Chapter Text
Hair tended to tell you things.
People liked to pretend it was truer with women. That it meant something when a woman cut it short or let it grow, bleached it or got a perm. But that was misdirection. Women were expected to maintain it. Groom it. Wage daily war against it. The performance was basically mandatory.
Men, on the other hand, could opt out.
That was the secret.
Maintenance was optional. Balding waited in the distance like a tax no one could escape, and until it arrived, a man could ignore the whole subject entirely. Facial hair added an extra layer—who you wanted to be, what kind of authority you wanted to project, whether you were trying to look older, younger, dangerous, respectable. That was a choice.
And choice meant intention.
Men’s hair was full of secrets. Ambitions. Insecurities disguised as indifference.
Hopper had believed that since he was seventeen, damp from practice and standing in the locker room at Hawkins High School, watching boys with Brylcreem and combs talk about futures they had not yet earned and probably never would. The ones who lingered too long in front of the mirror usually wanted something. Approval. Attention. Power. From girls. From the world. From fathers who measured worth in inches and trophies.
Comparison was a ladder.
The mirror was the first rung.
You could measure a man by what he bothered to maintain.
And Steve Harrington bothered.
———
The rain had finally tired itself out.
For weeks it had come down sideways, then straight, then in heavy gray sheets that made the trees bow and the gutters overflow. The town had smelled like wet wood, oil, and crushed worms.
Now the storm had passed, and heat had settled over Hawkins like a damp, sticky hand pressed flat against the back of the neck.
The air didn’t move. It clung.
Hopper stood in the living room with a glass of water sweating in his palm and watched through the front window as the familiar BMW rolled up the driveway.
Date night.
He had completely forgotten.
The engine cut. The car idled in silence for a moment.
The door opened—but Steve didn’t get out right away.
He sat there.
One hand still on the steering wheel. The other lifting to the rearview mirror.
Hopper narrowed his eyes.
There it was.
The tilt of the chin. The precise rake of his fingers through thick brown hair. Then a little shake, like he was fluffing a pillow into compliance. He leaned closer to the mirror and squinted at himself. Leaned back. Leaned forward again.
Adjusted something Hopper couldn’t see.
Calculated.
It was subtle. That was what made it infuriating. That was the trick. No comb in sight. No slick shine. Just that artful mess—like he’d woken up handsome and decided not to argue with nature.
Hopper knew better.
It was maintenance disguised as luck.
Steve finally stepped out into the heat in faded jeans and a pale polo that fit with suspicious precision. Sunglasses perched on his nose. He stretched once—arms up, shirt straining at the shoulders just enough to suggest he’d done it on purpose.
Then his hand went back into his hair.
Quick check.
Satisfied.
Hopper grunted under his breath.
“You’re doing it again,” Joyce said from the coffee table, where her receipts had started forming small, unstable towers.
“I’m observing.”
“Uh-huh.”
She didn’t look up.
Steve was now on the porch and knocked—three polite taps, even though he’d been told multiple times by Joyce he didn’t have to. The knock was measured. Considered. Not too loud. Not tentative.
Hopper waited.
Five seconds.
Long enough to establish control.
It was five seconds too long.
Jonathan was already out of his room, irritation flashing across his face.
“Can’t you just open it?”
“I was getting there.”
“You weren’t.”
Jonathan reached the door first and pulled it open.
Sunlight spilled in around Steve’s silhouette.
Hopper watched Jonathan’s shoulders shift—just slightly. Something eased there. Something that had been there since morning.
“You’re late,” Jonathan said, but there was no heat in it.
“By three minutes,” Steve replied. “Traffic.”
“You’re our closest neighbor.”
“We live in a rural town, Byers. There was a tractor.”
Jonathan snorted despite himself.
Steve pushed his sunglasses up into his hair.
Strategic.
The hair held them perfectly.
Hopper felt a familiar irritation bloom in his chest.
There was something about the ease of it. The way Steve took up space without asking for it. The way things seemed to cooperate with him. Sunglasses obeyed. Fabric draped correctly. The world adjusted around him.
Jonathan, in contrast, wore his clothes like tools. Shirts that had survived work and chemical trays in darkrooms. Jeans that didn’t quite fit but functioned. His hair fell where it fell. He shoved it out of his eyes when it annoyed him. That was the extent of negotiation.
It was respectable practicality, though a lot of it was out of necessity and circumstance—Hopper understood that. For Jonathan, band T-shirts were an investment, not something he could buy on a whim.
