𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕

Her hands stilled against the desk, fingertips pressing lightly to the corner of her sticky note pad where she had been peeling it earlier. A soft, repetitive motion that grounded her. Now, she wasn’t sure she could keep doing it without feeling like it undermined what he had just shared with her.

The rumors were true. She nodded like she already knew. Not in the gossipy way, not in the Hawkins can't mind its own business way, but in the quiet way people know things when they've lived through different shades of it. Hurt had a language. And Tommy's didn't seem all that different.

"Thank you," she said. Not just for telling her, though that was part of it, but for staying. For trying. For letting her into a small subsection of his mind. "You didn't have to tell me any of that. I mean, you did, but not to me." Maybe Carol or his parents or a licensed therapist.

Her smile twitched then. It wasn't the performative one she gave teachers in the hallway or parents at open house night. It was the version of her that cracked through when she didn't have to try so hard to be a million perfect things all at once. The version that got to just be Chrissy Cunningham.

"I don’t think people need to be fixed,' Chrissy said it more to the room than directly to him. "It's sort of like paper," a hand grasped around one of the sticky notes, pulling it off the pad, and laying it in front of Tommy. She ripped an edge off, "See? Pieces can be ripped off," she ripped another piece off, "But, when you put them back together, you see all those little ridges?" She asked, but awaited no answer as she continued with her little analogy as she pushed the ripped edges back to the sticky note like a puzzle piece. A finger ran across the ridges as she looked at him. "It's never quite the same, but they can be put back together. A little messy, sure, but the foundation is still there."

Chrissy leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. "And I don't need any apology," she added after a moment, waving her hand around vaguely. "Not because you don't owe me one. You probably do. But mostly because this?" She motioned between them, to the conversation, to the flyers, to the ripped up sticky note. "This is better than an apology. Actions speak louder than words, and all that."

She swallowed. "You're not who you were in high school, Tommy and that's the real growth. That counts for something. It counts for a lot, actually." And she meant that. Chrissy may have given compliments out like candy, but when she gave them, she meant them. "I'm really proud of you."

tommy watched the paper: the torn edges, the way her fingers moved with so much care it made something tighten in his chest. he wasn’t used to people treating broken things like they were worth handling gently, most people just swept them into the trash and moved on but he could feel her words settle in, heavier than they sounded. i’m really proud of you. that kind of thing didn’t land easy, not when you were used to pity disguised as praise.

his first instinct was to push back, to make a joke, twist it, dull it into something he could carry without choking on it. he could already hear the version of himself that would’ve said something like, guess that makes one of us. he would’ve smirked. she would’ve smiled politely. they’d both move on, nothing deeper shared, no risk taken.

but he didn’t do that. he sat with it instead and let the quiet stretch between them as his eyes dropped to the sticky note on the desk - ripped, rearranged, imperfect. it wasn’t whole but it was still a piece of something, still recognisable. “i think,” he said slowly, like the words were being dragged out of him, “part of me always figured... if i fucked up enough, people would just stop expecting anything from me.. and then i wouldn’t have to keep disappointing them.”

he didn’t look up, but the tension in his jaw eased, like saying it out loud loosened something. “but you didn’t do that,” he added, after a second. “you didn’t sit there and remind me who i used to be. you just... listened. and i didn’t think that would matter as much as it does.”

his foot tapped once, then stopped - nervous energy with nowhere left to hide. “i don’t know how to be proud of myself yet,” he admitted, fingers pressing into the seam of his jeans. “but… i can try to believe you mean it.” it wasn’t a big, sweeping thing, just a line dropped into the quiet between them, like he wasn’t sure he’d even meant to say it out loud once again. his eyes drifted back to the sticky note, the torn edges pushed together into something recognisable, even if it would never be whole again. his mouth pulled into that half-smirk he used when he didn’t want to admit something was getting to him. “that thing’s probably a better metaphor for me than i wanna admit,” he muttered. “busted up, but… still kinda works.”

he leaned back a little, gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “most people wouldn’t bother having this conversation with me but you did.”

and that was the part that stuck - because he hadn’t made it easy back then. he’d been sharp with her, dismissive, they’d circled the same parties, the same people but never really each other. maybe they could’ve got along, if he hadn’t been so determined to hate her by association. if he hadn’t despised jason so much he couldn’t see past the company she kept.

