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The first time it happens, Steve thinks he's dying.
It's a Tuesday in February, and he's supposed to be helping Dustin with his science fair project; something about electromagnetic fields that Steve doesn't remotely understand but pretends to follow because the kid lights up when he explains it. They're in the Henderson garage, surrounded by wire coils and batteries and a poster board that reads "ELECTROMAGNETIC INDUCTION: NOT JUST FOR MAD SCIENTISTS" in Dustin's enthusiastic block letters.
Steve's sitting on an overturned milk crate, nodding along, when the pain hits.
It's not like a headache. Steve's had plenty of headaches; dull, throbbing things that aspirin and water can chase away. This is different. This is a spike driven through his left temple, white-hot and relentless, like someone's taken an ice pick to the space behind his eye. His vision blurs at the edges, and suddenly Dustin's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater, words elongated and distorted into nonsense syllables.
"Steve? Steve, are you even listening?"
Steve tries to respond, tries to say something like "Yeah, kid, just give me a second," but what comes out is a garbled mess of sounds that don't connect to meaning. His mouth moves, tongue thick and useless, and the panic that floods through him is almost worse than the pain.
Dustin's face swims in front of him, features stretched and strange. "Steve? What's wrong with you?"
Steve stands up too fast. The garage tilts sideways, and he has to grab the workbench to keep from falling. The fluorescent light overhead is suddenly unbearable, stabbing into his skull with each flicker. Every sound is too loud - the hum of the light, Dustin's breathing, the distant bark of a dog three houses down. It's all drilling into his head, amplifying that spike of pain until he can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but press his palm against his temple and try not to throw up.
"I'm calling someone," Dustin says, already moving toward the door to the house, and Steve wants to tell him not to, wants to say he's fine, but he can't make his mouth work right. The words in his head won't translate to his tongue. When he tries again, all that comes out is a frustrated, wounded sound that makes Dustin's eyes go wide with fear.
"Okay, okay, just—just sit down, Steve. Don't move."
Steve sinks back onto the milk crate, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His left eye is watering uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheek even though he's not crying - not yet. The pain is building, a crescendo that he's sure is going to crack his skull open. This is it, he thinks wildly. Something's hemorrhaging in there, something's broken from all those hits, all those times his head met concrete or Russian fists or the Starcourt floor. Billy's fists. The Mind Flayer. It's all finally caught up with him, and he's going to die in Claudia Henderson's garage surrounded by science fair supplies.
He doesn't know how much time passes. Could be minutes, could be hours. Everything's fractured and wrong, time moving in strange stuttering jumps. At some point he hears the garage door open again, multiple voices overlapping, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard inside his skull.
"—called everyone, they're coming—"
"—what happened, did he hit his head again—"
"—just give him space—"
Steve recognizes the voices separately now: Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Max. The whole Party, or at least most of them. He tries to lift his head to tell them he's okay, but the movement sends a fresh wave of agony through his temple and he dry-heaves, nothing in his stomach to bring up.
"Jesus Christ." That's Max, dropping to her knees in front of him. Her hand is cool when she touches his shoulder. "Steve, can you hear me?"
He nods, or tries to. Even that small movement is excruciating.
"Is it your head?"
Another nod.
"Scale of one to ten?"
Steve holds up five fingers, then adds his other hand. Ten. A hundred. Infinite.
"Shit," Max breathes. She looks up at someone behind Steve. "Where the hell are the older kids?"
"Robin's closing the video store, she'll be here soon. Called the Wheelers' but Nancy must be at the library." Dustin's voice is high with stress. "What do we do? Should we take him to the hospital?"
"And tell them what?" Mike sounds scared, which makes Steve feel worse somehow. Mike never sounds scared. "That he got tortured by Russians six months ago and now his head hurts? They'll think we're insane."
"Maybe—maybe it's just a bad headache?" Lucas offers weakly.
Steve tries again to speak, to tell them he can't understand them properly, that words sound like soup, but what comes out is another garbled mess. The panic edges higher. He can hear himself making sounds that don't mean anything, syllables in the wrong order, and suddenly the humiliation of it all crashes over him and he realizes he's crying for real now, hot tears mixing with the ones already streaming from his watering eye.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Max's voice is gentle in a way he's never heard from her before. "You're okay, Steve. We've got you."
But he's not okay. He's broken in some fundamental way, and the evidence is right there in how he can't string together a simple sentence, can't make his mouth do what his brain is screaming at it to do. The fear is a living thing in his chest now, clawing at his lungs.
"Somebody get a towel or something, he's sweating through his shirt," Max orders, and there's the sound of scrambling footsteps. A moment later something soft and cool is draped over his shoulders. "Mike, kill that light. Now."
The fluorescent overhead clicks off, and the relief is immediate but minimal. The garage is still too bright with February afternoon sun filtering through the small window, and every particle of dust floating in the light beams feels like it's personally attacking his eyeballs.
"Is he having a stroke?" That's Will's voice, quiet and terrified, and Steve realizes distantly that Will must have just arrived. "My mom had a customer at Melvald's whose husband had a stroke, and he couldn't talk right after."
"He's twenty," Dustin snaps, but he sounds uncertain. "You don't have strokes when you're twenty."
"You do if you've been hit in the head a million times," Max counters.
