't remember -"
"Dustin's mom told us a bit ago, I think she thought we would tell you, and we forgot." Max pipes up, and the rest of them nod vigorously. "Sorry."
"... O-okay?" Steve can't put a finger on it, but something is going on that the kids are not letting him know about. His nerves get the better of him, and he tugs on the hem of his red corduroy jacket once, then again when the anxiety doesn't quell at all. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs on the strands, puffing out an exhale. He doesn't notice the teens sharing looks again. "So everyone's moms are just suddenly out of town or busy Sunday?" He rips at his bottom lip with his teeth. "Even you, Mayfield?"
Max nods, and he doesn't even pry. He sighs, smoothing his sweaty palms over the ribbed texture in his jacket's fabric, and swallows.
"Alright," he murmurs, eyes darting between all the kids, and it hits him thick in the chest with warmth when he realizes they all are practically his kids. Four boys, two girls (Eleven, Hopper, Joyce, Nancy and Jonathan are in California; Joyce dropped Will off so he could spend the spring break with his friends, and Hopper wanted to see California with Eleven) which is the exact number of little nuggets he wished for, the ones he confessed to Nancy about. They come over while he's at work and hunker in the break room (much to Keith's griping), stuff themselves into his beamer and play their music loudly (he keeps tapes of their favorite bands in the glove box), and completely took over the family room in his basement. After everything with Vecna this year, even Eddie has joined. Eddie is older than Steve, and yet, Steve dotes on him just like the sixteen year olds in front of him: makes him lunches for their sessions, grabs him a six pack here or there, and sits on the phone with him when it's storming and the lights flicker too much for comfort. Steve supposes the high school flunkee needs someone like that in his life, and he doesn't mind doing it. And Robin - Robin is by all intents and purposes his soulmate (platonic! with a capital P!), so she goes wherever Steve goes. Maybe the ghostly house will feel warm for once, with so many loving people there. The idea relaxes him a bit, the pads of his fingers pulling gently at a loose string on the zipper of his jacket. Normally he likes to bring something small to eat at their sessions, because he doesn't trust the kids to actually eat anything of nutritional value unless it's given. Steve is nodding, voice light with caution. "What do you guys want me to make?"
"What?" The teens snap their heads towards him and all say in unison, and he reels back from the intensity.
"What do you guys want me to cook, or bake, or I-I don't know, for the game? I'm assuming you guys need something to eat cause normally those things take hours -"
"No!" This time Steve flinches from the shouting of the kids, spooked a little by their volume. His hands come up to his face reflexively (probably a habit from his numerous beatings, but he is not going to think about that right now, especially because he has an appointment with the neurologist next month about his vision issues and apparent hearing damage, and if he keeps thinking about it he's gonna panic, and he's already thinking about it. and panicking. fuck) and the teens all frown in worry.
He recovers quick, always has - and has to - and he clears his throat. "Okay?..."
"We uh," Dustin swallows, hands held together tight like he's keeping them from moving on their own accord, "we are making our own stuff for this one."
Steve wants to ask a million questions. Where are they making food at if not his house? What food are they making? Where are they getting the money to buy all this shit? He decides to keep his mouth screwed firmly shut though, when Max gives him a look that says to do just that. Giving up, he nods, a sigh on his lips as the small crowd of teenagers all give their own sighs of relief. He decides to ask one question: "What time are you guys coming?"
"Oh, probably not until later. Do you know what you're doing for the rest of the day?" Will says, and it's the first time the boy spoke up. Steve has been really proud of how far the teen has come since he was twelve. When Steve met him, he was about the skinniest thing he had ever seen, and his stare held the weight of the world (somehow, quite literally a whole world). He had just been a bundle of thin limbs and wet eyes. He still was much too thin for Steve's liking (he keeps sending him home with soup and dessert whenever he can, but he thinks Will is giving it to Jonathan who binges when he has the munchies) and there still definitely was a glassy-eyed stare there, but he holds himself together better and laughs a little louder, so Steve isn't complaining.