“guess it’s… nice, having someone actually hear you out… are you sure these kids don’t trust you, cunningham?”

It was what Tommy was doing now, even if he swore he wasn't trying to get anything from her. What he sought was forgiveness, to relinquish the weight of the guilt he'd been carrying for years that he wouldn't have had to face had Nancy not come back home. For someone who'd worked so hard to let go of the past, granting silent passes of pardon to herself over the years, it felt different now to actually face it.

At this point, she would've preferred the silence.

"Tommy--" Nancy started before he could turn away completely, refraining from letting out a sigh. He thought she deserved more than silence, but what she wanted was something more closely resembling a fresh start; having left their past back where it belonged. She didn't need the song and dance, the silent compulsion for her to grant forgiveness like it was a wish.

"It's fine," she insisted. "It was a long time ago." It was, back when she thought she was responsible for her best friend's disappearance, and her worth had been attached to being his best friend's girlfriend.

The gossip he spoke of, though, wasn't something she'd been tuned into. Nancy had tried to remain out of the happenings of Hawkins while she'd been away, hoping that it might make her feel further away. "I didn't hear anything," she confirmed, curious now. It seemed like he'd hit a nerve of his own, deeper than Nancy wanted to dig. "For what it's worth, I don't think rumors should be anyone's business but your own. You know the truth." She meant it, having found herself at the end of her fair share, even ones started by the boy she was now trying to comfort.

he hears his name and stops - doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t spin on his heel, just halts in that slow, careful way people do when they’re not sure if they’re being called back or just caught out. and maybe that’s what this is - being caught in it. in all the years he ignored the shape of her discomfort, in all the ways he’s taken up space without even noticing.

he turns only slightly, not stepping closer. he keeps that distance like it’s something sacred - like it’s the only thing he can give her that might actually mean something. it’s fine. it was a long time ago. yeah. it was. back when he thought her name was a punchline and her pain wasn’t worth holding. back when the worst parts of himself still felt like armour.

tommy's gaze lifts again, not fully meeting hers, but not avoiding it either. there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes - maybe gratitude, maybe just the ache of not knowing how to say thank you without sounding like he’s making it about himself. “i appreciate you saying that,” he murmurs, slower this time. “i know you didn’t have to… you shouldn’t have to.” 

and maybe that should be the end of it. maybe that is all he’s earned. but there’s still something in him, something he hasn’t figured out how to let go of and it pushes its way to the surface before he can overthink it.

“look-” he starts, then pauses, tongue running briefly across the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to find the least pathetic version of what he’s about to say. “if you ever… need anything. i don’t mean that in some weird way. i just-” he exhales through his nose, slow. “i know this place doesn’t make it easy. and i know i didn’t either. so if anything ever comes up - your desk, the way the guys treat you, whatever - just… tell me. i can pull a few strings. make shit happen behind the scenes.”

he doesn’t expect her to take him up on it. not really. she’s nancy wheeler - all quiet tenacity and sharp elbows, trying to carve out something real in a place that still doesn’t know how to treat her. trying to earn it the hard way. the honest way. he respects that. of course he does. but that doesn’t change the facts. tommy’s got pull around here - not because he earned it, but because his name still opens doors and his father’s money built half the newsroom after starcourt burned. if something needed shifting - a better desk, a different byline, someone knocked down a peg - he could make it happen. quietly. efficiently. no one would question it.

he shrugs, almost like he’s brushing the offer off, even as he means every word of it. “not trying to fix the past or anything dramatic. i just figure the least i can do now is not look away if it starts happening again.”

But, he didn’t turn around, go back to where he belonged in the office, where their colleagues would entertain him with the kind of small talk Nancy couldn’t offer. 

Tommy never had to try to be a jackass, but trying not to be one hadn’t seemed to be his forte, much like taking her silent willing for him to return to his office. A quip nearly formed on her lips, stopped only by the shock of what was shaping up to seem like an apology. Nancy had been working at the Post for months, and now, in the middle of this article that was due before she left tonight, Tommy Hagan wanted to apologize for all the terror he’d caused her in high school.

Maybe it would’ve been endearing had it come sooner, or somewhere other than at her desk. As much as he didn’t mean to make things weird, he had managed to make Nancy feel as small as she had beneath the sign that had branded her a Slut for the whole town to see. 

