jay

season one: ⟡ chapter one ⟡ chapter two ⟡ chapter three ⟡ chapter four ⟡ chapter five

season two: ⟡ chapter six ⟡ chapter seven ⟡ chapter eight ⟡ chapter nine ⟡ chapter ten ⟡ chapter eleven

season three: ⟡ chapter twelve ⟡ chapter thirteen ⟡ chapter fourteen ⟡ chapter fifteen ⟡ chapter sixteen ⟡ chapter seventeen ⟡ chapter eighteen ⟡ chapter nineteen

☆ bonus chapters ☆ ⟡ y/n’s journal october 1985 - march 1986 ⟡ steve's pov of october 1985 - march 1986

season four: ⟡ chapter twenty ⟡ chapter twenty one ⟡ chapter twenty two ⟡ chapter twenty three ⟡ chapter twenty four ⟡ chapter twenty five ⟡ chapter twenty six ⟡ chapter twenty seven

The table rattles when Eddie slams his hand down, rings clinking sharply against the wood, eyes wild under the dim glow of the theatre room lights.

“No—no, you don’t get to second-guess now,” he snaps, leaning across the board like he’s about to climb into it. “You made your move, Henderson, you live with the consequences. That’s how this works. That’s how life works.”

“Dude—” Mike starts, already half-defensive.

“Nope!” Eddie cuts him off, pointing a dramatic finger like a dagger. “No take-backs. No rewinds. The goblins smell fear, and right now?” He grins, all teeth, all chaos. “You reek of it.”

Dustin groans. “You’re literally evil.”

“I am a merciless god,” Eddie corrects, spreading his arms like he’s about to summon lightning. “And you—”

The door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say softly. And it’s like someone flipped a switch.

Eddie freezes mid-rant.

Hand still in the air, expression still intense for a half-second too long before it melts. Into something soft, something that has absolutely no business existing on the same face that just threatened fictional teenagers with death-by-goblin.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, voice dropping instantly, like it was made just for you.

The boys at the table all groan in unison.

“Oh my god,” Dustin mutters. “There it is.”

“Thank you,” Mike says, pointing at you like you’re a savior. “Your boyfriend is being EVIL.”

You glance at Eddie, eyebrows lifting just slightly.

“Evil?” you echo.

Eddie scoffs, already pushing his chair back, completely abandoning the campaign like it never mattered. 

“Slander. Absolute slander.” He moves around the table toward you, all easy smiles now, reaching for your hands like it’s instinct. “I was being firm. There’s a difference.”

“You told him his character was going to die alone in a ditch.”

“He is going to die alone in a ditch,” Eddie says lightly, then immediately softens again, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “But that’s not important right now.”

It’s ridiculous, honestly. One second, he’s theatrical doom incarnate, the next, he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

“You came,” he adds, quieter, almost like it surprised him.

“Yeah,” you smile. “I said I would.”

Behind him, Gareth makes a gagging noise.

“Can you at least pretend we’re still here?” he calls out.

Eddie doesn’t even turn around. Just lifts a hand and waves him off lazily. “Campaign’s on pause. Critical emotional moment happening.”

“OH MY GOD—”

“Watch your tone,” Eddie shoots back automatically, then softer, without missing a beat:

“You want to sit? I can grab you a chair. Or, wait, did you eat? I brought snacks, but I can get you something better if—”

“You’re doing it again,” you tease.

He blinks. “Doing what?”

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “The—” you lower your voice, mimicking him, “‘sweetheart, did you eat, do you need a chair, do you need the world handed to you on a silver platter’ thing.”

Eddie grins, completely unapologetic. “Yeah. And?”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

Behind you, Dustin leans toward Mike. “It’s like watching a rabid dog turn into a golden retriever.”

“I hate it here,” Mike whispers back.

Eddie ignores them entirely, already shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders like it’s second nature. 

“It’s cold in here,” he says, softer now, fingers lingering for a second too long at your arms. “You always say it’s cold.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Always,” he says.

From the table: “ARE WE PLAYING OR NOT?”

Eddie sighs dramatically, finally turning halfway back toward them.

“Fine, fine, everyone chill, I’ll be back in two seconds.” Then, quieter to you, leaning in just enough that it feels like a secret: “Stay? Please?”

As if you were going anywhere. You nod, immediately. 

“That’s my girl.”

Gareth makes an even cruder gag leave his mouth, “That’s it, I’m going to hurl.”

You tilt your head, peeking around Eddie’s shoulder. “Do it away from the table, please. I don’t think that’s in the campaign notes.”

Eddie grins, obnoxiously proud, like you just proved a point he didn’t even have to argue. “Hear that? Even she’s got table etiquette. Take notes, freaks.”

“Oh, we’re the problem?” Mike scoffs. “You literally just abandoned us mid–near-death experience.”

“Character development,” Eddie shoots back. “Builds resilience.”

“You said he was going to die in a ditch.”

“And he is, Henderson, keep up—” Eddie starts, already winding back into it before he catches himself, glancing at you.

Immediately, his tone softens again.

“You sure you’re good?” he asks, quieter, thumb brushing your wrist like he can’t help it. “Not too loud? I can kick them out.”

“Hey—!” the table protests in unison.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Promise.”

He studies you for a second like he’s making absolutely sure, then nods. “Alright. But if they get annoying—”

“Oh! We’re annoying?” Dustin cuts in.

Eddie points at him without looking. “You’re first to go.”

You bite back a smile, leaning in just slightly. “You’re very protective for someone who was just threatening fictional murder.”

Eddie leans closer too, conspiratorial, voice dropping like it’s just for you. “Two very different skill sets, sweetheart.”

“Oh, clearly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go play your game, Munson.”

He hesitates for half a second like he actually might argue, then sighs, dramatic as ever. “Fine. But if I TPK them, it’s because you distracted me.”

“You don’t need help with that,” you shoot back.

Dustin slams the table. “THANK YOU.”

Eddie points at you again, delighted. “See? She gets me.”

“Sit down!” Mike snaps.

Eddie leans in one last time, quick, pressing the softest kiss to your temple.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I won’t.”

The bell above the door jingles lazily as it swings open, letting in a wave of warm air that immediately clashes with the artificial chill of Scoops Ahoy.

You don’t look up at first. You’re halfway through scooping mint chocolate chip for a kid who cannot, for the life of him, decide if he wants sprinkles or not.

“Sprinkles,” Steve says flatly from beside you. “You want sprinkles. Everyone wants sprinkles. It’s not a personality trait, kid.”

Robin snorts from the register.

“Steve Harrington, bully of small children,” she mutters.

“Hey, I’m helping—”

The bell jingles again. Eddie stands just inside the doorway, a little flushed from the heat, hair wild from the wind, Hellfire shirt slightly wrinkled like he threw it on in a rush. 

There’s a brown paper bag in one hand, carefully folded at the top.

His eyes find you immediately. And then, there it is. That soft, stupid, completely gone look.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, like there’s no one else in the room.

Steve physically recoils.

“Oh my god,” he whispers.

Robin’s eyes go wide. “No, no, I need to see this up close.”

You bite back a smile, handing the kid his cone before wiping your hands quickly.

“Hey,” you say, stepping around the counter. “What’re you doing here?”

Eddie shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s already walking toward you, opening the bag. 

“Wayne made chili,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s letting you in on something special. “Saved you some. Said, and I quote: ‘Don’t let that girl eat mall food all day.’”

Your face lights up instantly. “You’re lying.”

“Would I lie about Wayne’s chili?” Eddie gasps, offended. “That’s sacred ground, sweetheart.”

He pulls out the container, still warm, and hands it to you like it’s something fragile.

You take it carefully, grinning. “Tell him I love him.”

“Already did,” Eddie says easily. “He told me to tell you to stop forgetting to eat.”

Robin makes a noise that is somewhere between a squeal and a choke.

Steve just stares. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Eddie glances over, unimpressed. “Still me, Harrington. Relax.”

“No, because this—” Steve gestures wildly between you and the chili and the entire situation “—this is not the guy who told Dustin he was going to emotionally devastate his character last night.”

“I did emotionally devastate his character,” Eddie corrects. “This is unrelated.”

Robin leans over the counter, chin in her hands, watching like it’s live entertainment. “So, what, you just… bring her food now? That’s a thing you do?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Yeah.”

“You bring us anything?” Steve cuts in.

Eddie doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

“That’s insane.”

You laugh, nudging Eddie lightly with your shoulder. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he says, softer. “Wanted to.”

Behind you, Robin grabs Steve’s arm. “I’m telling you right now, she’s the reason he hasn’t committed at least three felonies this week.”

“Low estimate,” Steve mutters.

Eddie rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite to it. “You guys done, or—?”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Robin says sweetly. “Seriously, what did you do to him?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

Steve leans in, conspiratorial. “He’s like, domesticated.”

Eddie makes a face. “I will leave. I will take the chili, and I will go.”

You immediately clutch it closer. “Don’t you dare.”

“See?” Steve points. “Proof. She’s got him trained.”

Eddie scoffs, but his hand finds your wrist anyway, thumb brushing lightly like he can’t help it.

“No one’s training me, alright? I just...” he glances at you, something softer flickering there “...like taking care of her.”

Robin softens for half a second at that, then immediately ruins it.

“Gross,” she says.

“Deeply gross,” Steve agrees.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Ignore them.”

“Gladly,” Eddie says, eyes still on you.

“Oh!” Robin suddenly straightens. “Wait, speaking of gross, Jonathan’s having people over tonight.”

You raise a brow. “Gross?”

“Not like that,” she waves it off. “Joyce is out with Hopper, so it’s basically free house privileges. Music, drinks, the usual.”

Steve perks up. “Yeah, it’s actually gonna be fun. You should come.”

Robin grins at you. “And bring this one. I wanna see if he can survive outside of a dungeon setting.”

Eddie scoffs. “Please. I thrive in all environments.”

“You almost got kicked out of a movie theater for yelling at the screen,” Steve reminds him.

“They were making bad decisions!”

You laugh again, looking between them before glancing back at Eddie. “You wanna go?”

He doesn’t even pretend to think about it.

“If you’re there?” he says, easy. “Yeah.”

Robin clutches her chest. “I can’t do this. I can’t watch this happen in real time.”

“Too late,” Steve mutters. “We’re witnesses.”

Eddie ignores them entirely, nudging the chili gently back toward you. “Eat first,” he says, softer. “Then we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

You nod, smiling. “Yeah.”

Your room smells faintly of perfume and hairspray, and the window is cracked just enough to let in the cool evening air. 

It’s a mess in that very specific, I tried on five outfits and rejected all of them kind of way. Clothes draped over your chair, shoes kicked off near the bed, a half-open drawer that you absolutely meant to close ten minutes ago.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, tilting your head slightly.

Before you can overthink it again, you hear the familiar rumble of his van outside; loud, unmistakable, and a little obnoxious. Your lips tug into a smile before you can stop them.

The doorbell rings a second later.

“Got it!” your mom calls from downstairs.

You freeze for half a second, then immediately move, smoothing your hands down your outfit as you step into the hallway.

“Well, there he is!” your mom says, bright.

“Hi, ma—” Eddie starts, then grins, already holding up the messy bundle of wildflowers. “Brought peace offerings.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that every time,” she says, but she’s smiling like she absolutely expects it.

“Yeah, I do,” Eddie shrugs easily. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“You really do,” she laughs, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in, come in. She’s still getting ready, shockingly.”

“Hey!” you call from the stairs.

Eddie looks up immediately.

“Hi, sweetheart."

“Hi,” you smile, starting down the stairs.

Your mom gestures toward the flowers. “You see what I mean? Every time.”

“I’m consistent,” Eddie says proudly.

“You’re extra,” you correct.

“Only for you.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, but you’re smiling as you step closer.

He holds the flowers out to you like it’s second nature now.

“These are for you.”

“Wildflowers again?” you ask, taking them.

“Best kind,” he says. “Low maintenance. Survive anything.”

Your mom points at him. “That’s exactly what I said.”

You narrow your eyes. “You two have been talking about me?”

“Extensively,” Eddie nods.

“Eddie.”

“Kidding,” he grins. “Mostly.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re laughing, setting the flowers down carefully before turning back to them.

Your mom leans casually against the wall. “I was just telling him you used to take twenty minutes to pick an outfit when you were ten.”

“That is not—”

“It absolutely is,” she cuts in.

Eddie’s eyes light up. “No way.”

“Do not encourage her.”

“I’m fascinated,” he says. “Please, continue.”

You point at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” he says easily. “I just also want the full story.”

Your mom nods approvingly. “Smart man.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

You groan. “Unbelievable. I’m being teamed up on in my own house.”

Eddie steps closer, nudging your arm lightly. “Hey,” he murmurs, softer, “if it helps, you still look better than anything ten-year-old you picked.”

You glance at him, fighting a smile. “Barely.”

He grins. “Debatable.”

“So, where are you two off to tonight?”

“Jonathan’s,” you say. “Joyce is out.”

“Ah,” she nods knowingly. “One of those nights.”

Eddie raises a hand. “Respectfully, ma’am, I will be keeping an eye on things.”

You blink at him. “Oh, you will?”

He shrugs. “Someone’s gotta be responsible.”

Your mom laughs. “This is true.”

You look between them. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, glancing at you, grin softening. “Exactly.”

You shake your head, grabbing your bag. “Okay, before I lose all authority in this situation, we’re leaving.”