Steve wants to tell them it's not a stroke, wants to explain, but he still can't make words work. The frustration builds until he lets out a choked sound that might be a sob, and he hates himself for it, hates that the kids are seeing him like this - useless and weak and falling apart in Claudia Henderson's garage.
"Move, all of you. Out of the way."
Robin's voice cuts through the chaos, and Steve's never been so grateful to hear another person in his life. There's the sound of shuffling as the kids make room, and then Robin's there, kneeling where Max was, her face swimming into his limited field of vision. She's still wearing her green Family Video vest, hair coming loose from her ponytail.
"Steve," she says quietly, and something in her voice makes him look up despite the pain it costs him. Her eyes are worried but calm, and she reaches out to gently tilt his chin up. "Can you understand me?"
He nods, just barely.
"Okay. Good. Can you talk?"
He tries. Opens his mouth and pushes air through his vocal cords, but what comes out is nonsense again, sounds that mean nothing. Robin's expression doesn't change except for a slight tightening around her eyes.
"Okay," she says again. "That's okay. Do you know where you are?"
He nods.
"Do you know who I am?"
Another nod.
"Does your head hurt?"
The most emphatic nod he can manage, which sends fireworks of agony through his skull. He must make some sound because Robin winces sympathetically.
"Scale of one to ten?"
He holds up both hands again, all fingers extended, and Robin's mouth presses into a thin line.
"Right." She sits back on her heels, thinking, then looks up at the assembled Party members. "Did anyone call his parents?"
"They're in Indianapolis for the week," Dustin supplies. "Some business thing."
"Course they are," Robin mutters. She looks back at Steve. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do. We're going to get you home, get you somewhere dark and quiet, and we're going to ride this out. Sound good?"
Steve wants to ask what "this" is, wants to know if he's dying, but he can't form the questions. Robin seems to read it in his face anyway.
"You're not having a stroke," she says firmly. "And you're not dying. I think—I think this might be a migraine. My aunt gets them sometimes. Really bad headaches, can't talk right, can't see right, whole nine yards. But they pass. Okay? They pass."
The relief that floods through Steve at her certainty is almost dizzying. Not dying. Not a stroke. It passes.
He nods, and Robin squeezes his shoulder.
"Max, grab his other side. We're gonna get him to my car." Robin helps Steve to his feet, and the world tilts dangerously before Max ducks under his other arm to steady him. "Dustin, call Steve's house in about an hour to check on him. The rest of you, go home. He's gonna be fine."
The walk to Robin's car is a nightmare. Every step jars his skull, sends fresh waves of pain radiating from that spike in his temple. The late afternoon sun is unbearable even with his eyes squeezed shut, and he can hear every sound in the neighborhood with painful clarity: a lawn mower two streets over, a basketball bouncing, someone's radio playing "Careless Whisper." It's all too much, all stabbing into his brain alongside the pain.
He loses time again in the car. Robin's talking to him, voice low and steady, but he can't track the words. Max is in the backseat, leaning forward between the seats, and he can feel her watching him with those sharp eyes. The car's movement makes his stomach lurch, and he has to close his eyes against another wave of nausea.
When they finally pull into his driveway, Steve's surprised he didn't throw up on Robin's upholstery. She and Max help him inside, and the house is blessedly dim with all the curtains drawn. His parents always close them when they leave for trips, paranoid about sun damage to the furniture.
"Upstairs?" Robin asks, and Steve manages to gesture toward the staircase.
Getting up the stairs is its own special kind of hell. Each step requires concentrated effort, and by the time they reach his bedroom, Steve's shaking with exhaustion and pain. Robin steers him toward the bed and he collapses onto it gratefully, immediately curling onto his side with his face pressed into the pillow.
"Max, curtains," Robin orders, and there's the sound of fabric sliding along rods as the room goes darker. "Bathroom?"
Steve waves vaguely toward the ensuite without lifting his head.
Robin's gone for a moment, and Steve can hear water running. When she comes back, she presses a cool, wet washcloth against the back of his neck, and the relief is immediate if temporary. Another washcloth, folded, gets placed gently over his eyes, blocking out what little light remains.
"Aspirin?" Robin asks, and Steve shakes his head fractionally. The idea of swallowing anything right now makes his stomach turn.
"Okay. Just... try to breathe. Try to relax."
Relax. Steve would laugh if he could make his mouth work. But Robin means well, and her hand is steady on his shoulder, grounding him as he tries to focus on breathing through the pain.
Max settles on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall. "I'm not leaving," she announces before anyone can ask. "Someone should stay in case it gets worse."
"I'm not going anywhere either," Robin says, and Steve feels her sit down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "We've got you, Steve. Just ride it out."
So he does. He lies there in the dark of his bedroom with a washcloth over his eyes, Robin's hand on his shoulder and Max's presence a solid comfort nearby, and he waits for the spike in his temple to stop trying to split his skull in half. Time moves strangely, measured only in waves of pain that crest and recede without ever fully disappearing.
At some point, an hour later, maybe two, he realizes he can understand Robin and Max's quiet conversation. The words are making sense again, slotting into place properly in his brain.
"—shouldn't last much longer, I don't think. My aunt's usually come out of it by now."
"What causes them?" Max asks.