“If you’re doing this because you’re trying to write something, and you want help, you don’t have to do … all of this,” she assured him. “I can just, y’know, help you. We’re professionals.” Because why else would Tommy be over here, giving an unprompted apology four years after they graduated high school, except if he wanted something from her? “And you don’t have to get me coffee, it’s—I can get my own coffee, Tommy. I’m just not getting coffee for anyone else in this office.”

tommy doesn’t say anything at first, mostly because he doesn’t know how. he just stands there, still rooted to the spot like something’s holding him there - not stubbornness, not pride, but something closer to shame. the kind that hits low in the gut and makes you suddenly aware of every inch of yourself, like the floor underneath you might buckle if you shift too fast.

it’s not the worst thing anyone’s said to him since he got clean. not by a long shot. but it might be the one that hits the deepest.

because of course she thinks he’s here to ask for something. of course she’s looking for the angle, the scam, the hidden motive. it’s what he would’ve expected, too, if the roles were reversed - if she had come up to him, out of nowhere, five years after high school with some weird half-apology and an offer for coffee. he has no idea what it must’ve taken for her to say that out loud, to hold the line like that and he’s not going to punish her for it. he’s not going to snap or scoff or throw back some self-deprecating defence. because the truth is, it did come late. and it was at her desk. her safe space.

he swallows around it. the silence. the fact that she still feels small in his presence - not because he’s trying to make her feel that way anymore, but because he once did it so thoroughly that the shape of it never really left. “i’m not writing anything,” he says eventually, voice low. not defensive - just steady, like he’s holding the words carefully. “not unless you count copy for the high school car wash this saturday.” he tries for a half-smile, but it doesn’t land. he’s not really joking anyway. “and i’m not trying to get anything from you. i mean that.”

he risks a glance up, meets her eyes for a moment - not long enough to challenge, but long enough to show he means it. long enough to let her see how much effort it’s taking him to stand there and not try to fix it with charm or deflection or the kind of cocky shrug he used to hide behind in the hallways at school. “i just thought maybe the person i used to treat like shit deserved more than silence.”

there’s a long pause. not loaded. just real. quiet in the way real things are. he looks back at her desk, not too closely - just enough to clock the amount of work she’s still got to do,, the fact that he’s standing here in the middle of it, bringing high school back into a space she’s clearly fought hard to make her own. “i dunno what rumours you’ve heard about me around hawkins these last few months,” he goes on, slower now. measured. honest. “or if you’ve heard nothing at all.”

he doesn’t offer an explanation beyond that, doesn’t mention rehab or flyers or the quiet panic of staying sober when the town only remembers your worst day. he figures if she’s heard anything, it’s already coloured how she sees him. if she hasn’t… well, that might be worse. it might mean he’s not even on the radar anymore. 

“just… for what it’s worth, this wasn’t about anything except-” he cuts himself off. not because the sentence wasn’t worth finishing, but because it started to sound like an excuse.

instead, he shifts one more step back, gives her her space and enough room to breathe again. “nevermind. have a good day, nancy.”

The smile that followed was a soft thing, unpolished. Not because she was trying to smooth things over, but because it felt almost surreal, hearing Tommy talk about bad coffee and lighting matches. It was like they had both stepped through some weird time warp and color her crazy for wanting to get to the bottom of it.

She reached for one of the granola bars anyway and slid it across the desk toward him. Barely a peace offering, but it felt like something. An olive branch of sorts. He hadn't apologized, not really, but it was enough to bridge the gap that Chrissy didn't have to verbalize that what happened in high school was okay.

"You know..." Chrissy trailed off, her fingers picking at the corner of her sticky note pad, "when I was first applying for this job, I remember staring at the application for almost twenty minutes straight trying to answer one of those 'why do you want to work with kids?' questions. And everything I wrote sounded fake. Way too professional, and then I just deleted the whole thing and just wrote, because nobody listened when I needed it."

She didn’t know why she said it out loud. Maybe because he had. Maybe because he had given her that space, unspoken, and she felt like she owed him something real in return. Chrissy was sensitive, vulnerable — that had never been a secret to anyone and it was both her greatest superpower and weakness. But, she never allowed herself to really say the truth. She was always too worried about everyone else.