“Bye, Mom!”

“Have fun!” she calls. “And Eddie—”

He pauses, turning back.

“Drive safely, please.”

Eddie grins. “Always do.”

You roll your eyes as you step outside, the cool air hitting your skin.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “You’ve completely won her over.”

Eddie squeezes your hand lightly. “I didn’t win her over,” he says.

You glance at him. “Oh yeah?”

He smiles. “She already liked me.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “Cocky.”

“Accurate,” he corrects.

Then, he opens the van door for you, bowing his head with the usual dramatic flair.

"M'lady."

"Thank you, kind sir."

That earns a quick, satisfied smile before he closes the door gently.

The Byers’ is already buzzing when you pull up.

Music spilling out into the yard. The lights are on inside, silhouettes moving past the windows, laughter drifting out every time the door opens.

Eddie cuts the engine, glancing over at you.

“You ready?” he asks, but his hand’s already finding yours, thumb brushing slow, absentminded strokes.

You smile. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he nods, then leans over and presses a quick kiss to your temple before he even gets out of the van. “Just checking.”

Your heart does that thing again.

You shove him lightly. “We literally just got here.”

“Yeah, and?” he grins. “Gotta set the tone.”

The second you walk in:

“OH MY GOD," Robin yells.

She barrels over like she’s been waiting by the door.

“You made it, and you brought him, amazing,” she says, grabbing your arm before immediately clocking Eddie’s hand at your waist. “Yep. Still attached. Good to know.”

Eddie snorts, unfazed. “Hi to you, too, Buckley.”

Steve appears behind her, drink in hand. “Alright, I give it… ten minutes before he calls her ‘sweetheart’ in front of everyone.”

Eddie doesn’t even hesitate. He pulls you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Steve throws his head back. “I wish I were deaf.”

You laugh, tucking into Eddie’s side as he keeps his arm wrapped around you.

Nancy smiles as she walks over.

“Hi,” she says to you, then glances at Eddie, who’s now rubbing slow circles into your hip without even thinking about it. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

You blink. “About what?”

Nancy just raises a brow. You don’t even get the chance to respond before: 

“EDDIE! PONG!” A chorus from across the room.

Eddie groans dramatically, dropping his head to your shoulder. “They’re animals. All of them.”

“You love it,” you say.

“Okay, I’m coming,” Eddie sighs, but he doesn’t let go of you right away.

Instead, he presses another quick kiss to your temple, then your cheek, like he’s collecting them. “Stay right here?”

“Go,” you laugh, nudging him. “Before they riot.”

You end up leaning against the kitchen counter with Nancy, watching the chaos unfold.

Eddie’s at the pong table now, already loud, already animated: shouting, laughing, pointing at Robin like she personally insulted him.

“You’re aiming wrong!” he yells.

“I am NOT aiming wrong, you’re just bad!” Robin fires back.

“Blasphemy!”

You can’t help smiling. Nancy watches you for a second before speaking.

“He’s really different with you.”

You glance at her. “What do you mean?”

She nods toward him.

“You know him,” she says. “He’s always like that.” She gestures; wild, loud, over-the-top.

“But with you?”

Right on cue, Eddie looks up and finds you instantly, like a magnet. His entire face softens completely, and he flashes you that notorious Munson grin.

“That,” she says.

You laugh a little. “He’s just… like that.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “He’s not. Not with anyone else.”

“OH MY GOD HE MADE IT—”

Eddie jumps, arms up, Robin yelling with him as the ball drops into a cup.

“LET’S GO—!”

He spins immediately, scanning the room again until he finds you, points, and grins. Like he did it for you.

Nancy leans closer. “See?”

You bite back a smile, shaking your head.

A little while later, he’s back. Slightly flushed now, a little looser, eyes brighter.

“Told you I’d win,” he says, sliding right back into your space like he never left, hands immediately finding your waist.

“You were gone for like, five minutes,” you tease.

“Longest five minutes of my life,” he sighs dramatically, then drops his forehead to yours.

You laugh softly. “You’re tipsy.”

“I am charming,” he corrects.

“You’re clingy.”

“Only with you,” he murmurs.

His fingers trace along your arm, like he just needs to be touching you somewhere. Nancy watches, fully invested at this point.

“Does he always do this?” she asks you.

Eddie answers for you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Yeah.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean into him anyway.

“He’s worse when he drinks,” you say.

“I’m better,” Eddie argues, nuzzling slightly into your hair.

Robin walks by, gagging loudly. “You’re a nightmare.”

“Jealous,” Eddie shoots back lazily, not even looking at her.

“Of what?!” she demands.

He sticks his tongue out in response, squeezing you a little tighter. 

Nancy laughs under her breath.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” she admits. “It’s kind of… cute.”

“Don’t encourage him,” you say, even as your fingers curl into his shirt.

Eddie hums softly, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Too late,” he murmurs. “She loves it.”

Nancy smiles. “I do.”

You stare at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she says. “This is just surprisingly, really entertaining.”

Across the room, Steve shouts something about a rematch, and Eddie groans.

“Do you have to go back?” you ask, teasing.

He looks at you, at them, then back at you.

“…No,” he decides.

You laugh. “Eddie.”

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’d rather stay here.”

Your chest tightens just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “But you like it.”

You, in fact, do. 

And when he leans down, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, arms wrapped around you, holding you close like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, it’s enough to make anyone watching roll their eyes.

By the time you get Eddie into the passenger seat, he’s all loose limbs and soft laughter, head tipping back against the seat.

“You’re not allowed to tell anyone you’re driving,” he mumbles as you reach over to buckle him in. “Ruins my reputation.”

You snort. “Your reputation is already in critical condition.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your wrist before you pull away, eyes half-lidded but still locked on you. “You look really pretty tonight.”

You smile despite yourself. “You already told me that.”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Doesn’t stop being true.”

You gently pry your hand free. “Sit back, Munson.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says instantly, then giggles at himself like it’s the funniest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

The drive is quiet. Eddie hums along to the radio, occasionally reaching over just to rest his hand on your thigh like he needs to make sure you’re still there.

Every red light, he looks at you like he forgot how he got this lucky.

Wayne’s still up when you pull into the trailer. The porch light’s on, casting a soft yellow glow, and when you help Eddie out of the van, his arm slung heavy around your shoulders. The door creaks open.

“Well, well,” Wayne says, leaning against the frame, amused. “Looks like someone had a good time.”

Eddie lifts his head just enough. “Hi, Wayne.”

“You’re drunk,” Wayne replies easily.

“Allegedly.”

You laugh, adjusting your grip on him. “He lost that argument about an hour ago.”

Wayne’s eyes soften as he looks at you. “You alright, sweetheart? He didn’t give you too much trouble?”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, he’s been good. Just, uh, very talkative.”

“Always,” Wayne chuckles.

Eddie tightens his arm around you like he’s proving a point. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” Wayne hums. “You want some water before you pass out on the lawn?”

“I’m not—” Eddie starts, then immediately stumbles a little as you guide him up the steps.

You snort. “Inside. Now.”

Wayne laughs, stepping aside to let you in. “You got him?”

“I got him,” you nod.

“Good,” Wayne says, then softer, to you, “Appreciate you getting him home.”

“Always.”

Getting Eddie down the short hallway is… an experience. He’s clinging now, fully, all weight and affection, face tucked into your shoulder.

“You smell nice,” he mumbles.

“Eddie. Walk.”

“I am walking,” he argues weakly.

“You’re leaning.”

“Strategically.”

You laugh, finally managing to get him into his room.

“Okay,” you say, easing him down onto the bed. “Stay.”

He flops back dramatically. “I live here,” he informs you.

“Not the point.”

You turn to grab him a glass of water from the little table, but before you can even take a step, his hand catches yours again.

“Don’t go,” he says, softer now.

You glance back at him. “I’m just getting you water.”

“Stay,” he repeats, thumb brushing over your knuckles, slower this time. “Please?”

That please…You sigh, but you’re already smiling.

“I’m not leaving,” you promise. “I’m right here.”

He relaxes instantly, like that was all he needed. “Okay.”

You grab the water quickly anyway, pressing it into his hand. “Drink.”

He makes a face but listens, taking a few slow sips before handing it back like he’s completed a major task.

“Good?” you ask.

“Great,” he nods, then squints at you. “You sure you're staying?”

“Yeah.”

His whole face softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” he says, like he’s trying to play it off, but the way his hand tightens around yours gives him away completely.

You move around the room like you’ve done it a hundred times, probably because you have. Kneeling down to the bottom drawer of his dresser, your drawer, where he keeps all the things you need for when you stay the night. 

You pull it open, fingers brushing over your skincare, your “spare clothes”, which are just a jumble of his shirts, and various boxers he said looked “Sexier on you.” 

You change quickly, slipping into one of his worn t-shirts, soft from too many washes, smelling faintly like him.

When you turn back, he’s watching you. Already half-asleep, but still watching.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, lifting an arm.

You laugh softly. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You're impossible.”

You crawl into bed beside him anyway. Immediately, he curls into you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close like it’s instinct. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, softer with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

He presses a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder. “You drove me home.”

“Someone had to,” you tease lightly.

“Thanks,” he says.

You tuck a hand into his hair, smoothing it back gently. “Anytime.”

“You’re staying, right?” he asks again, eyes barely open.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m staying.”

He exhales, completely content now, nuzzling closer.

“Good,” he mumbles.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns along his arm, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the night outside.

“Eddie?” you whisper.

“Mm?” he hums, voice thick with sleep, face tucked into your neck.

Your fingers trace lightly along his arm. “You’re very… affectionate when you drink. Like, more than usual."

“‘Cause I’m obsessed with you,” he mumbles, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink in the dark. “…Eddie.”

“No, I am,” he insists, shifting just enough to look at you, eyes barely open. “Like, real bad. It’s kinda embarrassing.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You think?”

“Yeah,” he nods weakly, already nuzzling back into you. “Like, I see you and I just—” he makes a small, frustrated sound “—forget how to act normal.”

“You’ve never acted normal a day in your life.”

“Not the point,” he murmurs. “You make it worse.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I’m the problem?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “You’re too pretty. It’s distracting.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“I’ll say it again,” he mumbles. “You’re really pretty.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Okay.”

“And nice,” he adds. “And funny. And you let me talk a lot.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it,” he corrects.

“…Yes, I do.”

He hums, satisfied with that, tightening his arms around you like he’s proving a point.

“I like taking care of you,” he says after a second, softer now. “Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.”

“You are,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice quieter, almost unsure for a split second.

“Yeah.”

He relaxes completely, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Don’t let me mess this up.”

“You’re not going to.”

“You promise?” he mumbles, words slurring just slightly now.

You shift just enough to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I promise.”

He exhales, long and content, like that settles something deep in him.

“Okay,” he whispers.

His fingers trace lazy, uneven patterns against your side, slower and slower until they stop completely. But even as sleep takes him, he doesn’t let go. Not for a single second.

AGHHHHH i hope you all loved it!! Just something simple and sweet to cleanse the palate. my cheeks hurt from smiling...but i can't say i'm too mad abt it

taglist is open!

myloves:

Somewhere in the distance the sound of your footsteps echo into the dark, bitter night. 

Clenched within your hand are your knives. Their metal glints in the streetlights as you run past every lonesome car, avoiding their collisions. 

One of them slams their horn at you, screeching to a stop just before it collides into your fleeing body, but you hardly even flinch.

You don’t care. 

All you do is run.

Minutes pass. You hardly process any of it. 

The only indication of the passage of time are the ringing in your ears increasing in volume and how badly your chest burns for oxygen as you run as far as your aching legs will allow. 

Up the crest of the hill, the Wheeler’s house shines untouched. Safe. The relief of it being intact  strengthens you to keep going, to run for just a little longer, until a horrible, eerily familiar screech pierces through the silence of the night. 

The mangled sound chokes you. 

Only a Demogorgon’s cry could paralyze you so viciously. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?” your throat strains to be heard over the monster’s cries as you force the last of your sanity into running faster, harder, towards the Wheeler’s front door with your knives at the ready. “Holly?”

But no one answers.

Heart beating of your chest, you fling the door open with more cries on the tip of your tongue, searching through the living room and stumbling back at its disarray, but they all die at the sight of red.

Everywhere. 

The red is everywhere. 

It pools on the floor, drips down the walls, and covers the limp body of Karen Wheeler, leaving her almost unrecognizable.

The red glues your cowardly feet to the floor, rendering you unable to move. For what feels like an eternity you stand in the kitchen’s doorway, horror consuming you as you stare at Mrs. Wheeler’s mangled mess of a body on the ground. 

Her body? Or her corpse?

“Oh my god.” Bile rises in your throat. The sharp smell of blood stings your nose and you choke back grieving gags at the knowledge of who it belongs to.

This woman baked cookies for you every Christmas, always excited to share her recipes with you. She fed you dinners, countless breakfasts, endless snacks for long days with the boys in her basement. 

Karen Wheeler helped soothe your childhood wounds through her unyielding empathy.

Now she lies before you, motionless. 

Yet in your horror, you remember who else the woman fed and soothed. Mike’s teary eyes looking up at his mother and Nancy’s gentle voice and Holly’s small hands all reaching for Karen in your memories. 

They’d be lost without their mother. Her death would ruin them.

The realization forces you to your knees. The blood pooled on the floor soaks through your jeans and onto your skin. Its warmth unsettles you. But when you see Karen’s eyes wide and panic stricken staring back at you, your body moves to hers. 