"Not really sure," Steve is worrying his lip between his teeth again, eyes down towards his feet. "Probably clean, or something?" He shrugs. "Maybe sleep in?"
"Sleeping in is a great idea!" Lucas says it just a tad too loud for it be casual, and if Steve wasn't paying attention he would've missed Max smacking him on the head. Flushing, he clears his throat and tries again. "'Cause, we might be there late, and we don't want to keep you up, you know?" He's scratching the back of his neck and Max is glaring hard at the ceiling.
"Right," Steve says with a tiny nod, and Lucas gives his best whatdoyoumeaniamsonormalrightnow smile with a thumbs up. Max sighs so loud that Steve thinks, absentmindedly, that if she were the big bad wolf, the Wheeler household would have been blown clean off the ground. He snorts to himself about it and watches the other boys send Lucas withering glares. Trying to keep them from ganging up on the poor boy, Steve holds his hands out placatingly. "I'll sleep in, I'll sleep in. Don't strain yourselves."
The kids nod vigorously again, this time with more purpose somehow, and it seems Lucas is back in their good graces.
What the hell is going on with them?
---
Steve spends that Saturday stressing a little - a lot. I mean, what the fuck are the kids plotting? He is pacing the entire front of Family Video, hands tugging at his hair and his little vest that has about five thousand pins on it (one is a Mr. Yuk pin he got from the children's hospital after taking Erica for her yearly exam, there's a Judas Priest one on his front pocket because Eddie squealed about "giving accessories to their Ken" - whatever that means - and one that says "BLOW IN MY EAR - I NEED A REFILL" that makes Robin lose her mind laughing; she has about ten thousand on her own vest, and Steve doesn't want her to feel awkward). His best friend follows him with her eyes, a small baggie of sour patch kids in her lap as she pops one or two into her mouth.
"I don't know about this Rob," he's practically squawking, he has been rambling for probably the whole shift and it's almost closing time, so his voice is hoarse. She's been snacking on their damaged goods for about the same amount of time, and Steve knows that if he stared at her while she popped another sour candy in her mouth he would see her tongue is dyed blue. "They were acting so weird."
"Lest I remind you," Robin halts in her chewing with a sour patch kid tucked into her cheek like a chipmunk, "you are concerned, that nerdy sixteen-year-olds, are acting weird." There's cheeto dust on the collar of her striped shirt and red-stained sugar crystals on her fingers as she flings her hand out in a quizzical motion, and Steve is using it as proof to make her point less valid.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, but," he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a mix between a sigh and a groan. "This is weird, Robin. Even for them." She sucks the sugar off her fingertips with a disgusting pop (Steve shudders a little bit about it, and Robin is smirking into her palm because she knows he hates when people eat loudly) and shoves herself up off her ass into a standing position.
"Stevie," she starts, her gross sticky hand touching his shoulder just so she can watch him grit his teeth about it, licking her lips as she smirks harder. "Even if they are hiding something, which honestly?" She shrugs super exaggeratedly, mussing up her tie as she does so. "I doubt, but if they are, what dangerous thing could they be hiding from you? What if they are just," Steve squints because he knows that look, he knows when Robin is making that sort of up-to-the-ceiling sideways glance that she's trying to think of something to say. "I don't know, really anxious about this last campaign?" Steve leans against the front counter on his elbows and curls his head forward, hair landing in his face and obscuring his view.
"Maybe," he mumbles into the countertop just as the entrance bell dings, and Robin's head snaps up, her lips breaking out into a grin.
"Hey public nuisance," she calls with a small quirk of her mouth.
"There's my favorite retail workers!" Eddie is shouting exuberantly into the tiny store as Steve finally looks up, fists pumped in the air. "Hey Janet," the metal-head blows a kiss at Robin, who catches it and clutches it to her heart. "Hey Brad," he purrs at Steve and waggles his brows, who scoffs and rolls his eyes, but it's fond.
"Hey, Eds."
"Are you guys pumped for the game tomorrow?" Steve is groaning, and Eddie's toothy grin wilts a little. Steve backpedals.