Her eyes flicked up again and met his. "The flyers aren’t for nothing, Tommy," she said, earnestly. "Even if one kid turns it into a paper plane, maybe another one folds it up and hides it in their locker. Just in case."

Her next words came out like an afterthought, but they weren’t. "And for what it’s worth... we were all just kids. And terrified." Her gaze held his. It was gentle or pitying, it was just the truth. Everyone had their own crosses to bear, and Tommy was no different. "It doesn’t excuse anything, but it explains it."

She sat back and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We were all just trying to survive this place. Some of us were just better at hiding it than others." So, Tommy liked yelling and punching things in high school. Chrissy preferred to throw her lunch in the toilet and sob next to said toilet.

"You just have to better yourself. There's no amount of handing out flyers that will make it right, but you can move forward. Be better." And she didn’t say it, but she thought it: That’s all any of us are trying to do. Then, a little tentatively, "you are doing better, aren't you?"

he heard the question: you are doing better, aren’t you? and it landed like most things did lately: quiet, direct, impossible to ignore. it wasn’t judgemental, it wasn’t pitying and that almost made it worse. she meant it, or at least, she was trying to. he stared down at the stack of flyers on the desk, one of the corners creased where he’d pressed his thumb too hard. he smoothed it out again, just for something to do with his hands. anything to avoid letting them shake.

“yeah,” he said finally, the word sitting rough in his throat. “i’m… trying.” it wasn’t said like a performance, it wasn’t clean or polished or deflective. just quiet. honest in a way he didn’t mean for it to be. he rubbed a hand down his thigh, slow. not nervous. just restless. he paused. considered leaving it at that. but then, like it slipped out before he could stop it: “the rumours were true, by the way.”

tommy didn’t clarify. didn’t say rehab. didn’t say detox or facility or programme. he knew he didn’t need to, hawkins was small and people liked to talk. the kind of absence he’d had, long and quiet, didn’t go unnoticed. all he'd ever really wondered was which version of the story stuck. “it wasn’t my choice,” he added, almost under his breath. “not at first, anyway.”

his eyes flicked up to meet chrissy’s, then away again. never long. like he was still figuring out how much he could bear being seen. she was giving him the space to talk - and opening up to someone who knew how much of an asshole he was previously was weirdly something he needed. “everything kind of… blew up,” tommy went on, slower now, like each word had to earn its way out. “carol left me - not that i blame her. she waited longer than most people would’ve. she saw the worst of it and still stuck around longer than i ever deserved.” he shifted in the chair, shoulders rolling back like he could shake the weight of it off. but it didn’t move.

it settled in deeper, if anything - the quiet grief of losing something that had once felt inevitable. carol had been so tightly woven into the idea of his future that, for a long time, he didn’t know how to picture one without her. she’d been chaos, sure, but she’d also been there. someone to come home to, someone who knew how to read the silence in him without asking questions. he didn’t miss the yelling, or the walking on eggshells, or the way they both brought out the worst in each other near the end. but he missed the companionship. the feeling of not being alone in the world. he missed the version of himself that had believed, even through the wreckage, that she’d always be around. that no matter how bad he got, she’d come back. now she was just gone. and he was still learning how to carry the space she left behind.

“so yeah,” he said, eyes back on the flyers. “i’m better. maybe not fixed - whatever that even means - but i’m not falling over drunk in someone’s front yard anymore. and i’m showing up. which is more than i used to do.” his fingers drummed once against the armrest, then stilled.

“and i meant what i said, before,” tommy added, voice lower now. “i didn’t treat you right. not then. i lumped you in with people who never really saw me and didn’t give you a chance to be different. that’s on me but you’re here now. doing this job. being the person you are. and… i don’t know. it’s good."

Nancy had spent years mentally hoisting Tommy Hagan to the pedestal of a key villain in her story, the one whom she’d spent her fair share of time blaming for the downfall of her first real relationship. He was an easy scapegoat for her and Steve’s shortcomings, a target for blame before Nancy had been ready to accept her own place in her breakup. Tommy had never been nice to her, not even when she was Steve’s girlfriend; she certainly didn’t expect things to change now.

So, she’d kept her distance. Reporters didn’t need to interact with marketing anyway. It was abundantly clear to anyone who could see the Post on every front porch in Hawkins that it wasn’t the kind of business that needed advertising. But, if this was how Tommy’s father wanted to keep him occupied, so be it. Nancy would remain in her corner, sneaking quick glances toward the office that belonged to the boy who had made her life hell once she’d become Steve Harrington’s ex.