“Mrs. Wheeler,” you press your hands against her jugular, suppressing a gag at the sensation of her thick blood between your fingers. She stiffens at the touch, tries to get away from the uncomfortable pressure, but you frantically shake your head and keep your grip firm. “It’s okay, I’m right here, alright? Just-just stop moving.”

Karen tries to say something, causing even more blood to bubble over her torn skin, and you’re quick to quiet the woman once more. Her eyes beg you for answers that you can’t give her. All you can do is stroke her cheek and whisper apologies to her over and over again. 

“Nancy will be here soon,” you try to reassure her, ignoring how cold her body now feels. “Just hold on a little while longer. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Her eyes flicker briefly, a question within them. She doesn’t know why you keep apologizing. She doesn’t know that the claw marks on her ribcage mirror the very same ones that mar your own ribcage. 

“Mom!” 

Nancy’s tormented scream haunts you. 

“I-I found her like this.” Your knees slide against the bloodied kitchen tiles in your haste to allow Nancy beside her mother. “The blood–”

But Nancy doesn’t acknowledge your presence. She tears her jacket off and pries your hands away from her mother’s neck before pressing it tightly against the wound. “Don’t try to talk, okay? Just stay calm.”

As she consoles Karen, you follow her daughter’s lead and quickly tear off your own jacket to tie around Karen’s abdomen. As you’re messily dressing her wounds you feel someone’s hand land against your arm. 

“Will she be okay?” El’s soft voice asks. 

You don’t know whether she means Nancy or Karen. Maybe both. 

“We need to get Mrs. Wheeler to the hospital–”

“H-Holly.”

Karen’s strained, broken vocal chords piece together only one name. The ringing in your ears crescendos into a deafening end. 

Nancy quickly turns to you. “Did you find anyone else in the house?”

“No, I–” You hadn’t even thought to look for anyone else. You’d been too focused on Karen to consider who else may still be missing. Ashamed and overwhelmed, your stomach churns and your head shakes violently. “I didn’t even think to look–”

“Then where’s my sister?” Nancy’s panic swells the room. “Why isn’t she–”

Her voice dies in her throat as something catches her attention. You twist your head around, trying to find the cause, and your own voice dies at the sight of a gate to the Upside Down, slowly closing into itself upon the front door. 

“Go.” Nancy snaps her attention back to El. She’s realized what you’re too afraid to comprehend. “Go, go, go, go!”

El looks between the two of you, torn and confused. She doesn’t want to leave you behind, not while covered in Mrs. Wheeler’s blood and unsure whether she’ll ever see her alive again, but you shake your head slightly, softly. 

“Find Holly.” You tell El, forcing down your own urge to follow. The Upside Down almost killed you once before. “Please.”

Nothing else has to be said. El doesn’t turn back even once as she runs towards the gate and into hell. She isn’t afraid. Not anymore. 

The gate closes behind her. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Mom.” Nancy’s tears break you back to reality as she clings onto her mother’s limp hand. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You reach for Nancy’s other hand. While she doesn’t accept the endearment, you cling onto it regardless to remind her that she isn’t alone. She will never be alone as long as she has you. 

You’re not sure how long you kneel in Karen Wheeler’s blood listening to her daughter’s pleas to stay alive. All you know is that you never once let go of the girl’s hand. You never once stop caressing the woman’s cheek. You watch other both Wheeler women, caring for them how they’ve always cared for you. 

And when you hear Mike’s urgent voice outside the house, you know what your final act of mercy will be. 

No child should ever have to endure seeing their family home covered in blood.

“You can’t come inside.” They’re the only words you say to the boy at the door, blocking him from entering. 

Mike’s chest heaves. “What the hell, Y/N?”

Lucas stands behind him. He catches your pleading look and understands. Squaring his shoulders, he grabs Mike’s forearm and tries to pull him back. “Mike, you shouldn’t–”

“Where the fuck are my parents?” Mike slams his body back, fighting against Lucas and shoving even harder against you when he notices the blood that stains your clothing. “Where are my sisters?”

“Mike–” You wish there was more you could do.

He only fights harder. His elbow digs into your ribcage and you know his nails will leave marks later. But you don’t blame the kid. He’s worried, terrified of what his family has become. “Let me go!”

Lucas roughly grabs Mike’s shoulders, forcing him off of you. “Enough, Mike!

“I have to help!”

“We’re not letting you inside!” Lucas screams over Mike’s insistent terror. He grabs harshly at the kid’s body, forcing him to look at you and Lucas in a vain attempt he’ll listen. “You can’t go inside, alright? We won’t let you–”

Blinding lights fill the Wheeler’s driveway. The paramedics’ arrival stuns Mike long enough to force him away from the front door. The EMTs rush inside, and just as you’ve secured Mike underneath your arms, the first of the gurneys crashes through the door. 

Ted Wheeler. Multiple puncture wounds to his chest and abdomen. 

Mike’s body collapses. You’re there to catch him.

Karen Wheeler follows. Nancy runs beside the gurney as she whistles off every piece of vital information she can think of to the emergency responders. 

When she sees Mike, she lunges towards him and pulls him into her arms. 

You and Lucas step back to give the siblings space. They’re all the other has left. 

Numb fingers worry away at your nailbeds, picking at the tender skin that never has enough time to heal before its next slaughter. The sharp pain of the bloodied wounds soothes the itch underneath your skin to crowd Nancy and Mike. To fret over them, to do more than what you already have because it’s what you do. 

It was all you were ever meant to do.

Lucas grabs your hands, intercepting the next wave of destruction they’ll endure. 

“Enough,” he gently chides, allowing the smallest of smiles to peek back at you. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to tell you.” Though you smile back at him, the effort exhausts you. 

Lucas notices and sighs, releasing your hands. His mouth opens as if to chide you once again, but one of the EMTs begins guiding Nancy and Mike into the back of the ambulance and you’re following after them immediately. 

“I’m coming with you guys.” The tone of your voice doesn’t suggest a question. 

Mike quickly grabs your hand to pull you inside the vehicle, but it’s Nancy who stops him. “You have to stay, Y/N.”

Your face pinches together. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting you face this alone.”

Nancy shakes her head violently. Her entire body ruptures at the movement, fresh tears spill down her face. “No, I need you to keep looking for Hopper.”

“Steve and Jonathan are already–”

“Then go find El!” The last of Nancy’s resolve breaks. She jumps to her feet, flings her arms out and gestures wildly as if to articulate her despair and delirium even more. “Find someone, anyone, who will lead you to my little sister.”

Find Holly for me.

A heavy burden to carry, the trust of finding one’s little sister.

Yet you’d do it in a heartbeat for Nancy. Time and time again, you would carry the burden and smile in its wake, full of gratitude. 

“I-I will.” You promise her, pulling her shaking body into yours one final time. She trembles at the touch. Her hair tickles your cheek and your lips press to her scalp. “I’ll find Holly.”

“Thank you.” Nancy’s wet voice breaks you. 

Your hand cradles her head. “Of course.”

“We need to get your parents to the hospital.” An EMT interrupts, not unkind, but firm. 

Nancy forces herself away, but you manage to grab the back of Mike’s neck and pull his head within your reach so that you can kiss his forehead goodbye. His body crumbles at the affection, he holds your hand so tightly that it cuts off the circulation, but you don’t care.

Instead you watch as the Wheeler children crawl into the ambulance with their mother while Lucas rides with their father. They leave in a storm of flashing lights and harsh sirens.

Mike’s old, abandoned bike remains the only thing left in its wake. 

You grab it, feeling your promise to Nancy etching itself into your skin. 

I’ll find Holly.

The promise rings in the air around you. Its tone mirrors the same cadence as the promise you once made to Jonathan about finding Will. 

In the end, you found him. But not before he became someone else. Someone different from the little bee you once adored. 

Swallowing down the overheated adrenaline coursing through your system, your feet kick off the bike’s pedals, ignoring how badly your hands shake as you do so. 

Jonathan and Steve will be worried about you. 

Yet the knowledge of their concern isn’t enough to suppress the gory images of Mrs. Wheeler’s body on the kitchen floor from flooding your mind. 

They will haunt you forever. 

– 

Steve stands outside the WSQK van with its engine tethered to a jeep. The owner of the vehicle, a girl you’re unfamiliar with, has her arms defensively crossed and an agitated expression of obvious disdain for your boyfriend. 

Steve’s uncomfortable stance reveals that he’s painfully aware of her feelings towards him. 

“Can I, uh. Offer you a Bopper?” You overhear him offer the girl, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

She doesn’t bother to respond, only making the uncomfortable situation worse. 

When Steve sees your silhouette in the distance, he exhales in relief and practically runs away from the girl in order to get to you. He would’ve much rather have spent his night alone with you, tucked away together somewhere no one else could find you, safe and sound. 

“I’ve been missing you all night, angel.” His head tilts when he notices you’re on a bike rather than on foot. But then his eyes fall to your chest, your stained hands and stomach, and the red that cakes your body strikes Steve’s aorta so deeply that he struggles to breathe. “Y/N.”

Steve’s hands fall to your waist immediately, helping you off the bike and sitting you onto the ground in a frenzy of concern and fear. He traces every inch of your skin repeatedly, trying to find the source of the pain. “Where the hell is the blood coming from? I-I have to stop the bleeding–”

“The blood isn’t mine.” Your hands grab his, quelling their weathered fears as Steve’s expression morphs from terror to confusion. 

“I don’t understand…”

“It’s Mrs. Wheeler’s.”

Despite how softly you say it, Steve hears the broken confession and closes his eyes in stunned remorse. “Will she be okay?”

The innocent question exhausts you. Mind nearly melted from the night’s events, you push yourself up and start walking towards the van. Your body moves on autopilot, brain only focusing on what comes next and the necessary steps. “We need to leave.”

“Woah, hey!” Steve scrambles after you. “Y/N, I really don’t think you should be running around right now.”

You ignore him and climb inside the van, only to startle Jonathan sitting in the passenger seat.

“Jesus, bug. You scared me–” But just as Steve’s worried eyes scoured your body, Jonathan does, too. He nearly chokes on his spit seeing all the blood. “Fuck, are you alright?”

“It isn’t her blood.” Steve answers for you, slamming the driver’s side door closed before crawling over the driver’s seat and pulling you into his lap. His fingers wipe away at the dried blood on your face tenderly, carefully, delicate in a way only love can provide. “C’mere, angel.”

He begins cleaning you, uncaring of the fact that Jonathan sits just a foot away. And while Steve’s touch has only ever brought solace to your tumultuous life, tonight it burns your skin and leaves you feeling raw, exposed. 

You pull away, just out of reach. “The Demogorgon got to the Wheeler’s before we could. Mrs. Wheeler, she…”

The unnatural angle of her arm, its protrusion and the lacerations on her throat and chest and all the exposed flesh and meat of her body all echo in your mind and bring bitter bile up your throat at the onslaught of memories. 

But you promised Nancy you’d find her sister. 

“I was trying to stop her bleeding when Nancy and El found us.” Swallowing down the nausea, you do your best to block out the memories, but they come pouring out anyways like a ruptured dam. “We think Holly was taken to the Upside Down, just like Will was, and-and Nancy sent El there to save Holly and forced me to come here so that we can find Hopper–”

You don’t notice your tears until Steve’s gentle fingers wipe them from your face. “Y/N, you need to breathe.”

As you manage a quick inhale that leaves your weak lungs craving more, Jonathan leans over the passenger seat and lowers his voice, eyes wanting. “What about Nancy, bug? Can you tell me if she’s alright?”

Steve reels at him. “For fucks sake, man. Can’t you see that she’s barely able to get a breath in?”

“I’m sorry, is my concern for my girlfriend really that distressing to you?” Jonathan scoffs in disgust. “I understand that Y/N’s had a hard night, but from what she’s just told us, Nancy’s entire family is in critical danger and I’d really like to know how I can help her.”

They argue with each other as if you aren’t even there. As if you aren’t sitting on the floor of the van, wishing you were anywhere but here, surrounded by two boys whose childish ego battle threatens to send you over the edge. 

“But unlike Nancy, Y/N is actually here. Covered in someone else’s blood.” Steve wraps a protective arm over you, pulling you away from Jonathan and deeper into his chest. “What we need to do is get her cleaned up and–”

Their voices pound inside your head until you can’t take it anymore. Until all that’s left to do is scream.

“Stop it!”

You’ve never heard your voice so shrill before. You almost don’t recognize it to be your own, but when Steve’s grip loosens in surprise and Jonathan’s eyes stare back at you wide, unnerved, you know that it had been you screamed. 

Suddenly overly aware of both boys’ eyes on you, you shrink in on yourself, covering your body with your arms as you crawl out of Steve’s grasp and towards the van’s doors. “I-I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry, I just… We have to stick to the plan. Nancy made me promise we’d find Holly. We have to find Holly.”

Bile rises in your throat yet again. It burns through the strain in your vocal chords from all the yelling. If you don’t leave now, you’ll do something you regret. 

“I-I need some air.” Hand on the door, your fingernails dig into the metal as you fling it open. The minute the fresh air hits your face, the tightness in your chest dissipates. Inhaling deeply, you throw your body up and quickly call over your shoulder to Steve and Jonathan as you flee, “don’t follow.”

You fall against the nearest tree you find just within reach of the van’s headlights. The girl Steve was talking to earlier who helps jumpstart the van gives you an odd look, but you simply drop your head to your knees and breathe in the night air, basking in the silence. 