"Head injuries, sometimes. Stress. Loud noises or bright lights. Could be a lot of things." Robin's thumb is tracing absent circles on Steve's shoulder blade through his shirt. "With everything he's been through... I'm surprised it took this long, honestly."
"Is he gonna get more of them?"
There's a pause. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably."
"That's fucked up," Max says bluntly.
"Yeah," Robin agrees. "Yeah, it really is."
Steve wants to tell them he's sorry, wants to apologize for scaring everyone, for crying in front of the kids, for being one more thing they have to worry about. But his mouth still doesn't feel like it's working properly, and he's so tired, exhausted down to his bones.
He must drift off at some point because the next thing he's aware of is the phone ringing downstairs, shrill and piercing even through the closed door. The pain has receded from that acute spike to a dull, throbbing ache that encompasses his entire head, and when he opens his eyes experimentally, the washcloth falling away, the room doesn't immediately try to kill him.
"I've got it," Robin says, already moving. He hears her footsteps on the stairs, then her muffled voice answering the phone. "Family Video— kidding, Harrington residence. Robin speaking."
Max shifts beside the bed. "How you feeling?"
"Like shit," Steve croaks, and his voice sounds like he's swallowed gravel, but at least the words come out right this time. "But better. Better than before."
"Can you talk normal now?"
"Think so." He pushes himself up slowly to sitting, and the room spins for a moment before settling. The pain is still there, a constant presence behind his eyes, but it's manageable now. Awful, but manageable. "How long was I out?"
"Couple hours. It's almost six." Max is watching him carefully, like she's expecting him to keel over at any moment. "That was really scary, you know. The not being able to talk thing."
"Yeah." Steve runs a hand over his face, feeling the dried salt tracks from tears he'd rather forget about. "Scared me too."
Robin comes back upstairs, and from the look on her face, she's not thrilled. "That was your mom."
Steve's stomach sinks. "What did she want?"
"Called to 'check in,'" Robin says, complete with air quotes. "I told her you were sleeping. She seemed... unconcerned when I mentioned you'd had a bad headache."
"Sounds about right." Steve's parents have never been particularly invested in his wellbeing, and after everything that happened last summer - the parts he could tell them about, anyway, the sanitized version where he got caught up in a fire at the mall - they'd seemed more annoyed by the disruption to their summer plans than concerned about their son's injuries. "She say when they'd be back?"
"Friday. Maybe." Robin sits back down on the bed, and the concern in her eyes makes Steve's chest tight. "Steve, that was really bad. Like, really bad. You couldn't talk, you were crying—"
"I know," Steve cuts her off, not wanting to relive it. "I know, okay? It was... I thought I was dying. Or having a stroke or something."
"You're twenty years old," Max says flatly. "You shouldn't have to worry about strokes."
"Well, most twenty-year-olds haven't had their heads used as punching bags as many times as I have." Steve tries for levity and fails. The reminder of everything that's led to this moment - Billy's fists, Russian soldiers, the Mind Flayer, even Jonathan Byers back in '83 - sits heavy in the room.
Robin's quiet for a moment, then: "I think you need to see a doctor."
"Robin—"
"I'm serious, Steve. This isn't normal. And if it happens again—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that." She's using her stubborn voice, the one that means she's not going to let this go. "My aunt gets these all the time. Like, once a month sometimes. And there's medication, treatments—"
"In Indianapolis, maybe. Or Chicago." Steve knows he sounds defeated, but he can't help it. The pain in his head is ebbing slowly, leaving behind exhaustion and the dregs of fear. "Hawkins Family Medical isn't exactly cutting edge, Rob. What are they gonna do, tell me to take some aspirin and lie down? I could've figured that out myself."
"So we go to Indianapolis. We make an appointment with a specialist or whatever."
"With what money?" Steve gestures vaguely at nothing. "My parents aren't gonna pay for that, and I'm making minimum wage at Family Video."
"Then we'll figure something out," Robin insists. "Steve, you can't just—you can't just live with this. What if it happens while you're driving? What if you're alone?"
The thought sends a chill through him. Being alone when the pain hit, unable to call for help, unable to make himself understood - it's a special kind of nightmare.
"I'll be careful," he says instead of admitting she's right.
Robin looks like she wants to argue more, but Max cuts in: "The kids are gonna want to help, you know. Dustin especially. He's probably already at the library researching migraines or whatever."
Steve groans, which sends a fresh spike of pain through his temples. "Great. That's exactly what I need."
But despite his sarcasm, there's something comforting about the idea of Dustin throwing himself into research mode, the Party rallying around him like they always do. It won't fix anything - won't make the pain go away or undo the damage that's been done - but it's something.
"You should eat something," Robin says, shifting into practical mode. "When's the last time you ate?"
Steve has to think about it. "Breakfast?"
"Jesus Christ, Steve." Robin's already standing, heading for the door. "I'm making you toast. Don't move."
"Wasn't planning on it," Steve mutters to her retreating back.
Max stays where she is, still watching him with those sharp eyes. After a moment, she says, "You know it's not your fault, right? That this happened."
Steve looks at her, this thirteen-year-old kid who's seen more horror than most adults, who watched her stepbrother die in front of her, who's had to be strong for so long. "Yeah," he lies. "I know."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push it either. They sit in silence until Robin comes back with toast and water, and Steve forces himself to eat even though his stomach is still unsettled, because he knows she won't leave until he does.