Nancy had seen him coming; she was always aware of his presence. But, her desk was never a destination, unless the passerby was the secretary or the lead editor’s assistant, who had to pass it on the way to the women’s restroom. 

Tommy had never once asked her what she’d been working on; it could’ve been something she’d place money on never happening. Maybe it was a prank, something he’d been put up to by the rest of the guys in the bullpen. “Yeah, I’m working on an article.” She paused, glancing toward the empty chair behind the front desk. “If you’ve come to ask for coffee, I don’t really do stuff like that anymore.”

he nods, slow and careful, like someone trying not to provoke a reaction they already know is coming. not because he’s surprised - not even a little - but because there’s something about hearing it aloud that lands heavier than he was ready for. she thinks he’s here to mess with her. a prank, maybe. a favour for the guys in the bullpen - and why wouldn’t she? it’s not like tommy’s ever given her a reason to expect anything else. he doesn’t blame her, not for a second.

he shifts his weight, one hand dragging across the back of his neck like it might ground him, like if he just presses hard enough he can smooth out whatever’s knotted in his chest. he doesn’t look at her directly - not because he’s ashamed to, though he is - but because there’s something in her voice that makes it harder to hold eye contact. like it’s too sharp. too knowing.

“yeah. no, i figured.” his voice is quieter than it was a moment ago, stripped down to something closer to real. he’s not trying to sound calm. he just is... or he’s pretending well enough to get by. his eyes drop to the desk - cluttered, but not in a way he can make sense of. papers, pens, maybe a folder, maybe nothing. he doesn’t linger on it. doesn’t pretend to understand the work she does or how she does it. he’s not here for that.

“just… trying not to be a jackass,” he mumbles, almost under his breath. “still working on that.” he huffs out a breath that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. his fingers twitch at his sides like they’re looking for something to hold but they don’t find it. “i didn’t come to bug you. or to make this weird. i just… i wanted to say i’m sorry. for how i treated you. back then.” he says it quietly, like it might break if he says it any louder. no excuses. no qualifiers. just the truth - as bare as it’s ever been.

and then, after a second, his voice catches slightly, not cracking, just uncertain. “...do you want coffee? i mean, i can get you something. if you want.” he shrugs, awkward, like he already knows how stupid it sounds. “i feel like i owe it to you.” he finally risks a glance up, not quite meeting her eyes, but close. just enough to show he means it. and he stays standing there - not expecting anything, not running from it either - just waiting, in all the awkward, quiet sincerity he can manage. he doesnt expect her to accept his apology - he really was an asshole. but he at least wants her to know he's being genuine.

with all tips counted and spread evenly into envelopes that would probably not even get picked up until next week he started onto another task, only distantly wondering how filling out an application for a weekend helping hand slash stock boy had turned into him totaling the register at the end of the day. at least his mixtape is still playing dimly over the speakers, and steve taps his pen along to the beat, barely registering the bell indicating that someone had entered the store. a glance at his watch, a deep sigh. there were always some stragglers, but five minutes before closing on a weekday feels more like a personal vendetta against steve above all else.

he can only hope whoever's come in knows exactly what they want, so this can be swift, in and out, and he can close up shop and collapse into bed before putting in his hours at the YMCA tomorrow morning.

he's deeply engrossed in a world of numbers and receipts, yet the sound of footsteps coming closer to the counter has him turn around swiftly with a customer service smile pulling at his lips in a sort of pavlovian response that is so deeply indoctrinated it takes a couple beats before his smile unavoidably begins to falter, then drops altogether. lips part around words that haven't yet manifested in his head, his brows draw together ever so slightly. the air suddenly feels so thick and static it's like a hole in the ground has opened up and he's fallen straight into the upside down.

but there's no flicker of lights, none of that prickling sensation at the back of his neck that will had mentioned. somewhere in the distance he hears marvin gaye's 'after the dance' come to an end, promptly transitioning into duran duran's 'save a prayer'. and somewhere in his immediate close vicinity, a few steps from the counter that seperates them both, there's tommy hagan.

the images that are immediately and unwillingly drawn up in the back of steve's mind aren't pretty. it's explosive fights, it's 'nancy the slut wheeler' sprayed onto the local movie theatre, it's tommy being complicit as billy hurls some insult his way in the hallways. steve blinks. whatever he wants to say is beyond words, could never be expressed by anything as feeble as speech. whoever said that breakups only hurt when it's a relationship is a fucking idiot.