Steve watches you through the windshield, lazily returning to the driver’s seat in frustration. He picks at his nails nervously, his worried eyes trace over your exhausted body over and over again. 

“We need to take Y/N home.”

Jonathan whips his head to look at Steve, completely in awe of his stupidity. “You can’t be serious.”

Steve bristles at his annoyed tone. “She’s obviously in shock and currently looks like she’s five seconds away from passing out.”

“Alright, and then what? What’s your genius plan after we tuck Y/N into bed, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shifts in his seat, eyes never leaving your body just a few feet away. He watches for any more signs of distress, worried he’ll look and find you passed out moments later. “The hospital isn’t far from the Henderson’s. We can go there after, make sure Nancy is okay and maybe get some more intel.”

Jonathan rubs the crease between his brows. “No. No, we stick to the plan. Find Hopper, find Eleven, and find Holly. That’s what Y/N said, and it’s what she promised Nancy.”

“Right, but we don’t know how long it’ll take for us to locate Hopper’s telemetry tag again.” Steve’s knee bounces up and down. He hates being stuck inside the van, so far from you. “I’m worried Y/N has pushed herself too hard this time. I mean, she always pushes herself too hard, but this time she looks exhausted, dude.” 

“You can’t just sideline Y/N.” Jonathan shakes his head. He did that to you, once, when he tried sneaking out of the middle school with Nancy one night to go fight a Demogorgon. Jonathan will never forget the hurt on your face when you caught them. “She’d never forgive you.”

Something stirs within Steve’s stomach at the somberness in Jonathan’s voice, obviously recounting an old, nostalgic memory. A bitterness overtakes him. “Sounds like you’d know from experience.”

“Jesus Christ,” an exasperated breath rattles Jonathan’s chest, bordering between exhaustion and disbelief. He resents Steve’s bitterness over your history together, it isn’t fair. He gets a future with you while all Jonathan has left is the history. 

“What?” Immediately Steve feels defensive, caught. 

Jonathan stares out the window, his own eyes tracing your silhouette. Once, proximity didn’t exist between the two of you. Once, nothing else in the world existed outside of your own, small universe where your planets orbited around each other and your suns were intertwined. 

Now you can’t even bear to be in the same car as Jonathan. 

“I just thought that, tonight of all nights, you might just… give it a rest.”

Steve frowns. “Give what a rest?”

“This bullshit competition for Y/N and Nancy’s attention.” Jonathan hates the words coming out of his mouth. He knows you’d despise them as well. It’s embarrassing, groveling for his best friend’s attention and his girlfriend’s adoration. 

Yet here Jonathan is, on his knees with only bruises left to show for it. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rarely does anything Jonathan says makes sense to Steve, but tonight he’s convinced the guy has smoked a stash behind your back, yet again. “No one is competing for anything.”

“Dude, ever since I got back from Lenora, you’ve been constantly injecting yourself into every one of my conversations with Y/N.” Jonathan’s own bitterness bleeds into his voice. “It’s as if you’ve become physically incapable of leaving her alone with me. She’s my best friend, we have a history together that you could never understand, and it’s fucking childish to hold it over my head as if it’s somehow all my fault that you’re uncomfortable with the history.”

Steve’s fingernails dig into the steering wheel. An old, familiar fury rises in his throat. “Careful there, Byers. It almost sounds like you forgot who Y/N is in love with.”

The words are like cold water poured upon Jonathan’s skin. “I’m not the one constantly showing off for Nancy, trying to remind her of how much better I am than you.” He swallows thickly, turns away from Steve, and says into the night, “seems you forgot who she’s in love with, too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, obviously uncomfortable with Jonathan’s insinuation, and Jonathan latches onto the moment of vulnerability like a rabid dog. 

“Which is ironic, if you ask me, because while all you can focus on is Y/N, I’m actively trying to make sure that Nancy has a chance of surviving this shitshow of a night, because I could never forget who she’s in love with, despite your selfishish delusions.”

Years of built up resentment simmer between the two men. Neither one of them has anything else to say. The battlefield has been drawn, uneven grounds left in wreckage with no clear winning side. 

A series of staccato horns breaks the silence. Both Jonathan and Steve jump up in alarm, heads turning towards the direction of the sound and finding the girl they’d forgotten about, sitting in her car with nothing but disdain on her face, angrily gesturing to the van. 

The sound catches your attention, causing you to carefully stand up and begin making your way back to the van, seemingly ready to finally leave. 

Steve reaches for the keys and places them into the ignition. He notices the hesitancy in your steps, how slowly you drag your feet as if walking into a minefield. 

“You know what, Byers?” Suddenly everything Steve has ever wanted to say to Jonathan becomes a race against the clock, to get everything out before you walk back inside the van and force the reality into another endless silence. “You’re totally right about my ‘selfish delusions’.”

Jonathan’s head falls into his hands, clearly wanting the conversation to just end, but Steve doesn’t care. You’ll be back any minute, and for once in Steve’s life he can’t bite his tongue for your mercy. Not this time.

“Y/N told me about your little phone call.” And there it is. Steve has revealed his final card, and it's dealt as a javelin to Jonathan’s stoic demeanor. He stiffens in his seat, and Steve gets a sickening sense of satisfaction watching his facade crumble. “What did you say again? Something about whether you and Y/N made a mistake?” 

A ringing fills Jonathan’s eardrums. Cold, metallic ringing. The taste of betrayal and shock linger on Jonathan’s tongue, mixed with embarrassment and shame.

He never thought you’d tell anyone about the phone call. 

Then again, Jonathan never thought you’d do a lot of the things you’ve done since he lost you.

Humorless laughter drips from Steve’s cruel mouth as he watches Jonathan’s face twist in shocked grief. He has him right where he wants him. “And I’m the fucking delusional one.”

Shoving the key into the ignition, the van sputters once, twice, before dying again. All Steve wants is to leave.

“I’ve known all along how miserable you and Nancy are, from the minute you decided to call my girlfriend, high as a kite, trying to get her to leave me for you.” You’re only a few feet away now. Throwing all caution to the wind, Steve lays his final blow. “Maybe if you stopped living in some idealized past life with Y/N, a past life that is dead, and instead focused on your current life with Nancy, maybe then the two of you would finally be happy. Maybe then you’d finally have your best friend back.”

Then the van comes to life, its engine loud and daunting. The headlights come on and your arm reaching for the van’s backseat doors, a question on the tip of your tongue about how long it will take to recalibrate the telemetry tag, when suddenly the question dies on your lips as you see your little brother, bloodied and bruised, stumbling up the street. 

“Dustin!”

The sight of him breaks you completely. 

You grab for his broken body blindly, tears blurring your vision as you cradle Dustin’s head to your chest. Struggling to breathe, you finally allow the sobs that have been building within your frigid body to come crashing out in waves, no longer able to pretend that tonight hasn’t been one of the worst nights in your entire life. 

“I’m fine, Y/N.” Dustin’s body remains stiff, uncomfortable in your embrace. He places his hands awkwardly on your arms in a weak attempt to pull away, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting such a volatile reaction. 

“You don’t look fine,” Steve yanks Dustin’s bike out of his hands, uncaring of the boy’s bruises and bloody nose. “You chose a spectacular night to ditch us.”

Dustin opens his mouth to argue, maybe even defend himself and provide an answer to his disappearance, but Steve cuts him off. 

“Save the bullshit excuses for later,” he hauls the bike into the van and slams the door shut. “We need to leave. Now.”

Dustin looks to you for an answer you can’t give him. His eyes land on the dark stains of blood clinging to your sweater and the shell shocked tears that won’t stop falling. “What the hell did I miss?”

You wipe a stray tear, smearing even more blood on your face.

“It’s been a long night.”

– 

Your back presses into the van’s floor as you stare up at its ceiling, watching the streetlamps flash across like streaks of lightning. Every bump of the rough road digs harshly into your spine, but you’ve gone numb to it. 

Jonathan sits beside you, one hand pressing the headphones tightly to his ear, trying to catch any hint of Hopper’s telemetry tag, while the other hand carefully steers the antenna attached to the roof. 

“And by sheer luck, Jessica was coming back from a party and I charmed my way into getting us a jump.” Steve explains everything to your brother as he drives, eyes never straying from the windsheild. “Which brings us to you, arriving looking like Rocky Balboa.”

“Y/N’s the one who looks like she barely escaped Leatherface.” Dustin quips back, slouching further into the passenger seat at the idea of you covered in someone else’s blood. “So I think I’ll be okay.”

“This isn’t funny, alright? Out of all the crawls, this was like, the one to miss.” Steve rolls his eyes. The annoyance in his voice is like a jagged edge, piercing your thin membrane of patience. “So, well done, Henderson. Really, really well done.”

You roll onto your side, finding your brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror as you hand him a tissue for his wounds. His hard gaze softens slightly, accepting the small offer, and something loosens within your chest. “Are you sure you’re okay, Dustin?”

He purposely misinterprets your question as concern for his sanity, shoving the tissue up his broken nose. “It’s a lot to process… I mean, why Holly?”

“Maybe Eleven could tell us, but it’s a bit difficult to contact her now that we’ve lost our connection to the Upside Down.” Steve not to gently reminds Dustin. 

“We just have to keep trying,” uncomfortable with the quickly rising animosity, you sit up and force yourself between the two boys. “That’s what we should be focusing on right now.”

But Dustin has already latched onto Steve’s pointed finger. “You guys should’ve turned everything off the second the lights went from really bright to really dim. I’ve told you before that it means the generator is surging.”

Naturally, Steve doesn’t take the criticism well. “Yeah, great. I’ll remember that for next time, or, and this is a suggestion, you could be where you’re supposed to be.”

“Steve,” you kick the back of his seat, worried he’ll push Dustin too hard and create yet another blowout. “Leave it.”

“C’mon, Y/N!” He waves his hands in the air, exasperated. “You can’t seriously believe that the kid just fell off his bike and gave himself two black eyes.”

The indignation pisses you off. Of course you don’t believe that Dustin’s shitty excuse for his injuries. Of course the sight of his bent nose and swollen eyes makes you sick to your stomach, because Mike and Lucas fucking told you about some douchebag named Andy and you know Dustin has become only more bitter and swallowed whole by his grief. 

You know the bruises on your little brother’s face were caused by angry fists. Of course you know. 

But Dustin hasn’t been honest with you in a long, long time. 

You’re just relieved to see that he’s still breathing.

Dustin stares back at you, almost daring you to call him out on his bullshit, but you’ve come to accept that you’ll take whatever he’ll give you. Lies and distance and all. 

“Hey!” Jonathan snaps from the backseat, headphones in his hand and worried eyes on you. He sees the clench of your fists, the hardness in your shoulders and how close you are to spiraling. “Can you guys keep it down up there? I’m listening for a signal, in case you forgot.”

Steve flashes him a sarcastic thumbs up, but even before he opens his mouth you know that there’s no end to his merciless antagonization. 

“Who was it?” He questions Dustin, licking his lips in anticipation, eager for a reaction. “It was Andy and his goons, wasn’t it?”

“Steve!”

“He’s always practically begging to get his ass kicked, Y/N!” 

Cleaning his injuries, Dustin sighs, unamused. “Your concern for me is overwhelming.”

“We have shown nothing but concern for you since forever,” Steve keeps pushing, keeps instigating and insisting on berating your brother to the point of exhaustion. “And we’ve been repeatedly ignored, and now look what’s happened. We’re completely fucking screwed.”

The dam breaks. Dustin’s vitriol foams out his mouth. 

“Correction!” He exclaims, laughing manically to himself as he falls off the edge. “We’re screwed because you don’t know how to do the most basic thing like prevent a power surge.”

All night you’ve been pulled too far, stretched too thin until you have nothing left inside you. Steve and Dustin bite back and forth at each other with viscous words and over-saturated egos and you’re too used up to suppress the overflowing aggression. 

Their voices overlap in a pounding, splitting headache that numbs your tongue. Curling into yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, anything to digest the turmoil that nauseates you. 

“Jesus Christ, just admit it for once!” Steve’s hard, loud voice squeezes at your lungs, flinching at the harsh finality. “You’re wrong, Henderson. You screwed up!”

Steve never, ever raises his voice. He knows how much you despise it. You’ve spent endless sleepless nights confessing to Steve how your father used to yell at you, how his anger haunted your childhood home. 

And now Steve screams at your baby brother. 

You’re no longer numb.

“Stop it!” Your head nearly hits the roof of the van from how quickly you sit up, throwing yourself against the boys’ seats in a desperate attempt to get it all to stop. “Jesus, both of you just shut up.”

Both Dustin and Steve jump at the sudden outburst. Neither of them had been expecting it, both too lost in their own passive aggressive world to notice the signs of your brewing collapse. 

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” the timbre of your voice shakes, unable to hide the devastation that coincides with all the anger within you. “The arguing. The snarky comments and excessive defensiveness. I-I can’t do it anymore.”

Dustin offers you a concerned glance. “Y/N–” 

“You’re in desperate need of help and it’s fucking infuriating that you refuse to accept it.” No longer do you dread upsetting your brother. For months all you’ve done is tip-toe around his feelings, but in the end all it’s done is drive him further away, and you’re tired of pretending that it isn’t killing you. “All you’re doing is hurting the ones who love you.”

Steve gestures wildly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!”

