Chapter Text
Steve leaned back against his car in the Hawkins High parking lot that Monday morning like it was just another day, because for him it was.
He had been at the school since six a.m. Coach Lawrence had them running suicides until Steve’s legs burned and his lungs ached, but that was fine. That was normal. He rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness, and smiled when a couple of girls passed by and said hi. One of them lingered. Steve smiled wider.
Tommy and Carol finally joined him.
“What took you guys so long?” Steve asked, flicking his toothpick onto the asphalt.
They headed toward the building together. Steve nodded at the guys he knew, smiled at the girls, added a wink for a few special ones. Hawkins High bent around him easily, like it always did.
At the doors, Steve adjusted his hearing aid out of habit. The halls always got loud. He liked being ready for it.
Inside, the noise hit him all at once. Teenagers talking over one another, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. This was where he thrived. Hawkins High was his playground.
Then he heard it.
“Did you hear that the Byers kid didn’t come home yesterday?”
The words floated between two girls with matching scrunchies, their voices dropping to that specific pitch reserved for juicy gossip.
“I wonder what happened to him.”
“He probably ran away.”
Steve’s sneaker squeaked as he hesitated, just half a step. Something twisted under his ribs, sharp and sudden. Tommy glanced back at him, eyebrow raised.
“You good?” Tommy asked.
Steve swallowed and picked up his pace. “Coach went hard on me this morning. Had me running suicides.”
The excuse slid into place easily. Tommy snorted and turned back around.
As they moved through the hall, the words followed him.
“He ran away.”
“His brother’s a freak. Probably is too.”
“Who’s his brother?”
“Jonathan Byers. The weirdo with the camera.”
By the time Steve slid into his desk in first period, the words he didn’t come home had lodged themselves deep in his chest. He tapped his pen against his notebook. Once. Twice. Six times. The tightness eased just enough to breathe.
Mrs. Click cleared her throat at the front of the room.
“I’m sure you have all heard about William Byers,” she said carefully. “There is no cause for alarm.”
She pulled down the map and started the lesson. Chairs scraped. Pencils scratched. The classroom settled back into routine like nothing had happened.
Steve pressed his right foot into the floor. Then his left. No cause for alarm, he repeated silently, even as his stomach knotted tighter.
By lunchtime, Will Byers’ name was everywhere.
“Probably crashed his bike.”
“Heard he’s at his dad’s place in the city.”
“Have you seen his mom? She’s losing it.”
Each comment sanded the truth down further, softening the edges until it was easier to swallow. Steve picked at his fries, listening to Tommy talk about basketball, laughing a second too late at Carol’s joke about Mr. Clarke’s bowtie.
“You know how Joyce Byers is,” Carol said. “Always freaking out over nothing.”
Tommy nodded, mouth full. “Hopper will find him in no time.”
Steve’s fingers crinkled his sandwich bag too loudly. “It’s probably nothing,” he heard himself say.
The words felt hollow as they left his mouth.
Nancy slid into the seat across from him.
She didn’t smile.
“You heard about Will, right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Steve said. “People are talking.”
Nancy’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “Mike didn’t sleep. Not at all. He just kept pacing his room. My mom wouldn’t let him leave this morning, but he was a mess.” She swallowed. “Joyce keeps calling. She’s sure something’s wrong.”
That pressure under Steve’s ribs flared again, sudden and sharp. His hearing aid hissed faintly, a thin thread of static, and he adjusted it without thinking..
“They’ll find him,” he said. The words came out automatic. “Hopper’s on it.”
Nancy studied his face like she was looking for something he was not giving her. “He’s a kid, Steve.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
She stood, pulling her bag closer to her chest. “This isn’t nothing,” she said quietly.
Then she walked away.
The seat across from him stayed empty.
Steve left school alone that afternoon.
The Beemer’s silence pressed against his ears on the drive home. No music. Just the engine. His eyes caught on every flash of movement. A kid pedaling down Maple Street. The empty swing set at Hawkins Elementary. The abandoned bicycles outside the general store.
This is normal, he thought, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Just more aware today.
In his driveway, the engine died, but Steve didn’t move. One squeeze of the wheel. Two. He finally stepped out, the car door’s slam echoing across the empty yard.
Inside the house, he locked the door behind him. Twice.
The quiet settled in heavy and unmoving.
“It’s probably nothing,” Steve muttered.
It didn’t feel like nothing.