"hey."

and somewhere he knows that he's absent-mindedly yet somehow purposefully been avoiding tommy for as long as possible. which feels weird, and mean for some reason. he glances down at tommy's items, and the slide show of memories starts up again, but this time they're sepia toned. and it's having sleepover's at steve's place, staying up into the wee hours of the night to craft up a game plan for a first date with carol, it's dunking each other in the pool until they're breathless with laughter. it's patching up fight wounds, sharing a joint on tina's roof, squeezing three people into a photo booth.

the way the Bubble Yum sits on the counter feels like it's taunting him. grinding his teeth he rings him up wordlessly. when he looks back up to announce the total, that's when it hits him - the face that looks back seem more like a stranger than an old friend. and that's because steve doesn't know tommy as an adult.

not that steve would necessarily call himself an adult, either. but the steve that tommy was best friends with had ceased to exist sometime around senior year, maybe even a little bit before that. and the remnants of the tommy he had known were hidden underneath a layer of something steve couldn't quite put his finger on - something that occasionally bubbled up to the surface, manifesting in a pack of Bubble Yum.

"great choice" is how he breaks the silence after what feels like eternity coming and going in the small distance between them. he nods, finding it unbearable to meet tommy's eye. "we also - we've got peach, too. somewhere around here. or - in the back, maybe. that's one's ... that's also good."

tommy shifts on his feet, the fluorescent lights above him somehow too bright and too dim at the same time. sweat prickles at the back of his neck, sticky beneath the collar of his jacket. everything feels too tight - his shirt, his skin, the space between them. he keeps his eyes on the counter, like maybe if he doesn’t look up, it won’t hurt so much. he used to be good at this, didn’t he? talking to steve? filling silence with nothing until it felt like something? now he can’t even figure out what to do with his hands.

he rocks back on his heels, eyes skimming the shelves like he just noticed where he is. beef jerky. off-brand cereal. this store doesn’t matter. the gum doesn’t matter. the coffee doesn't either. he didn’t come here for any of it, and he knows it now. he just didn’t want to go home, not to the quiet, not to the couch that dips wrong or the home that smells too clean or the bookshelf he reorganised twice last weekend just to have something to do with his hands. in here, under buzzing lights and a warped mixtape, it was easier to pretend things might still be simple.

he dares a glance up and regrets it immediately. he can’t sense any warmth on steve’s face. no anger, either. just distance — a flatness that twists something low in tommy’s gut. not rejection. he’s used to that. no, this is worse. this is unfamiliar. steve looking at him like they’ve never shared anything, like tommy isn’t the person who once knew him better than anyone else in the world. that version of steve, the one who didn’t make him feel small, is gone now - and maybe that’s fair. maybe tommy burned that bridge so thoroughly it’s not even ash anymore.

he leaves too fast, mumbles a thank-you without checking if it lands, and bolts for the door like someone might stop him. the bag sits in the passenger seat of his car like a punchline - gum and coffee and all his cowardice stuffed into one paper bag. tommy grips the wheel and presses his forehead to his hands, breath shallow and useless. he didn’t expect anything, not really, but part of him - the dumb, fragile part - hoped that just seeing steve again would click something into place and... it didn’t. it just made everything worse and it reminded him how long it’s been since he’s felt like someone knew him.

he almost turns the key in the ignition. almost. but his hand tightens around the wheel, and he swears under his breath because he knows what’ll happen if he drives away now. it’ll sit in his chest like it always does - cold and sharp and impossible to forget. he spent years pretending steve didn’t matter, told himself it was easier that way but it wasn’t true. it’s never been true. so he exhales, sharp and shaky, throws the keys onto the dash and forces himself back out into the cold.

the walk to the store feels longer than before. like every step is being measured. the bell above the door chimes again, louder this time, like a dare but he doesn’t even make it all the way to the counter. just a few slow steps in and then he stops, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets like they might hold him together. there’s no plan. no speech. just the burning in his chest that won’t let him leave this alone. his mouth is dry, his voice, when it comes, sounds wrong - too rough, too careful. calculated almost. “i know this is weird,” tommy says, staring at the floor. “but - can we talk? just.. a quick conversation?”