"No, sorry, sorry, we're pumped, totally, it's just," Steve is practically throwing up words right now. "The kids are being odd."
Eddie barks out a laugh, his head tilting back, and it earns him a small smile from Steve. "You're worried the rugrats are being odd? I think I'd strain myself if they did anything normal. Did you see what Mike was wearing to school on Wednesday?"
Steve did, he dropped him off at school that morning. He was wearing a polka dot shirt and striped pants, and Steve had to cough into his fist super hard and turn up the ABBA that was playing to conceal the fact that he was losing his shit over the kid's outfit choice. He supposes Eddie had a point.
"Yeah, okay, point proven."
"Yeah," Eddie repeats, leaning across the counter into Steve's space, because he never fully grasped the concept of personal bubbles (to be fair, Steve wasn't enforcing it, he thinks it helps with Eddie's whole i-almost-bled-to-death-in-an-alternate-dimension-so-im-scared-everyone-will-die-too thing, and he himself is a bit clingy). He taps twice with one finger in-between them like he's ringing a bell. "So don't worry your pretty little head, my liege." Steve snorts at the moniker, and Eddie grins impossibly wider when the former jock's smile gets a little bigger. "I will whip those rapscallions into shape should the need arise." He sniffs and juts his chin out with the air of a corrupt king. Steve is laughing now, shoulders shaking from it.
"Alright, alright," Steve raises his hands, palms out, like he's blocking himself from the onslaught of the older boy, but his smile gives him away. "You win, I must surrender and retreat my troops."
"Probably for the best, my king," Robin nods her head in mock defeat. "We have lost too many of our men." From the inside of her vest pocket she pulls out a very tiny white flag that she keeps just for occasions like this, and shakes it a little before putting it back. The flag never fails at its job, and the metal-head is laughing so hard he's squeaking, hands curled up and eyes scrunched shut in joy. The two employees grin back.
"Alas, my men and I have to take this victory with modesty and lick our wounds," Eddie waves his arms about in a flourish after he recovers. "I will have to discuss my negotiations with the King of Familial-Recordings at a later date. Shall I set my eyes upon thee come next sun up?"
Robin is cackling, wiping tears from her eyes with her messy hands. "See ya, Frank." The twenty year old's eyes light up in response, his smile is so big it looks like it hurts.
"Fare thee well, gentle-lady and gentleman, 'til our paths cross again."
The air left in the store as the bell rings Eddie's dramatic exit is warm with joy, and Steve sighs happily as he pulls his tapes that he had set aside earlier to his chest, getting ready to rewind them.
---
When Steve wakes up that Sunday morning, whole body curled in on himself like a dog's, it's to the smell of food cooking, specifically like bacon grease and butter. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, trying to decipher why it would smell like a busy diner in his empty house. He turns and reads his alarm clock: 9:00 am. Rolling the possible scenarios around in his head, he supposes the only logical reasoning is that one of the party members let themselves in. He had extra keys made for them, and he kept a spare one inside a little frog statue by the front door just in case. But why? He thought. Why would they be making breakfast at nine in the morning at his house?
He leans up, making an attempt to get out of bed, but before he can his bedroom door slams open and bounces off the wall. Steve squeaks and yanks his comforter over himself to hide his bare chest as Dustin and Max march into his room, each holding a plate of food and an added glass of orange juice in Dustin's other hand.
What the fuck?
The pair stop at the side of his bed, holding out the plates with butler-like poise. "Happy Mother's Day!" They're shouting in unison, and Steve's eyebrows disappear into his hairline once again.
"What?" He yelps, staring down at the plates of food now in his blanketed lap. It's an amalgamation of pancakes (they're super thin the way Steve likes, and his lip quivers with an intense feeling he cannot name right this second) piled high with syrup in the shape of a heart on top, bacon, toast, scrambled eggs (Steve can't stomach over-easy eggs much anymore, but he hadn't really told any of them that) and hash browns. He turns towards the two. "What is going on?"