The toast stays down. The pain in his head remains but doesn't get worse. And when Max finally agrees to let Robin drive her home around eight, Steve is left alone in his too-big house with the knowledge that this might just be his life now - living on borrowed time between one headache and the next, waiting for his head to betray him again.
He's asleep before nine, exhausted by pain and fear, and doesn't hear the phone ring three more times as various members of the Party call to check on him.
The next time it happens in front of someone else is three weeks later.
Steve's at Family Video, halfway through a Tuesday afternoon shift, when he feels the familiar warning signs: a strange pressure behind his left eye, a creeping sense that something's wrong with the light. He's in the middle of rewinding a stack of returns when his vision starts to blur at the edges.
"Robin," he says quietly, and something in his voice makes her look up immediately from where she's restocking the candy display.
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Four right now. But it's getting worse."
Robin's already moving, flipping the sign on the door to "Back in 15 Minutes" despite it being the middle of the afternoon. "Back room. Now."
Steve doesn't argue. He abandons the rewinder and heads for the small break room behind the counter, Robin right behind him. The fluorescent lights back here are dimmer than the ones in the main store, but they still make him wince.
"Sit." Robin guides him to the old couch they've claimed from the furniture store's "free" pile, then disappears for a moment. She comes back with a wet paper towel and her jacket. "Lights off?"
"Please."
The room goes blessedly dark except for the sliver of light from under the door. Robin drapes her jacket over his head and shoulders, creating a makeshift cave, then presses the wet paper towel to the back of his neck.
"How long do we have before it gets bad?" she asks.
Steve's learned to recognize the stages now. This creeping pressure, the visual disturbances - he's got maybe twenty minutes before the real pain hits. "Not long. You should go back out front."
"Keith can cover if he gets back from lunch. I'm staying."
"Robin—"
"I'm staying, Steve." Her voice brooks no argument. "Just... try to relax. Breathe."
So Steve sits in the dark back room of Family Video with Robin's jacket over his head, breathing slowly and trying not to think about how this is his life now. Three weeks since the first migraine, and he's had two more since then - one mild enough that he could sleep it off, one that had him vomiting in his bathroom for an hour. He's started to recognize his triggers: not enough sleep, too much caffeine, certain smells. The fluorescent lights at work are a constant gamble.
The pressure behind his eye builds steadily, and Steve tracks its progress with grim familiarity. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The pain starts as a dull ache and sharpens incrementally, and he's just starting to wonder if he's going to be able to talk this time when the door to the back room opens.
"Hey, is Steve—oh." Keith's voice, uncertain. "Is he okay?"
"Migraine," Robin says shortly. "I've got it covered. Can you handle the front?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure." There's the sound of Keith retreating, and Steve would feel bad about it if he wasn't too busy trying not to throw up on Robin's jacket.
"You're doing great," Robin says, hand steady on his shoulder. They don't know it yet, but this will become their routine: Robin talking him through it, her presence a constant anchor as the pain tries to pull him under. "Just keep breathing. It'll pass."
It does pass, eventually. An hour later, Steve emerges from under the jacket, pale and shaky but functional. The pain's receded to a manageable throb, and he can see clearly again even if the light still makes him wince.
"You should go home," Robin says.
"I'm fine."
"Steve—"
"I'm fine," he repeats, more firmly this time. "It's not bad anymore. I can finish the shift."
Robin looks skeptical, but she doesn't push it. Steve knows he should probably go home, should rest, should do all the things that might prevent the next one. But going home means being alone with his thoughts, means admitting that he's not okay, and he's not ready to do that yet.
So he stays. He finishes rewinding the returns, helps Keith with the evening rush, reorganizes the horror section because some kids messed it up looking for Friday the 13th. The pain stays at a dull roar in the back of his skull, ignorable if he doesn't think about it too hard.
It's not until they're closing up, Keith already gone and Robin counting out the register, that she says, "You can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Pretending you're fine when you're not." She doesn't look at him, eyes on the bills she's sorting. "You had a migraine an hour and a half ago, Steve. You should be at home in bed, not reorganizing horror movies."
"I told you, I'm fine—"
"You're not fine!" Robin slams the cash drawer shut, and the sound makes Steve flinch. "You're not fine, and pretending you are isn't going to make this go away. You need help, real help, and you're too stubborn to admit it."
Steve stares at her, something hot and defensive rising in his chest. "What do you want me to do, Robin? Go to the doctor and get told there's nothing they can do? Spend money I don't have on appointments that won't help?"
"I want you to try!" Robin's eyes are bright with frustration and something that might be fear. "I want you to stop acting like you can just tough this out by yourself. You've got people who care about you, Steve. Let us help."
"I'm not—" Steve stops, swallows hard. "I'm not trying to shut you out."
"Then stop doing it anyway." Robin's voice softens. "We're a team, remember? You and me against the world, or whatever. That includes this too."
Steve knows she's right. Has known it since the first migraine, if he's being honest. But there's something about admitting he needs help, about acknowledging that his body's betrayed him in yet another way, that makes him feel weak in a way he hates.
"Okay," he says finally. "Okay. I'll... I'll try."