“And you,” immediately you turn Steve, your eyes hard and narrow and lacking their usual warmth when you look at the boy. “You need to act your own age. It’s so fucking infuriating having to deal with your insatiable need to always pick a fight with a literal child.”

“Until you both figure out whatever the hell is going on between the two of you,” hands shaking, you bite down on your teeth and spit out your final words, “leave me out of it.”

The sound of your uneven breaths become the only exhale that fills the silence in the van. Fragments of your ribcage rattle with every sharp inhale, heart on edge as it tries to piece together whether tonight has been real or if any second you’ll wake from the horrible, awful dream. 

But a rough, nostalgic hand cups the back of your neck. Its presence grounds you, it soothes the sporadic beating in your chest like a magnet to a nail. 

Falling back into the touch, your back presses against Jonathan’s legs, his body firm, unyielding, and you allow his touch to lull you into a bittersweet, endless silence. 

No one in the car speaks. 

– 

The hours pass by slowly.

Steve drives the same monotonous route over and over again, the four of you waiting for something, anything to happen. 

But Jonathan never gets a signal. The radios remain silent. 

As the hours drag on, the exhaustion from the night creeps in. Your eyes struggle to remain open. The adrenaline crashed long ago, with the only thing keeping you going is the fear that you’ve lost Hopper all over again.

You don’t know what you’d do if that were true. 

You’ve grown too used to grief, but you don’t think you’ll ever recover from losing Hopper. Not again, at least. 

“One more loop around the zone?” Steve asks Jonathan, navigation being the only conversation left to be had anymore.

Jonathan adjusts the antenna and checks for any new signal. His shoulders drop when he finds no difference. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Go ahead.”

The wheels of the van veer to a turn, but just as the tired gain traction, Jonathan’s hand flies to his headphones as he grips onto it harshly, face narrowed in concentration as he listens for something. “No, wait.”

“What is it?” You’re alert immediately, crawling onto your knees as you anxiously peer at the decibel meter. 

“Is it Hop?” Dustin’s voice laces with naive hope.

You shake your head, squinting at the meter, which has remained the same all night. “I don’t see anything on the decoder.”

“No, but I can hear something.” Jonathan’s body visibly strains, his eyes squeezing shut as he presses the headphones tightly to his ears. Suddenly he sits up in his seat, tired eyes now alight. “Yeah, I can definitely hear something.”

Dustin’s foot catches the base of your skull as he haphazardly crawls over the passenger seat and next to Jonathan.

“Fuck,” you duck to avoid further damage, wincing at the explosion of pain in your head. “Why is it always me you bruise?”

Your brother shushes you aggressively, shoving past you to get a better look at the meter himself just as Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie.

“Is that him?”

Dustin yanks the headphones off of Jonathan and shoves them onto his own head, forcing the older boy to respond to Joyce. “We’re not sure.”

Both you and Jonathan stare at Dustin, baited breaths as you wait for his answer. But just as you allow a grimace of hope to build, he tears it down with one single sentence. 

“No, it’s not Hopper.”

“Then what the hell is it?” You bite back tears of frustration, fingernails cutting in your palms. “What else could you possibly be hearing?”

“I don’t know, alright? It could be a million things.” Dustin wrings his hands together, anxious. His own hope has died alongside yours. “Military broadcast, TV channel, any EMI within our frequency zone.”

Yet you’re a hopeless naive. “But we’ve been driving the same route all night without hearing anything. Why start now?”

“I can’t answer that,” your brother admits, shrugging. “But I can tell you that it’s not Hopper’s telemetry tag. If it was, it would show up on the decoder. So… the search continues.”

He crawls back to the passenger seat, unphased, yet you can’t move on. You know Dustin is right. There isn’t any other possible explanation, but it still feels as if a hammer has torn a nail through your chest. 

Jonathan senses your disappointment and squeezes your wrist, a silent, gentle acknowledgement of your exhaustion. Raising the walkie to his lips, he delivers the news to Joyce. “Hey, mom, um. Disregard. It’s a false alarm.”

She remains quiet for a moment before responding. “Jonathan, is your receiver in any way connected to the flux capacitor?”

Simultaneously you, Steve, Dustin, and Jonathan all cock your heads at the question, each of you trying to figure out whether or not you heard Joyce correctly. While your time at the radio tower has been limited, and while almost all of the hard labor has fallen onto Dustin’s shoulders, none of you know what the hell the woman is asking. 

“Uh, sorry, mom. Can you… repeat that?” The tailed raise in Jonathan’s cadence, hints of amusement and disbelief, somehow gets you to laugh, if even for a second. 

“The flux capacitor.” Joyce explains confidently. “Robin said it was down, but she and Will are working on it. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t messing with your connection.”

And there it is. 

Robin Buckley. 

Somehow it’s always her.

Steve catches your eye in the rearview mirror, his thoughts echoing yours. He raises his eyebrow, chuckles to himself, and you find yourself biting back a smile as well while Dustin fully turns around in his seat. 

Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie again. “Hello?”

“You gonna tell her, or am I?” Dustin asks you, highly amused. 

You huff an amused laugh, reaching for the walkie from Jonathan. “I’ll tell her, though I can’t imagine it’ll sound any better coming from me.”

“Are you guys still there?” 

“We’re still here, Mrs. Byers.” You answer the woman, unable to suppress the smile that won’t leave your wanton lips. “Did you, uh. Say that Robin went off with Will?”

“Yeah, to fix the flux capacitor.” Joyce’s tone shifts, teetering on suspicion. “...Why?”

“I regret to inform you that Robin Buckley is a liar,” you tell her, giggling despite your best efforts not to. “And you should probably start looking for them.”

A beat passes.

“Oh, those little shits–”

The signal quickly disconnects and the walkie shuts off. 

For a brief moment, the van fills with a warm, honeyed hue. Jonathan snorts in disbelief, Steve shakes his head as he chuckles to himself, Dustin rolls his eyes, though not even he can mask his pleasure in hearing of Robin’s ability to deceive even the most vulnerable of parties. 

The honeyed hue lingers as the night stretches on, though all good things must come to an end, and when the radio’s silence dregs over into the next hour with nothing to show for it, no signs of Hopper or updates from Nancy, the hue becomes bitter once more. 

Eventually the beginning rays of early morning sunlight ebbs over the van’s dashboard. Its light kisses your eyelids and coaxes them shut. 

Steve lays his jacket over you. 

No one wakes you up.

-

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Somewhere in the distance the sound of your footsteps echo into the dark, bitter night. 

Clenched within your hand are your knives. Their metal glints in the streetlights as you run past every lonesome car, avoiding their collisions. 

One of them slams their horn at you, screeching to a stop just before it collides into your fleeing body, but you hardly even flinch.

You don’t care. 

All you do is run.

Minutes pass. You hardly process any of it. 

The only indication of the passage of time are the ringing in your ears increasing in volume and how badly your chest burns for oxygen as you run as far as your aching legs will allow. 

Up the crest of the hill, the Wheeler’s house shines untouched. Safe. The relief of it being intact  strengthens you to keep going, to run for just a little longer, until a horrible, eerily familiar screech pierces through the silence of the night. 

The mangled sound chokes you. 

Only a Demogorgon’s cry could paralyze you so viciously. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?” your throat strains to be heard over the monster’s cries as you force the last of your sanity into running faster, harder, towards the Wheeler’s front door with your knives at the ready. “Holly?”

But no one answers.

Heart beating of your chest, you fling the door open with more cries on the tip of your tongue, searching through the living room and stumbling back at its disarray, but they all die at the sight of red.

Everywhere. 

The red is everywhere. 

It pools on the floor, drips down the walls, and covers the limp body of Karen Wheeler, leaving her almost unrecognizable.

The red glues your cowardly feet to the floor, rendering you unable to move. For what feels like an eternity you stand in the kitchen’s doorway, horror consuming you as you stare at Mrs. Wheeler’s mangled mess of a body on the ground. 

Her body? Or her corpse?

“Oh my god.” Bile rises in your throat. The sharp smell of blood stings your nose and you choke back grieving gags at the knowledge of who it belongs to.

This woman baked cookies for you every Christmas, always excited to share her recipes with you. She fed you dinners, countless breakfasts, endless snacks for long days with the boys in her basement. 

Karen Wheeler helped soothe your childhood wounds through her unyielding empathy.

Now she lies before you, motionless. 

Yet in your horror, you remember who else the woman fed and soothed. Mike’s teary eyes looking up at his mother and Nancy’s gentle voice and Holly’s small hands all reaching for Karen in your memories. 

They’d be lost without their mother. Her death would ruin them.

The realization forces you to your knees. The blood pooled on the floor soaks through your jeans and onto your skin. Its warmth unsettles you. But when you see Karen’s eyes wide and panic stricken staring back at you, your body moves to hers. 

“Mrs. Wheeler,” you press your hands against her jugular, suppressing a gag at the sensation of her thick blood between your fingers. She stiffens at the touch, tries to get away from the uncomfortable pressure, but you frantically shake your head and keep your grip firm. “It’s okay, I’m right here, alright? Just-just stop moving.”

Karen tries to say something, causing even more blood to bubble over her torn skin, and you’re quick to quiet the woman once more. Her eyes beg you for answers that you can’t give her. All you can do is stroke her cheek and whisper apologies to her over and over again. 

“Nancy will be here soon,” you try to reassure her, ignoring how cold her body now feels. “Just hold on a little while longer. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Her eyes flicker briefly, a question within them. She doesn’t know why you keep apologizing. She doesn’t know that the claw marks on her ribcage mirror the very same ones that mar your own ribcage. 

“Mom!” 

Nancy’s tormented scream haunts you. 

“I-I found her like this.” Your knees slide against the bloodied kitchen tiles in your haste to allow Nancy beside her mother. “The blood–”

But Nancy doesn’t acknowledge your presence. She tears her jacket off and pries your hands away from her mother’s neck before pressing it tightly against the wound. “Don’t try to talk, okay? Just stay calm.”

As she consoles Karen, you follow her daughter’s lead and quickly tear off your own jacket to tie around Karen’s abdomen. As you’re messily dressing her wounds you feel someone’s hand land against your arm. 

“Will she be okay?” El’s soft voice asks. 

You don’t know whether she means Nancy or Karen. Maybe both. 

“We need to get Mrs. Wheeler to the hospital–”

“H-Holly.”

Karen’s strained, broken vocal chords piece together only one name. The ringing in your ears crescendos into a deafening end. 

Nancy quickly turns to you. “Did you find anyone else in the house?”

“No, I–” You hadn’t even thought to look for anyone else. You’d been too focused on Karen to consider who else may still be missing. Ashamed and overwhelmed, your stomach churns and your head shakes violently. “I didn’t even think to look–”

“Then where’s my sister?” Nancy’s panic swells the room. “Why isn’t she–”

Her voice dies in her throat as something catches her attention. You twist your head around, trying to find the cause, and your own voice dies at the sight of a gate to the Upside Down, slowly closing into itself upon the front door. 

“Go.” Nancy snaps her attention back to El. She’s realized what you’re too afraid to comprehend. “Go, go, go, go!”

El looks between the two of you, torn and confused. She doesn’t want to leave you behind, not while covered in Mrs. Wheeler’s blood and unsure whether she’ll ever see her alive again, but you shake your head slightly, softly. 

“Find Holly.” You tell El, forcing down your own urge to follow. The Upside Down almost killed you once before. “Please.”

Nothing else has to be said. El doesn’t turn back even once as she runs towards the gate and into hell. She isn’t afraid. Not anymore. 

The gate closes behind her. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Mom.” Nancy’s tears break you back to reality as she clings onto her mother’s limp hand. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You reach for Nancy’s other hand. While she doesn’t accept the endearment, you cling onto it regardless to remind her that she isn’t alone. She will never be alone as long as she has you. 

You’re not sure how long you kneel in Karen Wheeler’s blood listening to her daughter’s pleas to stay alive. All you know is that you never once let go of the girl’s hand. You never once stop caressing the woman’s cheek. You watch other both Wheeler women, caring for them how they’ve always cared for you. 

And when you hear Mike’s urgent voice outside the house, you know what your final act of mercy will be. 

No child should ever have to endure seeing their family home covered in blood.

“You can’t come inside.” They’re the only words you say to the boy at the door, blocking him from entering. 

Mike’s chest heaves. “What the hell, Y/N?”

Lucas stands behind him. He catches your pleading look and understands. Squaring his shoulders, he grabs Mike’s forearm and tries to pull him back. “Mike, you shouldn’t–”

“Where the fuck are my parents?” Mike slams his body back, fighting against Lucas and shoving even harder against you when he notices the blood that stains your clothing. “Where are my sisters?”

“Mike–” You wish there was more you could do.

He only fights harder. His elbow digs into your ribcage and you know his nails will leave marks later. But you don’t blame the kid. He’s worried, terrified of what his family has become. “Let me go!”

Lucas roughly grabs Mike’s shoulders, forcing him off of you. “Enough, Mike!

“I have to help!”

“We’re not letting you inside!” Lucas screams over Mike’s insistent terror. He grabs harshly at the kid’s body, forcing him to look at you and Lucas in a vain attempt he’ll listen. “You can’t go inside, alright? We won’t let you–”

Blinding lights fill the Wheeler’s driveway. The paramedics’ arrival stuns Mike long enough to force him away from the front door. The EMTs rush inside, and just as you’ve secured Mike underneath your arms, the first of the gurneys crashes through the door. 