He wore what worked. He didn’t preen. He didn’t linger in reflections.
And here was Steve Harrington, curated down to his socks.
Hopper’s stomach tightened with a thought he didn’t like.
What happens when he gets tired of it?
Of the shirts that weren’t always ironed. Joyce’s uneven haircuts Jonathan never bothered to fix. Of thrift-store denim and indifference to presentation. What if one day Steve started adjusting more than his own hair? What if he started correcting? Suggesting better jackets. Better cuts. Better—
“Evening, Chief. Mrs. Byers,” Steve said, bright and easy.
Joyce smiled. “Hi, honey.”
Hopper gave him a noncommittal grunt.
Jonathan stepped back. “I need a quick shower. Had to stay late.”
He was still in his work clothes. Sweat had darkened the collar.
“You’re fine,” Steve said immediately.
“I stink. You’ll regret it in the car.”
“I’ll roll down the window.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and disappeared down the hall. A moment later the bathroom door shut, and the pipes gurgled to life.
Steve stepped into the house and ended up hovering for a moment near the doorway like he wasn’t sure where to stand.
Like he knew he was tolerated, but was still measuring the perimeter.
His gaze drifted down the hallway toward the sound of the water.
“So,” Joyce said lightly, brushing dust from her thighs. “What’s the plan?”
“Burgers,” Steve said. “I owe him one.”
Hopper straightened. “You owe him?”
Steve shrugged. “Lost a bet.”
“What bet?”
Steve looked annoyingly innocent. Charming. “A stupid one.”
“What kind of stupid?”
“Uh. The kind where I lose and he gets to drown his fries in mayo.”
Hopper narrowed his eyes.
He did not want details.
He absolutely did not want any details.
Will emerged from his room like the word “fries” had summoned him. He eyed Steve with open curiosity.
“You’re just saying it was stupid because you lost.”
“Nah.”
“You lost on purpose then?”
“C’mon, man. That’s just slander.”
Joyce laughed softly.
Hopper didn’t.
He watched Steve carefully. The posture was relaxed. Grin easy. But there was something under it tonight. A tension that hadn’t been there when the rain kept them all trapped in one house.
He kept glancing toward the hallway.
Listening.
Waiting.
Good, Hopper thought grimly. Let him be nervous.
Steve reached up again, fingers brushing through his hair without thinking.
Will tracked the motion. “Why do you do that?”
Steve blinked. “Do what?”
“That.” Will gestured vaguely at Steve’s head. “The—” He made a little fluffing motion. Is it supposed to help?“
Hopper folded his arms.
Yes, he thought. Let’s dissect this. Let’s discuss the chemical warfare happening on that scalp. What exactly festered there?
Steve hesitated. “Habit.”
“You use a lot of stuff on it?”
The pipes rattled. The shower choked on itself. Jonathan cursed faintly at the temperature.
“Not as much as I used to,” Steve sighed, resigned.
Will squinted. “What did you used to use?”
Steve sighed like a man resigning himself to humiliation. “The Farrah Fawcett one.”
The room went still.
Hopper blinked slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The what?”
“Hairspray,” Steve clarified. “Farrah Fawcett. They stopped making it.”
Will made a small, strangled sound.
Hopper stared at Steve.
“Farrah Fawcett,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“The actress.”
“Yeah.”
“The one with the hair.”
“Yes.”
Hopper kept staring at him.
He had constructed an entire psychological profile around Steve Harrington’s hair. It had involved ego, competition, masculine posturing, and strategic presentation.
He had not factored in a Charlie’s Angel.
“You’re telling me,” Hopper said slowly, “that all that—” he pointed at Steve’s head, “—was sponsored by a feathered blonde from television.”
“It was very expensive,” Joyce added.
“What?”
“It was a good product,” Steve cut in defensively. “It had hold without crunch. Hair still moved. It wasn’t too heavy.”
Joyce bit her lip.
Will sat on the couch arm, leaned forward, fascinated. “Is that why it was so big in sophomore year?”
“It wasn’t big.”
“It kind of looked like you’d filled it with helium.”
“It was proportional.”
“To what?” Hopper asked.
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. “Look, I haven’t been able to find anything as good since. Everything else makes it too stiff. Or dirty looking real fast.”
Hopper imagined a can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray sitting in Harrington’s bathroom. A blonde woman smiling with energetic, sporty confidence, promising lift and bounce. Steve carefully misting himself like a delicate houseplant.