Robin nods, satisfied. "Good. Because Dustin called the store three times today asking about neurology articles, and I think he's about two days away from showing up with a binder full of research."
Despite everything, Steve laughs. "God help us all."
"Yeah," Robin agrees. "We're definitely gonna need it."
Dustin shows up that Saturday with a binder.
It's not just any binder - it's a three-inch monster, navy blue, with "MIGRAINE RESEARCH" written on the spine in careful block letters. Steve stares at it from his position on the couch, where he's been recovering from last night's migraine (a seven out of ten, triggered by the smell of his dad's cologne when he'd unwisely gone into his parents' room looking for quarters).
"Please tell me you didn't spend your allowance on medical journals," Steve says weakly.
"Don't be ridiculous." Dustin sets the binder on the coffee table with a thunk that makes Steve wince. "I used the library. And my mom's friend who's a nurse. And possibly I called the neurology department at Indianapolis General and pretended to be a very concerned grandson."
"Dustin—"
"Did you know," Dustin continues, ignoring him completely, "that migraines affect approximately 12% of the population, but the rate is significantly higher in people who've experienced traumatic brain injury? Which you definitely have. Multiple times."
"I'm aware," Steve says dryly.
"Are you aware that there are specific triggers you should be avoiding? Caffeine, for one." Dustin eyes the can of Coke on the coffee table with disapproval. "That's literally one of the worst things you can consume."
"It helps sometimes," Steve argues, even though he knows it's a losing battle.
"It helps until it doesn't." Dustin flips open the binder to a page marked with a neon pink tab. "See? Right here. 'Caffeine can provide temporary relief but often leads to rebound headaches.' You're making it worse, Steve."
Steve looks at Robin, who's watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement from the armchair. "Help me."
"Sorry, dude. You're on your own." She's trying not to smile. "I tried to warn you."
Dustin's just getting started. He walks Steve through the binder page by page: triggers to avoid (caffeine, lack of sleep, stress, certain foods, strong smells), potential treatments (cool compresses, dark rooms, silence, something called "biofeedback" that sounds like sci-fi), and a truly wild array of home remedies that his mom's nurse friend swears by.
"Peppermint oil on the temples," Dustin reads off. "Ginger tea for nausea. Ice packs wrapped in a specific kind of towel - apparently the texture matters. And this one sounds weird, but supposedly putting your feet in hot water while holding an ice pack on your neck can help redirect blood flow."
"That sounds like something you made up," Steve says.
"I didn't make it up! It's called hydrotherapy, Steve. It's a real thing." Dustin looks affronted. "Do you want to feel better or not?"
"I want to not have migraines in the first place."
"Well, we're working with what we've got." Dustin softens slightly. "Look, I know this sucks. But there are things that might help, and you should at least try them. What've you got to lose?"
Steve looks at the binder, at Dustin's earnest face, at the careful notes and color-coded tabs that represent hours of research. The kid's thirteen years old and he's spent his Saturday compiling medical information because Steve's broken brain won't cooperate.
"Okay," Steve says quietly. "Okay, yeah. I'll try the weird remedies."
Dustin beams. "Excellent. I'm going to make a list of supplies you need to get. Robin, you're in charge of making sure he actually uses them."
"Aye aye, captain," Robin salutes.
"And Steve?" Dustin's expression turns serious. "You need to tell us when you're having one. No more of this suffering in silence bullshit."
"Language," Steve says automatically.
"I'll use whatever language I want when my friend is being an idiot about his health." Dustin crosses his arms. "Robin says you tried to work through one last week. That's not okay."
"Dustin—"
"Promise me. Promise you'll tell someone when it's happening."
Steve looks at him - this kid who's survived the Upside Down multiple times, who's brilliant and brave and caring in ways that make Steve's chest ache - and realizes he can't say no.
"I promise," he says. "No more suffering in silence."
"Good." Dustin nods, satisfied. "Now, let's talk about your sleep schedule, because Robin mentioned you've been staying up until two AM watching Carson, and that's definitely not helping..."
The remedies are hit or miss.
The peppermint oil makes Steve's bathroom smell like a candy cane factory, and he's not convinced it does anything except make his eyes water. The ginger tea is revolting but does help with the nausea. The ice pack/hot water combo sounds insane but actually provides some relief, though Steve feels ridiculous sitting on his bathroom floor with his feet in the tub and a towel-wrapped ice pack on his neck.
What helps most is having a plan. Dustin's binder becomes Steve's bible, and he starts tracking his migraines in a notebook Robin buys him: when they happen, how bad they are, what might have triggered them. Patterns emerge. Not enough sleep is a consistent trigger. So is the smell of his old laundry detergent, which leads to an awkward conversation with his mother about switching brands that she finds deeply annoying.
"It's the same detergent we've used for years, Steven," she says, exasperated, during one of their rare phone calls. She and his father are in Phoenix this time, some conference or golf trip or both. "I don't understand why it's suddenly a problem."
"It gives me migraines, Mom. The smell triggers them."
There's a pause. "That seems dramatic."