Ted Wheeler. Multiple puncture wounds to his chest and abdomen. 

Mike’s body collapses. You’re there to catch him.

Karen Wheeler follows. Nancy runs beside the gurney as she whistles off every piece of vital information she can think of to the emergency responders. 

When she sees Mike, she lunges towards him and pulls him into her arms. 

You and Lucas step back to give the siblings space. They’re all the other has left. 

Numb fingers worry away at your nailbeds, picking at the tender skin that never has enough time to heal before its next slaughter. The sharp pain of the bloodied wounds soothes the itch underneath your skin to crowd Nancy and Mike. To fret over them, to do more than what you already have because it’s what you do. 

It was all you were ever meant to do.

Lucas grabs your hands, intercepting the next wave of destruction they’ll endure. 

“Enough,” he gently chides, allowing the smallest of smiles to peek back at you. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to tell you.” Though you smile back at him, the effort exhausts you. 

Lucas notices and sighs, releasing your hands. His mouth opens as if to chide you once again, but one of the EMTs begins guiding Nancy and Mike into the back of the ambulance and you’re following after them immediately. 

“I’m coming with you guys.” The tone of your voice doesn’t suggest a question. 

Mike quickly grabs your hand to pull you inside the vehicle, but it’s Nancy who stops him. “You have to stay, Y/N.”

Your face pinches together. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting you face this alone.”

Nancy shakes her head violently. Her entire body ruptures at the movement, fresh tears spill down her face. “No, I need you to keep looking for Hopper.”

“Steve and Jonathan are already–”

“Then go find El!” The last of Nancy’s resolve breaks. She jumps to her feet, flings her arms out and gestures wildly as if to articulate her despair and delirium even more. “Find someone, anyone, who will lead you to my little sister.”

Find Holly for me.

A heavy burden to carry, the trust of finding one’s little sister.

Yet you’d do it in a heartbeat for Nancy. Time and time again, you would carry the burden and smile in its wake, full of gratitude. 

“I-I will.” You promise her, pulling her shaking body into yours one final time. She trembles at the touch. Her hair tickles your cheek and your lips press to her scalp. “I’ll find Holly.”

“Thank you.” Nancy’s wet voice breaks you. 

Your hand cradles her head. “Of course.”

“We need to get your parents to the hospital.” An EMT interrupts, not unkind, but firm. 

Nancy forces herself away, but you manage to grab the back of Mike’s neck and pull his head within your reach so that you can kiss his forehead goodbye. His body crumbles at the affection, he holds your hand so tightly that it cuts off the circulation, but you don’t care.

Instead you watch as the Wheeler children crawl into the ambulance with their mother while Lucas rides with their father. They leave in a storm of flashing lights and harsh sirens.

Mike’s old, abandoned bike remains the only thing left in its wake. 

You grab it, feeling your promise to Nancy etching itself into your skin. 

I’ll find Holly.

The promise rings in the air around you. Its tone mirrors the same cadence as the promise you once made to Jonathan about finding Will. 

In the end, you found him. But not before he became someone else. Someone different from the little bee you once adored. 

Swallowing down the overheated adrenaline coursing through your system, your feet kick off the bike’s pedals, ignoring how badly your hands shake as you do so. 

Jonathan and Steve will be worried about you. 

Yet the knowledge of their concern isn’t enough to suppress the gory images of Mrs. Wheeler’s body on the kitchen floor from flooding your mind. 

They will haunt you forever. 

– 

Steve stands outside the WSQK van with its engine tethered to a jeep. The owner of the vehicle, a girl you’re unfamiliar with, has her arms defensively crossed and an agitated expression of obvious disdain for your boyfriend. 

Steve’s uncomfortable stance reveals that he’s painfully aware of her feelings towards him. 

“Can I, uh. Offer you a Bopper?” You overhear him offer the girl, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

She doesn’t bother to respond, only making the uncomfortable situation worse. 

When Steve sees your silhouette in the distance, he exhales in relief and practically runs away from the girl in order to get to you. He would’ve much rather have spent his night alone with you, tucked away together somewhere no one else could find you, safe and sound. 

“I’ve been missing you all night, angel.” His head tilts when he notices you’re on a bike rather than on foot. But then his eyes fall to your chest, your stained hands and stomach, and the red that cakes your body strikes Steve’s aorta so deeply that he struggles to breathe. “Y/N.”

Steve’s hands fall to your waist immediately, helping you off the bike and sitting you onto the ground in a frenzy of concern and fear. He traces every inch of your skin repeatedly, trying to find the source of the pain. “Where the hell is the blood coming from? I-I have to stop the bleeding–”

“The blood isn’t mine.” Your hands grab his, quelling their weathered fears as Steve’s expression morphs from terror to confusion. 

“I don’t understand…”

“It’s Mrs. Wheeler’s.”

Despite how softly you say it, Steve hears the broken confession and closes his eyes in stunned remorse. “Will she be okay?”

The innocent question exhausts you. Mind nearly melted from the night’s events, you push yourself up and start walking towards the van. Your body moves on autopilot, brain only focusing on what comes next and the necessary steps. “We need to leave.”

“Woah, hey!” Steve scrambles after you. “Y/N, I really don’t think you should be running around right now.”

You ignore him and climb inside the van, only to startle Jonathan sitting in the passenger seat.

“Jesus, bug. You scared me–” But just as Steve’s worried eyes scoured your body, Jonathan does, too. He nearly chokes on his spit seeing all the blood. “Fuck, are you alright?”

“It isn’t her blood.” Steve answers for you, slamming the driver’s side door closed before crawling over the driver’s seat and pulling you into his lap. His fingers wipe away at the dried blood on your face tenderly, carefully, delicate in a way only love can provide. “C’mere, angel.”

He begins cleaning you, uncaring of the fact that Jonathan sits just a foot away. And while Steve’s touch has only ever brought solace to your tumultuous life, tonight it burns your skin and leaves you feeling raw, exposed. 

You pull away, just out of reach. “The Demogorgon got to the Wheeler’s before we could. Mrs. Wheeler, she…”

The unnatural angle of her arm, its protrusion and the lacerations on her throat and chest and all the exposed flesh and meat of her body all echo in your mind and bring bitter bile up your throat at the onslaught of memories. 

But you promised Nancy you’d find her sister. 

“I was trying to stop her bleeding when Nancy and El found us.” Swallowing down the nausea, you do your best to block out the memories, but they come pouring out anyways like a ruptured dam. “We think Holly was taken to the Upside Down, just like Will was, and-and Nancy sent El there to save Holly and forced me to come here so that we can find Hopper–”

You don’t notice your tears until Steve’s gentle fingers wipe them from your face. “Y/N, you need to breathe.”

As you manage a quick inhale that leaves your weak lungs craving more, Jonathan leans over the passenger seat and lowers his voice, eyes wanting. “What about Nancy, bug? Can you tell me if she’s alright?”

Steve reels at him. “For fucks sake, man. Can’t you see that she’s barely able to get a breath in?”

“I’m sorry, is my concern for my girlfriend really that distressing to you?” Jonathan scoffs in disgust. “I understand that Y/N’s had a hard night, but from what she’s just told us, Nancy’s entire family is in critical danger and I’d really like to know how I can help her.”

They argue with each other as if you aren’t even there. As if you aren’t sitting on the floor of the van, wishing you were anywhere but here, surrounded by two boys whose childish ego battle threatens to send you over the edge. 

“But unlike Nancy, Y/N is actually here. Covered in someone else’s blood.” Steve wraps a protective arm over you, pulling you away from Jonathan and deeper into his chest. “What we need to do is get her cleaned up and–”

Their voices pound inside your head until you can’t take it anymore. Until all that’s left to do is scream.

“Stop it!”

You’ve never heard your voice so shrill before. You almost don’t recognize it to be your own, but when Steve’s grip loosens in surprise and Jonathan’s eyes stare back at you wide, unnerved, you know that it had been you screamed. 

Suddenly overly aware of both boys’ eyes on you, you shrink in on yourself, covering your body with your arms as you crawl out of Steve’s grasp and towards the van’s doors. “I-I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry, I just… We have to stick to the plan. Nancy made me promise we’d find Holly. We have to find Holly.”

Bile rises in your throat yet again. It burns through the strain in your vocal chords from all the yelling. If you don’t leave now, you’ll do something you regret. 

“I-I need some air.” Hand on the door, your fingernails dig into the metal as you fling it open. The minute the fresh air hits your face, the tightness in your chest dissipates. Inhaling deeply, you throw your body up and quickly call over your shoulder to Steve and Jonathan as you flee, “don’t follow.”

You fall against the nearest tree you find just within reach of the van’s headlights. The girl Steve was talking to earlier who helps jumpstart the van gives you an odd look, but you simply drop your head to your knees and breathe in the night air, basking in the silence. 

Steve watches you through the windshield, lazily returning to the driver’s seat in frustration. He picks at his nails nervously, his worried eyes trace over your exhausted body over and over again. 

“We need to take Y/N home.”

Jonathan whips his head to look at Steve, completely in awe of his stupidity. “You can’t be serious.”

Steve bristles at his annoyed tone. “She’s obviously in shock and currently looks like she’s five seconds away from passing out.”

“Alright, and then what? What’s your genius plan after we tuck Y/N into bed, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shifts in his seat, eyes never leaving your body just a few feet away. He watches for any more signs of distress, worried he’ll look and find you passed out moments later. “The hospital isn’t far from the Henderson’s. We can go there after, make sure Nancy is okay and maybe get some more intel.”

Jonathan rubs the crease between his brows. “No. No, we stick to the plan. Find Hopper, find Eleven, and find Holly. That’s what Y/N said, and it’s what she promised Nancy.”

“Right, but we don’t know how long it’ll take for us to locate Hopper’s telemetry tag again.” Steve’s knee bounces up and down. He hates being stuck inside the van, so far from you. “I’m worried Y/N has pushed herself too hard this time. I mean, she always pushes herself too hard, but this time she looks exhausted, dude.” 

“You can’t just sideline Y/N.” Jonathan shakes his head. He did that to you, once, when he tried sneaking out of the middle school with Nancy one night to go fight a Demogorgon. Jonathan will never forget the hurt on your face when you caught them. “She’d never forgive you.”

Something stirs within Steve’s stomach at the somberness in Jonathan’s voice, obviously recounting an old, nostalgic memory. A bitterness overtakes him. “Sounds like you’d know from experience.”

“Jesus Christ,” an exasperated breath rattles Jonathan’s chest, bordering between exhaustion and disbelief. He resents Steve’s bitterness over your history together, it isn’t fair. He gets a future with you while all Jonathan has left is the history. 

“What?” Immediately Steve feels defensive, caught. 

Jonathan stares out the window, his own eyes tracing your silhouette. Once, proximity didn’t exist between the two of you. Once, nothing else in the world existed outside of your own, small universe where your planets orbited around each other and your suns were intertwined. 

Now you can’t even bear to be in the same car as Jonathan. 

“I just thought that, tonight of all nights, you might just… give it a rest.”

Steve frowns. “Give what a rest?”

“This bullshit competition for Y/N and Nancy’s attention.” Jonathan hates the words coming out of his mouth. He knows you’d despise them as well. It’s embarrassing, groveling for his best friend’s attention and his girlfriend’s adoration. 

Yet here Jonathan is, on his knees with only bruises left to show for it. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rarely does anything Jonathan says makes sense to Steve, but tonight he’s convinced the guy has smoked a stash behind your back, yet again. “No one is competing for anything.”

“Dude, ever since I got back from Lenora, you’ve been constantly injecting yourself into every one of my conversations with Y/N.” Jonathan’s own bitterness bleeds into his voice. “It’s as if you’ve become physically incapable of leaving her alone with me. She’s my best friend, we have a history together that you could never understand, and it’s fucking childish to hold it over my head as if it’s somehow all my fault that you’re uncomfortable with the history.”

Steve’s fingernails dig into the steering wheel. An old, familiar fury rises in his throat. “Careful there, Byers. It almost sounds like you forgot who Y/N is in love with.”

The words are like cold water poured upon Jonathan’s skin. “I’m not the one constantly showing off for Nancy, trying to remind her of how much better I am than you.” He swallows thickly, turns away from Steve, and says into the night, “seems you forgot who she’s in love with, too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, obviously uncomfortable with Jonathan’s insinuation, and Jonathan latches onto the moment of vulnerability like a rabid dog. 

“Which is ironic, if you ask me, because while all you can focus on is Y/N, I’m actively trying to make sure that Nancy has a chance of surviving this shitshow of a night, because I could never forget who she’s in love with, despite your selfishish delusions.”

Years of built up resentment simmer between the two men. Neither one of them has anything else to say. The battlefield has been drawn, uneven grounds left in wreckage with no clear winning side. 

A series of staccato horns breaks the silence. Both Jonathan and Steve jump up in alarm, heads turning towards the direction of the sound and finding the girl they’d forgotten about, sitting in her car with nothing but disdain on her face, angrily gesturing to the van. 

The sound catches your attention, causing you to carefully stand up and begin making your way back to the van, seemingly ready to finally leave. 

Steve reaches for the keys and places them into the ignition. He notices the hesitancy in your steps, how slowly you drag your feet as if walking into a minefield. 

“You know what, Byers?” Suddenly everything Steve has ever wanted to say to Jonathan becomes a race against the clock, to get everything out before you walk back inside the van and force the reality into another endless silence. “You’re totally right about my ‘selfish delusions’.”