Something in Hopper’s brain broke.
The bathroom door opened.
Jonathan stepped back into the hallway in a clean shirt and different jeans, hair damp at the temples. He was tucking his shirt in without much thought. No fuss. No mirror time. Just clean.
Steve looked at him like the rest of them ceased to exist.
Hopper saw it.
The focus.
The way Steve’s gaze traveled. The rolled sleeves. The faint flush from the shower. The way the clean shirt softened the angles of him.
Jonathan stopped short. “What?”
“Nothing,” Steve said too quickly.
“Why are they staring at you like that?”
“I think I broke them with my choice of hairspray,” Steve muttered.
“You told them about Farrah?”
Hopper’s eye twitched.
“You knew?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan shrugged. “He complains about it constantly.”
Steve groaned. “I don’t.”
“You do. You still call it the golden standard. You say it had the right amount of structural integrity.”
“Structural integrity?” Hopper repeated weakly.
“Okay, those are Robin's words, not mine,” Steve said, deeply offended now. “It held shape in every weather. That’s not a crime. Now I’m living with this.”
He vaguely gestured at his hair like it had failed him.
Jonathan bit his lip, stepped closer without hesitation and slid his hand straight into it.
Then, with no warning, he ruffled it aggressively. The strands shot upward and wobbled between his fingers.
Jonathan smothered a snicker.
Steve froze for half a second.
The architecture collapsed.
And then he laughed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Trying a new one again?” Jonathan asked.
“No. I just used less.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jonathan dragged his fingers through it again, flattening one side entirely.
The sunglasses slipped from their perch and clattered to the floor.
Jonathan winced. “Sorry.”
Steve bent down, picked them up, and slid them into his back pocket.
He didn’t fix the hair.
It sat uneven now. Collapsed on one side. Sticking up on the other. Like a roofline still barely hanging on.
Hopper stared.
The boy who had adjusted himself in the mirror three separate times had just allowed the total structural collapse of his life’s work.
And he was smiling.
Smiling.
“You look ridiculous,” Jonathan said.
“That's your fault, man.”
“The wind might fix it. If you roll down the window and we drive fast enough.”
Steve flicked his ear. Jonathan shoved him lightly in return.
Hopper watched carefully.
The hair was awkward. Steve wasn’t correcting it. He wasn’t reaching for it.
Like he didn’t care.
“You boys going to eat or reenact gym class?”
“Burgers. Yeah,” Steve said again, quieter now.
Jonathan grabbed his keys.
They hadn’t spent much time here since the rainstorm ended. Not really. During the worst of it, they’d all been cooped up together. Wet shoes by the door. Power flickering. Shared dinners. Shared space.
Since the skies cleared, they’d defaulted elsewhere. Diners. Forest roads. Steve’s house with its air conditioning and pool.
Less tension humming in the walls.
This house had weight in it.
Jonathan paused at the door. “Don’t know when we’ll be back.”
“Not late. You’ve got work tomorrow,” Hopper said automatically.
Jonathan stiffened.
“We’re getting food,” he said evenly. “Not crossing state lines.”
Steve’s flickered quickly between them.
Hopper felt heat rise. “I’m just saying.”
“You’re always just saying.”
The words weren’t loud.
They were tired.
Shoulders had started to rise to his ears again. He was turtling. Starting to hunch over.
Will had disappeared from the living room the moment the tension had returned.
Silence stretched.
Steve reached for Jonathan’s hand like he wasn’t entirely aware he was doing it. Their fingers brushed. Jonathan didn’t pull away.
“Let’s go,” Steve said softly.
On the porch, Jonathan reached up again and smoothed Steve’s uneven hair back from his forehead.
Gentler this time. An apology woven into the touch.
Steve leaned into it, just slightly.
Then the door closed behind them and the house exhaled into silence.
Hopper stood staring at the empty space they’d occupied.
Farrah Fawcett.
Structural integrity.
Joyce watched him for a long moment.
“You’re pushing him again,” she said quietly, irritation starting to show. “He’s an adult. If he stays up too late, that’s on him.”
“I just want him safe.”
Joyce sighed and nodded. “I know.”
She paused.
“But he already thinks you don’t trust him. Or believe he can choose well.”
Outside, the BMW rumbled to life.
Through the window, he saw Steve in the driver’s seat.
Hair still uneven.
He hadn’t fixed it.
Not even a little.