Steve closes his eyes, phone pressed to his ear, and tries not to scream. "It's not dramatic. It's a medical thing. The doctor said—"
"You went to a doctor?" Now she sounds actually concerned, though probably more about the bill than his health. "Steven, we've discussed this. You have insurance through my work, but the deductible—"
"I didn't go to a doctor," Steve lies, because the one time he did drag himself to Hawkins Family Medical, the doctor had been dismissive and unhelpful, suggesting he was exaggerating for attention. "I just need you to buy a different detergent. That's all."
His mother sighs like he's asked her to move mountains. "Fine. I'll have your father pick something up. Unscented, I suppose?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Mom."
She hangs up without saying goodbye, and Steve adds "parents don't get it" to his running list of frustrations.
But the kids get it. The Party rallies around him with the intensity they bring to everything, turning migraine management into a group project. Lucas starts calling before he visits to make sure it's a good day. Will draws him a careful diagram of pressure points that supposedly help with headaches. Max shows up one day with blackout curtains she "borrowed" from her mom's linen closet, and she and Robin spend an afternoon installing them in Steve's bedroom.
"Now you've got a proper cave to hide in," Max announces, surveying their work with satisfaction.
Mike, surprisingly, is the one who figures out the high-pitched sound trigger. Robin's messing with a walkie one afternoon at Steve's house when Steve suddenly goes pale and has to leave the room.
"What'd I do?" Robin asks, confused.
"The feedback," Mike explains, following Steve to find him in the kitchen with his hands over his ears. "When the walkies get too close to each other, they make that high-pitched whine. I think that's what set him off."
After that, there's a strict no-walkie rule in Steve's house. The kids grumble but comply, and Steve's grateful even though he feels guilty about it. They shouldn't have to tiptoe around him, shouldn't have to modify their behavior because his brain can't handle normal sounds.
"Stop it," Max says one day, catching his expression. "Stop feeling bad about it. It's not your fault, and we don't mind. Well, Mike minds, but Mike's an asshole, so who cares?"
"I heard that!" Mike calls from the other room.
"You were supposed to!" Max yells back, then looks at Steve. "Seriously. We're your friends. This is what friends do."
Steve thinks about how he never had friends like this before the Upside Down. How his King Steve era was all surface-level popularity and parties where nobody really knew him. How it took monsters and Russians and near-death experiences to find people who actually give a shit.
"Thanks," he says, and means it more than he can express.
The first time Steve has a migraine in front of Nancy is in April, two months into his new normal.
It happens at one of the group movie nights that have become a regular thing—the older kids and the Party crammed into the Wheelers' basement, supposedly watching The Breakfast Club but mostly just talking over it. Steve's been doing okay, hasn't had a bad one in almost a week, and he's relaxed enough to drink the Coke Jonathan passes him without thinking about it.
Mistake.
Twenty minutes later, he feels it starting. The pressure behind his eye, the way the TV's brightness suddenly seems aggressive. He tries to be subtle about it, tries to just quietly get up and leave, but his vision's already going blurry at the edges and he misjudges the distance to the coffee table. His shin cracks against it hard enough to make him stumble.
"Steve?" Nancy's voice, concerned.
"I'm fine," Steve says automatically, but his words are starting to slur slightly, that first sign that this is going to be a bad one. "Just gonna—gonna go."
"You're not fine." Nancy's up now, moving toward him, and Steve wants to tell her to back off but he can't make his mouth work right. The pain is building fast, faster than usual, and he sinks back onto the couch because his legs don't want to hold him anymore.
"Steve, talk to me. What's wrong? Is it your head?" Nancy's in front of him now, hands hovering like she wants to help but doesn't know how. "Jonathan, get his keys. We should take him to the hospital—"
"No hospital," Steve manages. "Just—Robin—"
"I'm here." Robin's suddenly there, and the relief is immediate. She knows what to do. "Nance, I need you to step back, okay? Give him some space."
"But—"
"Nancy." Robin's voice is firm. "I know you want to help, but right now you need to give him space and be quiet. Can you do that?"
Steve can't see Nancy's expression, can't see anything clearly now, but he hears her move away. Hears the murmur of voices as Robin presumably explains to everyone what's happening. The TV clicks off, and the basement goes quieter.
"Okay, Steve." Robin's hand on his shoulder, that familiar grounding touch. "Let's get you upstairs. Guest room okay?"
Steve nods fractionally. Robin and someone else—Jonathan, maybe, from the smell of his cologne—help him up the stairs. Each step is agony, jarring his skull, and by the time they get him to the guest room he's gone nonverbal completely, unable to form words even when he tries.
Nancy's there. He can hear her voice, high with stress: "Should I call 911? Jonathan, should we call—"
"He's okay," Robin says, but she sounds strained. "He gets these. Migraines. Really bad ones."
"This is more than a migraine, Robin, he can't talk—"
"It's part of it. It happens sometimes." Robin's getting him settled on the bed, pillows arranged to support his head. "Nancy, I need you to breathe, okay? You're not helping right now."
"I'm trying to help!" Nancy's voice cracks slightly. "I don't—what do I do? How do I help?"
"You can close those curtains. And maybe get a glass of water and a cool washcloth."
Nancy leaves, footsteps quick on the stairs, and Steve feels Robin sit down beside him.
"That didn't go great," she murmurs. "But she's just worried. Give her a minute."
Nancy comes back with the water and washcloth, and Robin arranges them appropriately. Then there's silence, and Steve can feel Nancy watching him, can sense her anxiety like a physical presence in the room.