it’s helpless and awkward and honest, all at once. his fingers twitch in his pockets. every instinct in his body wants to run, but he holds his ground, because some things matter more than dignity. and steve? steve meant the world to tommy, even now. “i just-” he tries again, quieter now, “i have some things to say.” it sounds lame. it is lame but he means it - he’s meant it for a long time, he just never had the guts to say it. finally, he lifts his eyes. just for a second. and there it is - all the wreckage between them, waiting to be acknowledged. all the old versions of himself he doesn’t know how to apologise for. 

tommy knows this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. in group, they always said to wait for the right moment, to be respectful of boundaries, to make amends only when it’s safe - whatever that means. but no one ever told him what to do with the want, with the grief that lingers for people who aren’t dead but might as well be, with the way it eats at you on the quiet days, when your hands are clean but your heart still feels dirty. they told him to take responsibility, to be patient but they didn’t tell him how much it would ache to look someone in the eye and not know if they remember the version of you that wasn’t a total fuck-up. rehab gave him tools, sure... but it didn’t give him this - this silence, this suspended second where everything he’s ever ruined is looking right back at him, waiting to see if he’ll flinch.

“but no worries if not, dude. i know you got a job to do here ‘n stuff. i don't want to get you in trouble or anything.” 

"Oh... hi, Tommy," she greeted, easing into the conversation, a little taken by surprise. When had she last seen him? Sometime before she graduated, she was sure. "You’re not interrupting at all." Her eyes flicked to the stack of flyers as he set them down. They looked like every other thing the school handed out, but when Tommy seemed to smooth them out, she paused. Maybe he was just trying to keep his hands busy or maybe, just maybe, he cared a little bit.

"Thanks. I'm sure I've got a couple kids who might actually appreciate these," she said, smiling faintly. "The rest of 'em will just turn them into paper airplanes, but... you know. Can’t win them all." She glanced back up at him, studying the way he stood. Halfway in, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up space here. God, did she know that feeling. The first time she walked the halls again it felt like her lungs were working into overdrive to keep her upright.

"I think I do, yeah," she said with a nod. "I don't think the kids trust me quite yet." Which she couldn't blame them. That was her entire reason for applying for the position. She could count how many people had cycled through her very position and the ones who were no help at all. Of course she would be looked at the same way.

There was a pause, the kind she didn’t mind sitting in. Then, just before the silence turned awkward, she added with a tilt of her head, a hand reaching in front of her. "You wanna sit for a minute? I’ve got probably ten granola bars in that drawer over there. Completely untouched," a shrug. "You know, just in case you're pretending to care about nutrition now, too."

he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh - small, sharp, half a second too late. “depends,” he said, lingering by the drawer with a glance that didn’t match the lightness in his voice. “are we talking granola or gravel? ‘cause if it’s that one with the dried up raisins, might have to pass on principle.”

but he didn’t move toward the door. he sat down instead, like his body made the call before his brain could object. hands on his knees, jacket still zipped halfway up, like he wasn’t sure if he was staying or just taking a breather before disappearing again.

he looked around the office - not in a nosey way, more like he was taking stock. like being in that chair brought him back to a dozen others just like it, back when people only called him in when things had already gone sideways. same shitty plastic. same pitying voice across the desk. he’d hated it then. he hated that he still remembered.

“i used to hate these rooms,” he added after a moment, tone softer now. “they always smelled like dry erase markers and panic. like something bad already happened and you were the last one to find out.” he let out a quiet breath - not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “i’ve been in a few different versions of them lately. some with nicer chairs. worse coffee.”

his gaze flicked to the flyers, still sitting there untouched. like they were proof he was trying, like handing out neat stacks of printer paper could erase everything that came before. he almost laughed at the thought.

“the flyers aren’t much,” tommy mumbled, “but maybe they’re something. maybe some kid picks one up and thinks, hey - there’s a way out that doesn’t involve lighting a match and walking into the fire just to feel something.” his voice caught there. not cracked, not dramatic. just real. then, like a reflex: “or they’ll turn it into a paper plane and try to land it in your hair. which, fair. i would have done that too.”

his smile faded slowly, not all at once. just drained out of him like warmth leaving skin. he stared down at his hands again - calloused knuckles, bitten nails, the scar on the side of his finger from punching a wall he never told anyone about.