"It's Mother's Day," Max says matter-of-factly, looking to the side quick like she does when she's a little nervous. "We wanted to celebrate with the party's mom."
Steve's vision blurs with the tears starting to form, voice warbling and breaking in his throat. "What about the campaign?"
"Oh my god," Dustin is slapping his hands over his eyes like he cannot bear to look at him. "It was a rouse. We lied. We needed you to be home so we could surprise you."
"What?" Steve is squeaking again, and he sucks in a breath, embarrassingly, as tears roll down his cheeks.
"Oh my god," It's Max's turn to cover her face in her hands. "Please just eat the food, Eddie spent like two hours cooking."
Steve chokes on nothing, jerking hard in surprise. He can feel a flush burst across his face and down his neck in response."Eddie??"
"Yeah, dude," Dustin shrugs, "he was insistent on making you breakfast in bed."
The blush on Steve's face deepens to a dark red, now dancing across the planes of his shoulders and chest. "Oh."
The kids are staring a little, but otherwise don't comment on it, fortunately for him. "Yeah, when you're done the rest of the party is in the living room." Max murmurs, nodding her head towards the door. "We'll meet you downstairs."
Steve hesitantly digs into the food after the teens leave, and makes a downright deplorable noise at how good it tastes. The pancakes were thin, crispy, but fluffy. The bacon's an assortment of both chewy and crunchy, like the metal-head wasn't sure which one Steve preferred. The toast (sourdough, his favorite) was lightly done with pads of butter still melting and swirling down the crust. The scrambled eggs weren't runny at all, and the shredded hash browns had a little bit of cheese mixed in with them just the way he liked. He mixes the hash browns and eggs together and piles them onto the toast, eating them like little sliders, chasing it down with orange juice - is that fucking fresh squeezed - before tucking into the pancakes and bacon. By the time he scrapes both plates empty and drinks the last of the juice, his head and chest are warm from his satiated appetite, and he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this, cozy and fed. But the rest of his little family are in his living room, waiting for him, so he swings his legs off the side of his mattress and pushes himself up to get dressed into something besides his briefs.
He's padding down the stairs in a soft tank top that says "only the meek get pinched, the bold survive" (Robin bought it for him for his birthday last year after he gushed about how much he loved Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and he cried) and some worn out, baggy sweatpants when the rest of the house's occupants notice him. They crowd him immediately.
"HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!" They cheer at him, and a fresh round of happy tears pour down his face like a damn faucet. Steve covers his face with his hands as he laughs at himself in embarrassment. He's squeezed from all sides by the kids, Robin and Eddie.
"Guys," he warbles, laughing wetly. "Guys you didn't have to -"
Robin cuts him off with a hush, head wagging side to side as she gently pries his hands from his teary face. "Oh, but we do, and we did," She tuts. The teens are nodding their heads into Steve's sides and front, gripping his tank top tight with loving fists. When his breathing finally calms, the kids pull away to give him space. Eddie is staring into Steve's eyes with such a fondness his own eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile. He waves his arms flippantly to the small crowd as if to say 'See? This is all for you!'
"Happy Mother's Day, sweetheart."
Steve flushes again so intensely that he can feel the heat bloom across his cheeks and collarbones. He breaks eye contact and looks down at his feet quickly. "Thanks, Eds," he murmurs.
"Yeah," the older boy is saying it just like he did the day prior at Family Video, a shrug on his shoulders and a matching flush. He clears his throat, swallows and his adam's apple bobs as it works. "Yeah."
Steve may hate his parent's house, with its sterile walls and lack of decor, its haunted corners and silent rooms - but right now, with his six kids and his two friends, he thinks he might be convinced he can love it. It's not hard to bask in the warm glow of the oven lights and easy, soft laughter of the party, especially like this. The ghost of forget-me-nots are quiet today, and Steve mouths a thank you to Miss Holland in Eddie's curly hair as her haunting grip on him loosens. He thinks maybe the first part of forgiving himself for everything starts tonight, with his family.