"Can he hear us?" Nancy asks quietly.
"Yeah. He can hear fine, he just can't talk." Robin's hand is tracing those same absent circles on his shoulder blade. "And thinking is hard for him right now, so maybe let's just... quiet."
"Right. Okay." Nancy's quiet for a moment, then: "Does this happen a lot?"
"Often enough." Robin sounds tired. "Since Starcourt. All the head trauma finally caught up with him."
"God," Nancy breathes. "I didn't know. He never said—"
"He doesn't like to talk about it."
They fall silent after that, and Steve drifts in the pain, trying to breathe through it. The migraine peaks and eventually starts to recede, and after what might be an hour or might be three, he finds he can open his eyes without wanting to die.
Nancy's still there. She's sitting in the chair by the window, and when she sees him looking, she gets up immediately.
"Steve? Are you okay?"
"Better," he croaks. His voice sounds like sandpaper. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Nancy sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "I'm sorry I freaked out. I just—I didn't know what to do."
"Not your fault," Steve says. He manages a weak smile. "Wasn't exactly in a position to give instructions."
"Robin explained. About the migraines." Nancy's hands are twisted together in her lap. "Steve, why didn't you tell me?"
"Didn't want to worry you."
"Well, I'm worried anyway now, so that plan backfired." She tries for levity but her voice wavers. "You really scared me. When you couldn't talk, I thought—"
"Stroke," Steve finishes. "Yeah. I thought that too, the first time."
Nancy's quiet for a moment, then: "What can I do? To help, I mean. When this happens."
"Honestly? Not much." Steve shifts slightly, testing whether movement will make the pain worse. It doesn't. "Dark, quiet, wait it out. Robin's got it down to a science."
"There has to be something else. Medicine, or—"
"There's not." Steve cuts her off, not unkindly. "I've tried. This is just... this is how it is."
Nancy looks like she wants to argue, wants to fix it the way she fixes everything, but she holds back. Instead, she just nods. "Okay. But next time—if there is a next time—I won't panic. I promise."
"Appreciate it," Steve says, and means it.
Robin pokes her head in. "How're we doing?"
"Better. Not great, but better."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Three, maybe four."
"Good enough." Robin comes in fully, and Jonathan's behind her with another glass of water. "Drink this, then we're taking you home. Your adoring public downstairs is very worried."
"The kids are here?" Steve accepts the water, sips it slowly.
"Yep. Dustin made me promise to give him a full medical report." Robin rolls her eyes fondly. "He's probably gonna show up at your house tomorrow with more research."
"Course he is," Steve mutters, but there's affection in it.
Nancy helps him down the stairs, and the Party descends immediately. Lucas and Dustin flank him like bodyguards, Mike hovers awkwardly, Will offers to carry his jacket, Max and El watch with matching concerned expressions. It's overwhelming and touching and embarrassing all at once.
"I'm fine, guys," Steve tries to assure them. "Really. It was just a bad one."
"Was it a nine?" Dustin demands. "Scale of one to ten?"
"Like a seven. Maybe eight at the worst."
"That's not fine, Steve," Max says flatly. "That's the opposite of fine."
"I'm fine now," Steve amends. "The worst is over."
"Until the next time," Mike mutters, and Steve can't even argue because he's right.
Nancy walks them out to Robin's car, and before Steve can get in, she hugs him. It's brief but fierce, and when she pulls back, her eyes are bright.
"Take care of yourself," she says. "And let us help. Please."
"I will," Steve promises. "Thanks, Nance."
On the drive home, Robin says, "That was rough."
"Yeah."
"But Nancy handled it okay. Once she calmed down."
"Yeah," Steve agrees. "She did."
"She really cares about you, you know. They all do."
Steve looks out the window at Hawkins passing by, familiar streets and houses he's known his whole life, and thinks about the family he's found in the aftermath of monsters and nightmares. It doesn't fix the migraines, doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes it bearable. Makes him feel less alone.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know they do."
By summer, Steve's learned to live with it.
He's not good at it, exactly, but he's functional. He knows his triggers now, knows the warning signs, knows when to push through and when to give in. The kids have stopped treating every migraine like a crisis, though they still mother-hen him aggressively. Dustin's binder has grown to include new research (apparently there's a neurologist in Chicago doing studies on post-traumatic migraines, and Dustin's already written three letters requesting information). Robin's perfected the art of covering for him at work, and Keith's learned not to ask questions when Steve disappears into the back room with a wet paper towel and Robin's jacket.
His parents still don't get it. His mom buys the unscented detergent but makes pointed comments about how "sensitive" he's become. His dad suggests he's exaggerating, that maybe he should just toughen up, that headaches are just part of life. Steve's stopped trying to explain. They weren't there for the Russian torture or the mall fire or any of it. They don't get to have an opinion on what his body's doing in response to trauma they didn't witness.
It's a Saturday in June, hot and humid, when Steve wakes up with the familiar pressure behind his eye and knows it's going to be a bad day. He calls Robin before eight AM.
"Scale?" she asks immediately, voice rough with sleep.
"Starting at a four. Probably gonna get worse."
"Okay. I'll call Keith, tell him we're both out sick. You want me to come over?"