“i don’t think i was ever all that kind to you,” tommy said, quieter now. not an apology - not exactly. just a fact, offered plain. “i don’t think i was kind to anyone, really. not back then.” he shifted, sat back just enough that the chair creaked beneath him. “but i’m glad you’re here. in this room. with your dumb granola bars and your sticky notes and your soft voice. the kids might not trust you yet, but they will.” if only he had someone like chrissy cunningham in his life to look out for him back when he was in high school - maybe he would have straightened up quicker.

he doesn’t flinch when she screams - not really. his body jerks, sure, but only because it’s instinct, not surprise. the rest of him stays still, solid, like some part of him has been bracing for this since he first turned down the street. her voice cracks through the quiet like a whip, raw with fear and fury, and the crowbar gleams in the porch light, barbed wire catching in her grip. but he doesn’t raise a hand. doesn’t duck. just stands there, caught in the light like something already half-dead.

he’s used to being the one people back away from, not the one people charge. usually, he’s the one throwing the punch, saying the thing that cuts, walking off before the fallout starts. but this - being on the receiving end, standing still while someone else tears into something that matters - it’s not unfamiliar. but billy? billy could destroy a room with just his mood, could carve you up with a look and call it a joke, and tommy learned early on that it was easier to laugh than leave.

but max isn't like billy. at all. and that might be why he doesn’t move.

tommy watches her eyes when she sees him - watches the recognition crash into something else, something jagged, something painful - and then her gaze shifts to the box, and he knows what’s coming before she even moves. she’s not delicate, not even close. she hits like someone trying to exorcise something. like if she just swings hard enough, long enough, she might finally drive the ghost out of her chest.

he lets her.

not because he’s noble. because he thinks he deserves it.

by the time she storms back up the steps and spits the question at him—why the fuck would you bring that here?—he’s still in the same spot. unmoving. hollowed out. “i didn’t think you wanted it,” he says, eventually. his voice is low and rough, like something pulled up from the bottom of a lake. “didn’t even think you should have it. i just - didn’t know what else to do.” he laughs, dry and bitter, no humour in it.

“they’ve been in my car for months. backseat. i kept telling myself i’d throw them out, but every time i got close, i couldn’t do it. i thought about burning them. dumping them somewhere nobody would find them. leaving them on neil’s porch and letting him deal with it, but…” well, he didn't exactly know where neil was now. tommy shrugs, eyes still not quite meeting hers. “it felt wrong. and i know how that sounds - like i’m trying to make this noble or whatever. i’m not. i just didn’t want to make the choice for you.”

he crouches before she can respond, knees creaking slightly, fingers brushing broken pieces of the past into a pile without being asked. not careful - just steady. he works quietly, like someone who knows there’s no salvaging anything, but can’t leave it lying there either. not when the air smells faintly like the cologne billy used to drench himself in, the kind that would linger for afters he was gone - tommy almost gags on it. 

“i used to think he liked having me around because i didn’t talk back,” he says, more to the debris than to her. “or because i could drive him places. or because i’d lie for him without needing a reason.”

his voice dips, thin at the edges. he doesn’t stop moving. shirt. jewel case. a scrap of the torn note. “but lately i think maybe it was ’cause i was black and didn’t give him shit for the way he talked. like i made him feel better about the crap in his head, just by standing next to him and not saying a damn word.”

he exhales, rough. “i let him get away with a lot. ignored a lot worse. and i hated him for it after. still do. but i let it happen. that’s what eats at me now.” tommy can’t ignore the ache in his chest when he thinks about the other man, how devastating it feels knowing that he managed to replace steve harrington with another ride-or-die - and how again… he was all alone.

the shirt in his hands is blue, faded, smells like cologne and something older - like the inside of a car that never got cleaned out. he folds it without thinking, presses it flat, then sets it on top of the pile like a useless offering.

“i don’t expect you to forgive me. i don’t even want it. just didn’t want you to wake up one day and wonder why nobody ever gave you the choice.”

he sits back on his heels, palms braced on his thighs. not looking at her. just waiting. because there’s nothing left for him to say now. nothing left that won’t sound like too little, too late.