"Nah. I'll be okay." Steve's already moving through his routine: blackout curtains closed, ice pack from the freezer, peppermint oil that he's still not convinced does anything but makes him feel proactive. "Might try the hot water thing Dustin's so obsessed with."
"Call me every hour so I know you're alive."
"Yes, mom."
"I'm serious, Steve. Every hour."
"I will. Promise."
He hangs up and settles in for the long haul. The pain builds slowly but steadily, and by noon he's in the bathroom with his feet in the tub and an ice pack on his neck, feeling ridiculous but desperate. It helps a little. Maybe.
His phone rings at two PM, and he almost doesn't answer, but it's Dustin's number and the kid will just keep calling.
"H'lo?"
"Steve! Good, you can still talk. Scale of one to ten?"
"Six. Maybe seven." Steve's slurring slightly, words not quite connecting the way they should. "Why're you calling?"
"Because Robin called me and said you were having a bad day, so I'm coming over. I've got the stuff for that ginger tea and a new article about biofeedback that might help."
"Dustin, you don't have to—"
"I'm already on my bike. Be there in ten." Click.
Steve leans his head back against the bathroom wall and tries not to feel overwhelmed by the simple fact that a thirteen-year-old kid is biking across town because Steve's head is trying to split itself open. Tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve this kind of care, this kind of devotion.
Dustin shows up exactly ten minutes later, lets himself in with the spare key Steve gave him months ago, and finds Steve still in the bathroom.
"Okay, this is good," Dustin says, surveying the setup with approval. "Hot water, ice pack, you're doing the thing right. How's the pain?"
"Getting worse," Steve admits.
"Right. I'm making tea. Don't move."
Steve couldn't move if he wanted to. He listens to Dustin banging around in his kitchen, boiling water and rummaging through cabinets, and feels something in his chest ease slightly. Not the pain—that's still there, that's always there—but the loneliness of it. The fear that he's facing this alone.
Dustin comes back with tea that smells like ginger and honey, and he sits on the bathroom floor beside the tub.
"How bad is it really?"
"Seven point five," Steve says honestly. "Maybe eight."
"Shit."
"Language."
"You can't pull the language card when you're sitting in a bathtub with your feet in hot water because your brain is broken," Dustin points out. "That's not fair."
"Life's not fair," Steve says, and then, because the pain's making him loose-lipped and honest: "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, I did." Dustin sounds matter-of-fact about it. "You're my friend, Steve. And friends show up. Even when it's scary or hard or you're sitting in a bathroom looking like a sad wet cat."
"I don't look like a sad wet cat."
"You absolutely do." Dustin grins. "But that's okay. I like cats."
They sit there together, Dustin reading excerpts from his new article about biofeedback techniques, Steve sipping terrible ginger tea and trying to breathe through the pain. The migraine peaks around four PM, bad enough that Steve loses words again for a while, and Dustin just sits with him through it, keeping up a quiet running commentary about nothing important—the latest D&D campaign, Suzie's letters, plans for the summer. His voice is a lifeline, something to hold onto when the pain tries to pull Steve under.
By six, it's receding. By seven, Steve can think clearly enough to get out of the bathtub. Dustin helps him to the couch, brings him crackers and water, calls Robin to report that Steve's still alive and improving.
"She says she's coming over anyway," Dustin reports. "And she's bringing the Party. I think Max wanted to make sure you're okay, and you know how she gets."
"Stubborn," Steve says.
"You're one to talk."
They arrive like a small army: Robin with pizza, Max with more ice packs, Lucas with a stack of comics, Mike with reluctant concern on his face that he's trying to hide. Will's brought drawings, soft landscapes in blues and greens that are easy on Steve's still-sensitive eyes. Even El comes, and she sits beside him on the couch with her quiet, steady presence.
"You scared us," Max says bluntly. "When Dustin said it was a seven or eight."
"I'm okay now," Steve assures her. "It's getting better."
"But it'll happen again," Mike points out, and Steve can't argue with that.
"Yeah," he admits. "Probably. But I'll deal with it. We'll deal with it."
"Damn right we will," Robin says. She's setting up the pizza on the coffee table, and Steve's stomach turns slightly at the smell, but he appreciates the gesture. "We're a team, remember?"
Steve looks around at all of them—this strange, wonderful family that the Upside Down gave him—and feels something settle in his chest. The pain's still there, dull but persistent, and tomorrow he'll wake up knowing it could happen again at any time. But he won't face it alone.
"Yeah," he says softly. "We're a team."
Dustin grins and throws an arm around Steve's shoulders, careful not to jostle him too much. "Damn right we are. Now, who wants to watch a movie? I vote for something with minimal explosions and quiet dialogue."
"So nothing good," Max says.
"So something that won't make Steve's head explode," Dustin corrects. "There's a difference."
They bicker about it for a while, finally settling on something innocuous that Steve barely pays attention to. He's too busy watching them—his kids, his friends, his family—and thinking about how he'd go through all of it again, all the pain and fear and monsters, if it meant ending up here. With them.
The migraine doesn't come back that night. And when it does come back—because it will, he knows it will—Steve knows he won't face it alone. They'll be there, with their research binders and weird remedies and fierce, stubborn love, and that's enough.
It has to be enough.
For now, it is.