Jonathan’s head falls into his hands, clearly wanting the conversation to just end, but Steve doesn’t care. You’ll be back any minute, and for once in Steve’s life he can’t bite his tongue for your mercy. Not this time.

“Y/N told me about your little phone call.” And there it is. Steve has revealed his final card, and it's dealt as a javelin to Jonathan’s stoic demeanor. He stiffens in his seat, and Steve gets a sickening sense of satisfaction watching his facade crumble. “What did you say again? Something about whether you and Y/N made a mistake?” 

A ringing fills Jonathan’s eardrums. Cold, metallic ringing. The taste of betrayal and shock linger on Jonathan’s tongue, mixed with embarrassment and shame.

He never thought you’d tell anyone about the phone call. 

Then again, Jonathan never thought you’d do a lot of the things you’ve done since he lost you.

Humorless laughter drips from Steve’s cruel mouth as he watches Jonathan’s face twist in shocked grief. He has him right where he wants him. “And I’m the fucking delusional one.”

Shoving the key into the ignition, the van sputters once, twice, before dying again. All Steve wants is to leave.

“I’ve known all along how miserable you and Nancy are, from the minute you decided to call my girlfriend, high as a kite, trying to get her to leave me for you.” You’re only a few feet away now. Throwing all caution to the wind, Steve lays his final blow. “Maybe if you stopped living in some idealized past life with Y/N, a past life that is dead, and instead focused on your current life with Nancy, maybe then the two of you would finally be happy. Maybe then you’d finally have your best friend back.”

Then the van comes to life, its engine loud and daunting. The headlights come on and your arm reaching for the van’s backseat doors, a question on the tip of your tongue about how long it will take to recalibrate the telemetry tag, when suddenly the question dies on your lips as you see your little brother, bloodied and bruised, stumbling up the street. 

“Dustin!”

The sight of him breaks you completely. 

You grab for his broken body blindly, tears blurring your vision as you cradle Dustin’s head to your chest. Struggling to breathe, you finally allow the sobs that have been building within your frigid body to come crashing out in waves, no longer able to pretend that tonight hasn’t been one of the worst nights in your entire life. 

“I’m fine, Y/N.” Dustin’s body remains stiff, uncomfortable in your embrace. He places his hands awkwardly on your arms in a weak attempt to pull away, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting such a volatile reaction. 

“You don’t look fine,” Steve yanks Dustin’s bike out of his hands, uncaring of the boy’s bruises and bloody nose. “You chose a spectacular night to ditch us.”

Dustin opens his mouth to argue, maybe even defend himself and provide an answer to his disappearance, but Steve cuts him off. 

“Save the bullshit excuses for later,” he hauls the bike into the van and slams the door shut. “We need to leave. Now.”

Dustin looks to you for an answer you can’t give him. His eyes land on the dark stains of blood clinging to your sweater and the shell shocked tears that won’t stop falling. “What the hell did I miss?”

You wipe a stray tear, smearing even more blood on your face.

“It’s been a long night.”

– 

Your back presses into the van’s floor as you stare up at its ceiling, watching the streetlamps flash across like streaks of lightning. Every bump of the rough road digs harshly into your spine, but you’ve gone numb to it. 

Jonathan sits beside you, one hand pressing the headphones tightly to his ear, trying to catch any hint of Hopper’s telemetry tag, while the other hand carefully steers the antenna attached to the roof. 

“And by sheer luck, Jessica was coming back from a party and I charmed my way into getting us a jump.” Steve explains everything to your brother as he drives, eyes never straying from the windsheild. “Which brings us to you, arriving looking like Rocky Balboa.”

“Y/N’s the one who looks like she barely escaped Leatherface.” Dustin quips back, slouching further into the passenger seat at the idea of you covered in someone else’s blood. “So I think I’ll be okay.”

“This isn’t funny, alright? Out of all the crawls, this was like, the one to miss.” Steve rolls his eyes. The annoyance in his voice is like a jagged edge, piercing your thin membrane of patience. “So, well done, Henderson. Really, really well done.”

You roll onto your side, finding your brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror as you hand him a tissue for his wounds. His hard gaze softens slightly, accepting the small offer, and something loosens within your chest. “Are you sure you’re okay, Dustin?”

He purposely misinterprets your question as concern for his sanity, shoving the tissue up his broken nose. “It’s a lot to process… I mean, why Holly?”

“Maybe Eleven could tell us, but it’s a bit difficult to contact her now that we’ve lost our connection to the Upside Down.” Steve not to gently reminds Dustin. 

“We just have to keep trying,” uncomfortable with the quickly rising animosity, you sit up and force yourself between the two boys. “That’s what we should be focusing on right now.”

But Dustin has already latched onto Steve’s pointed finger. “You guys should’ve turned everything off the second the lights went from really bright to really dim. I’ve told you before that it means the generator is surging.”

Naturally, Steve doesn’t take the criticism well. “Yeah, great. I’ll remember that for next time, or, and this is a suggestion, you could be where you’re supposed to be.”

“Steve,” you kick the back of his seat, worried he’ll push Dustin too hard and create yet another blowout. “Leave it.”

“C’mon, Y/N!” He waves his hands in the air, exasperated. “You can’t seriously believe that the kid just fell off his bike and gave himself two black eyes.”

The indignation pisses you off. Of course you don’t believe that Dustin’s shitty excuse for his injuries. Of course the sight of his bent nose and swollen eyes makes you sick to your stomach, because Mike and Lucas fucking told you about some douchebag named Andy and you know Dustin has become only more bitter and swallowed whole by his grief. 

You know the bruises on your little brother’s face were caused by angry fists. Of course you know. 

But Dustin hasn’t been honest with you in a long, long time. 

You’re just relieved to see that he’s still breathing.

Dustin stares back at you, almost daring you to call him out on his bullshit, but you’ve come to accept that you’ll take whatever he’ll give you. Lies and distance and all. 

“Hey!” Jonathan snaps from the backseat, headphones in his hand and worried eyes on you. He sees the clench of your fists, the hardness in your shoulders and how close you are to spiraling. “Can you guys keep it down up there? I’m listening for a signal, in case you forgot.”

Steve flashes him a sarcastic thumbs up, but even before he opens his mouth you know that there’s no end to his merciless antagonization. 

“Who was it?” He questions Dustin, licking his lips in anticipation, eager for a reaction. “It was Andy and his goons, wasn’t it?”

“Steve!”

“He’s always practically begging to get his ass kicked, Y/N!” 

Cleaning his injuries, Dustin sighs, unamused. “Your concern for me is overwhelming.”

“We have shown nothing but concern for you since forever,” Steve keeps pushing, keeps instigating and insisting on berating your brother to the point of exhaustion. “And we’ve been repeatedly ignored, and now look what’s happened. We’re completely fucking screwed.”

The dam breaks. Dustin’s vitriol foams out his mouth. 

“Correction!” He exclaims, laughing manically to himself as he falls off the edge. “We’re screwed because you don’t know how to do the most basic thing like prevent a power surge.”

All night you’ve been pulled too far, stretched too thin until you have nothing left inside you. Steve and Dustin bite back and forth at each other with viscous words and over-saturated egos and you’re too used up to suppress the overflowing aggression. 

Their voices overlap in a pounding, splitting headache that numbs your tongue. Curling into yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, anything to digest the turmoil that nauseates you. 

“Jesus Christ, just admit it for once!” Steve’s hard, loud voice squeezes at your lungs, flinching at the harsh finality. “You’re wrong, Henderson. You screwed up!”

Steve never, ever raises his voice. He knows how much you despise it. You’ve spent endless sleepless nights confessing to Steve how your father used to yell at you, how his anger haunted your childhood home. 

And now Steve screams at your baby brother. 

You’re no longer numb.

“Stop it!” Your head nearly hits the roof of the van from how quickly you sit up, throwing yourself against the boys’ seats in a desperate attempt to get it all to stop. “Jesus, both of you just shut up.”

Both Dustin and Steve jump at the sudden outburst. Neither of them had been expecting it, both too lost in their own passive aggressive world to notice the signs of your brewing collapse. 

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” the timbre of your voice shakes, unable to hide the devastation that coincides with all the anger within you. “The arguing. The snarky comments and excessive defensiveness. I-I can’t do it anymore.”

Dustin offers you a concerned glance. “Y/N–” 

“You’re in desperate need of help and it’s fucking infuriating that you refuse to accept it.” No longer do you dread upsetting your brother. For months all you’ve done is tip-toe around his feelings, but in the end all it’s done is drive him further away, and you’re tired of pretending that it isn’t killing you. “All you’re doing is hurting the ones who love you.”

Steve gestures wildly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!”

“And you,” immediately you turn Steve, your eyes hard and narrow and lacking their usual warmth when you look at the boy. “You need to act your own age. It’s so fucking infuriating having to deal with your insatiable need to always pick a fight with a literal child.”

“Until you both figure out whatever the hell is going on between the two of you,” hands shaking, you bite down on your teeth and spit out your final words, “leave me out of it.”

The sound of your uneven breaths become the only exhale that fills the silence in the van. Fragments of your ribcage rattle with every sharp inhale, heart on edge as it tries to piece together whether tonight has been real or if any second you’ll wake from the horrible, awful dream. 

But a rough, nostalgic hand cups the back of your neck. Its presence grounds you, it soothes the sporadic beating in your chest like a magnet to a nail. 

Falling back into the touch, your back presses against Jonathan’s legs, his body firm, unyielding, and you allow his touch to lull you into a bittersweet, endless silence. 

No one in the car speaks. 

– 

The hours pass by slowly.

Steve drives the same monotonous route over and over again, the four of you waiting for something, anything to happen. 

But Jonathan never gets a signal. The radios remain silent. 

As the hours drag on, the exhaustion from the night creeps in. Your eyes struggle to remain open. The adrenaline crashed long ago, with the only thing keeping you going is the fear that you’ve lost Hopper all over again.

You don’t know what you’d do if that were true. 

You’ve grown too used to grief, but you don’t think you’ll ever recover from losing Hopper. Not again, at least. 

“One more loop around the zone?” Steve asks Jonathan, navigation being the only conversation left to be had anymore.

Jonathan adjusts the antenna and checks for any new signal. His shoulders drop when he finds no difference. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Go ahead.”

The wheels of the van veer to a turn, but just as the tired gain traction, Jonathan’s hand flies to his headphones as he grips onto it harshly, face narrowed in concentration as he listens for something. “No, wait.”

“What is it?” You’re alert immediately, crawling onto your knees as you anxiously peer at the decibel meter. 

“Is it Hop?” Dustin’s voice laces with naive hope.

You shake your head, squinting at the meter, which has remained the same all night. “I don’t see anything on the decoder.”

“No, but I can hear something.” Jonathan’s body visibly strains, his eyes squeezing shut as he presses the headphones tightly to his ears. Suddenly he sits up in his seat, tired eyes now alight. “Yeah, I can definitely hear something.”

Dustin’s foot catches the base of your skull as he haphazardly crawls over the passenger seat and next to Jonathan.

“Fuck,” you duck to avoid further damage, wincing at the explosion of pain in your head. “Why is it always me you bruise?”

Your brother shushes you aggressively, shoving past you to get a better look at the meter himself just as Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie.

“Is that him?”

Dustin yanks the headphones off of Jonathan and shoves them onto his own head, forcing the older boy to respond to Joyce. “We’re not sure.”

Both you and Jonathan stare at Dustin, baited breaths as you wait for his answer. But just as you allow a grimace of hope to build, he tears it down with one single sentence. 

“No, it’s not Hopper.”

“Then what the hell is it?” You bite back tears of frustration, fingernails cutting in your palms. “What else could you possibly be hearing?”

“I don’t know, alright? It could be a million things.” Dustin wrings his hands together, anxious. His own hope has died alongside yours. “Military broadcast, TV channel, any EMI within our frequency zone.”

Yet you’re a hopeless naive. “But we’ve been driving the same route all night without hearing anything. Why start now?”

“I can’t answer that,” your brother admits, shrugging. “But I can tell you that it’s not Hopper’s telemetry tag. If it was, it would show up on the decoder. So… the search continues.”

He crawls back to the passenger seat, unphased, yet you can’t move on. You know Dustin is right. There isn’t any other possible explanation, but it still feels as if a hammer has torn a nail through your chest. 

Jonathan senses your disappointment and squeezes your wrist, a silent, gentle acknowledgement of your exhaustion. Raising the walkie to his lips, he delivers the news to Joyce. “Hey, mom, um. Disregard. It’s a false alarm.”

She remains quiet for a moment before responding. “Jonathan, is your receiver in any way connected to the flux capacitor?”

Simultaneously you, Steve, Dustin, and Jonathan all cock your heads at the question, each of you trying to figure out whether or not you heard Joyce correctly. While your time at the radio tower has been limited, and while almost all of the hard labor has fallen onto Dustin’s shoulders, none of you know what the hell the woman is asking. 

“Uh, sorry, mom. Can you… repeat that?” The tailed raise in Jonathan’s cadence, hints of amusement and disbelief, somehow gets you to laugh, if even for a second. 

“The flux capacitor.” Joyce explains confidently. “Robin said it was down, but she and Will are working on it. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t messing with your connection.”

And there it is. 

Robin Buckley. 

Somehow it’s always her.

Steve catches your eye in the rearview mirror, his thoughts echoing yours. He raises his eyebrow, chuckles to himself, and you find yourself biting back a smile as well while Dustin fully turns around in his seat. 

Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie again. “Hello?”

“You gonna tell her, or am I?” Dustin asks you, highly amused. 

You huff an amused laugh, reaching for the walkie from Jonathan. “I’ll tell her, though I can’t imagine it’ll sound any better coming from me.”

“Are you guys still there?” 

“We’re still here, Mrs. Byers.” You answer the woman, unable to suppress the smile that won’t leave your wanton lips. “Did you, uh. Say that Robin went off with Will?”

“Yeah, to fix the flux capacitor.” Joyce’s tone shifts, teetering on suspicion. “...Why?”

“I regret to inform you that Robin Buckley is a liar,” you tell her, giggling despite your best efforts not to. “And you should probably start looking for them.”

A beat passes.

“Oh, those little shits–”

The signal quickly disconnects and the walkie shuts off. 

For a brief moment, the van fills with a warm, honeyed hue. Jonathan snorts in disbelief, Steve shakes his head as he chuckles to himself, Dustin rolls his eyes, though not even he can mask his pleasure in hearing of Robin’s ability to deceive even the most vulnerable of parties. 

The honeyed hue lingers as the night stretches on, though all good things must come to an end, and when the radio’s silence dregs over into the next hour with nothing to show for it, no signs of Hopper or updates from Nancy, the hue becomes bitter once more. 

Eventually the beginning rays of early morning sunlight ebbs over the van’s dashboard. Its light kisses your eyelids and coaxes them shut. 

Steve lays his jacket over you. 

No one wakes you up.

-

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***

Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

support banners by @saradika-graphics

You and Robin became friends in middle school, the kind of friendship that started with a simple introduction and grew into giggling under covers at sleepovers and knowing that someone saying ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t apply when it came to your best friend.

Your parents decided to move before high school, but you’ve stayed in touch with Robin ever since. A few visits scattered throughout the years, far more conversations on two sides of a phone line, cords twisted around your fingers.

A trip (back) to Hawkins for you had been a long time coming, and though it obviously didn’t end up going according to plan, you’re grateful for it, in an odd way.

Your first couple of years in college weren’t going as well as you’d hoped. No friend group to mess around with, no courses to especially inspire you. It was exactly what you’d wanted and not at all like you’d imagined.

A break from it all is probably good for you, minus the whole devastating disaster thing.

Your school was not willing to let you resume studies when you got back, despite your very valid and sort of unavoidable reason, so you’d basically lost a whole semester of classes that you didn’t even enjoy in the first place.

It’s like you’re in some kind of snow globe—minus the snow—with nothing much to do but sit and let the world shake you, let the glitter tumble through the air and fall to the ground at your feet.

Some people would probably be going stir crazy in your shoes. Eager to get back to their life. You’re grateful for this in between to figure out what to do next. What you really want.

Plus, it’s been nice to be back in Hawkins. It’s the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even after moving away. Even better to be welcomed into the fold. Introduced to Robin’s friends and get pulled in by the group’s tide like a shell on the beach.

And then, of course, there’s Steve Harrington.

Steve, who you’ve heard so much about. Who you feel like you know already despite never really meeting him. When Robin had told you they’d become close, like, almost inseparable close, you’d been surprised but pleased. It was like you went on their whole friendship arc along with Robin.

She spoke so highly of him, about how different he was now, how he was kind of a massive dork and not nearly as cool as he pretended to be (to her, this was a positive), and naturally, you’d been looking forward to meeting him.

Even more so after she sent over a polaroid of the two of them, Steve reluctantly posing, an annoyed look on his face that’s broken up by a hidden smile, Robin grinning wide, both in their Family Video vests.

He was handsome. It was impossible to deny.

Unfortunately for you, Steve has decided, for some reason, that he is not your biggest fan.

Your first official meeting was at Family Video, actually. Pre-quarantine. Robin had asked you to stop by during her shift so you could pick out a movie to watch together later, and you’d happily obliged.

The bell above the door chimed happily with your entrance, and Steve was the one who greeted you.

“Hey,” he called from behind the counter.

You walked up, and found that the picture didn’t even fully do him justice. His t-shirt sleeves tight around his upper-arms as he leaned on the counter, hair flopping over his forehead all intentionally messy, like its had fingers run through it.

He straightened when you approached. Smiled politely, even. Big brown eyes trailing over you and focusing on your face.

And something passed between you then. The air heavier, the room and the muffled radio drifting into the background. He looked at you like you were something rare.

“Hi,” you spoke. And maybe you shouldn’t have. “Is Robin here?”

Because that’s when the moment cracked, fizzled out. That’s when Steve dropped his elbows back onto the counter, like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.

“Sorry!” you heard Robin’s voice ring out, coming closer until she was beside you. “Sorry! I was in the back, didn’t hear you come in.”

“Wait,” Steve said. “Who are you?”

“Um,” you started.

“Steve!” Robin chided. She reminded him of your name, and he mouthed it after she said it, confused. “My friend from middle school who’s staying with me for the week? It’s why you’re covering my shift tomorrow, dingus. I told you like ten times.”

“By that she means twice,” you joked, trying to extend some sort of ‘we both tease Robin’ olive branch.

He seemed to remember himself during the brief conversation, his face hardening, building a wall around himself brick by brick. His eyes were no longer intrigued, his gaze no longer weighted. No, he was something akin to irritated.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Robin said, clearly noting the shift in his demeanor, too. “I do in fact have friends that aren’t you.”

Steve rolled his eyes at her, and you opened your mouth to say something else, but you weren’t sure what words would suffice. Robin linked her arm through yours and guided you away before you could say anything else, anyways.

“Did I do something?” you whispered.

“Ignore him,” Robin urged you. “He’s fussy sometimes, but I swear he’s not an asshole. Anymore.”

Okay. You believe her.

At first, you’re bothered, looking over your shoulder at him like maybe you could figure out what you did wrong just by looking at him.

But then, later, when you’re in the guest room of Robin’s house laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, you remember that look. The first few seconds before you mentioned Robin, before she walked over.

Those moments where he seemed more honest, more open and warm and kind. And then he armed himself, dropped the mask of his helmet and became different.

If Robin says he’s a good friend, a good guy, then he must be. And everyone has their off days, you can understand that. Even relate. So you write it off as a one time thing, thinking next time he’ll apologize for being short with you and introduce himself properly and remember your name.

You’d only gotten that last bit right.

When he saw you next, it wasn’t an apology or a reintroduction. Rather, he’d said your name like it bugged him just to form the sound.

After the massive earthquake, you joined Robin to volunteer. You were directed to the station Steve was already manning, and Robin to the sandwiches.

When you walked up to the table, you took the time to observe him before he noticed you. Towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, like he’d been tired or seen too much. He smiled at people walking by, helped them find what they needed with a gentleness you admired.

You wanted to forget last time, give it a clean slate, so you walked up with a small but genuine smile and said a small ‘Hey, Steve.’

He looked up from his folding, pressed his hands onto the table and assessed you. Steve wasn’t mean to you, not necessarily, but he was a bit cold. Unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m actually from here and I just.. thought I could help. Looks like I’ll be sticking around anyways,” you shrugged, making your way around the table to join him on the other side. “Unless you wanted to fold all of these boxes on your own?”

And maybe you let your loose sweater slip off your shoulder to expose your lace bra strap. And maybe you noticed the way his eyes flicked over to your newly exposed skin before quickly flicking back to your face, like he just couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t need my permission,” he muttered. Then, “You picked an excellent time for a trip, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpanned. “I like to plan all my travels around disastrous events.”

“Ha,” he responded, unamused.

You’d folded boxes of donations in silence for the remainder of the day.

Normally, if someone didn’t like you, you’d spiral about it a little bit. Wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix it. But it’s different with Steve.

It’s thrilling, actually, to get under his skin. To rile him up by simply being around. You know he’s got to have a reason for it, because the longer you spend in Hawkins, the longer you spend around him, you’re slowly starting to see the way he interacts with everyone else.

How much he cares about Dustin, how worried he is about Max, the way he drives Lucas to visit her every time he asks.

Steve’s not a mean guy, but he’s snappy with you. And you like to bring it out of him. Maybe he needs an outlet for his frustration, or maybe it’s just something about you, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it.

No, you’re determined.

You’ll make Steve Harrington crack one of these days. One way or another, you’ll tear his walls down, unarm him. You won’t let him scare you off.

-

It’s been a couple of months now. Spring giving way to the heat of summer, that stretch at the end of May into the beginning of June that warms up quickly.

And yes, you’re still in Hawkins. You’re sort of becoming a local again, you think.

With the weather warming up, you’re all finally able to take advantage of the Harrington’s pool. Sunlight bouncing off the ripples in the water tinted blue from the pool’s tile. It’s just the older bunch today, Lucas and Mike and the others doing their own thing that you’d probably rather stay curious about.

Robin had extended the invitation to you to come to Steve’s, because he’d never invite you himself.

Even after months spent around him, in his orbit, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. Holding you back with a firm hand on your collarbone and a practiced scowl on his face. You won’t give up, though.

There’s something beneath that front he puts on around you, a reason that curtain is drawn, and you intend to find it. To tear the curtains open and let the sunlight pour in.

So, naturally you’d agreed when Robin asked if you wanted to join. Yes, it would be nice to go for a swim, to sit out in the sun and just drift for a while. But it’d be even nicer to get a rise out of Steve again. To see him roll his eyes at your jokes or sigh at your arrival or drag a big hand over his face at your prodding.

Luckily for you, you’re an overpacker and thought to bring a bathing suit with you. Even luckier, it’s one of your nicer ones. A two piece that sits high on your hips, thin straps sitting on your shoulders.

You show up to the Harrington’s in it and a pair of denim shorts, sunglasses pushed up on your head like a headband, worn tote bag hanging from your shoulder.

Steve opens the backyard gate when Robin knocks on it and follows up with a shout a solid three seconds later.

“Still here, are you?” Steve asks when he sees you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just break a military-ordered quarantine to get out of your hair, princess.”

“Aw, guys,” Robin whines. “It’s too early for this. We haven’t even walked through the gate yet.”

You raise your eyebrows at Steve, because you’re not the one with the problem here. Though you suppose you do egg it on. Just a little.

“Don’t worry Robs,” you say. “Somewhere deep down, Steve likes me. He just has a funny way of showing it.”

And with that you walk through the gate, forcing Steve to move aside for you. He and Robin linger a few paces behind.

Just as you’ve been welcomed into the fold, yours and Steve’s bickering has become a usual occurrence.

“I thought we talked about your attitude, dingus,” she whispers harshly.

“I do not have an attitude.”

“Right, and I don’t have a problem with rambling. Any other lies you’d like to spew?”

“Whatever,” is his retort. Admittedly, not a great one.

By the time Steve and Robin are done with their hushed conversation, you’ve already dropped your stuff by one of the lounge chairs on the pavement, waving hello to Nancy and Jonathan where they sit with their legs dipped in the pool before turning back around and reaching for the button on your shorts.

You glance up as you do, and find that Steve’s already looking at you. Huh.

Looking him in the eyes, you purposefully slip your shorts off slowly, making a show of pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. He looks away quickly once your shorts reach your ankles like he’d been caught, his cheeks reddened. Maybe from the sun, or maybe not.

Tucking your shorts into your tote bag, you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a pleased smile.

It’s these kinds of things that keep your faith in Steve alive. The secret glances, the way his eyes find you before his mind can tell him otherwise. And his eyes are so honest then, so expressive and deep with words he refuses to say.

But you’ll get them out of him. You’re willing to play the long game here.

For now, you grab a worn paperback lent to you by Nancy out of your bag and settle onto the lounge chair on your stomach. Elbows holding you up, sunglasses slipped down over your eyes, knees bent so your feet hover in the air.

The sun beats down on your back, but you welcome it. It isn’t that harsh, aggressive burn that comes in the height of summer, but the gentle whispers of warmer days ahead.

You barely get a chapter in before a shadow falls over the yellowed pages of your book, and you can tell just by the silhouette that it’s him.

“Hey, you’re cramping my style, Harrington,” you call.

“Didn’t know the sunlight belonged to you, princess,” he responds, arms crossed, firing the nickname from earlier back at you.

Only, it doesn’t sting one bit. You imagine him saying it in a softer way, sweeter. Then you remember you’re meant to be a nuisance and wave your hand at him, urging him to scoot out of the way.

He simply rolls his eyes and steps aside.

Too easy, you think. At least, until you hear the slap of his feet against concrete as he runs towards the pool, doing a stupid cannon ball as close to you as possible, effectively splashing both you and the pages of your current read.

You glance over your shoulder at the pool as Steve comes up for air, shaking out his hair like a wet dog.

“Thanks for that,” you say, and he wipes the water from his eyes to watch you speak. “I was starting to get too hot anyways.”

He splashes you again with his hands.

“Real mature,” Robin says to him from the corner of her mouth.

You give him a pointed, sarcastic smile before turning back to your book. And that smile turns into something more real, your fingertips tracing the water droplets on the pages as if he placed each one himself.

“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself with a shake of your head, though it comes out somewhat affectionate.

One of those drops of pool water landed directly on the word cares, and you tap it once more before shutting your book and resting your head on your arms.

That’s just it, you think. Steve must care in some capacity about you. He wouldn’t be so easily frustrated, so easily revved up if he didn’t.

You wind up falling asleep like that, the sounds of water sloshing and your friends laughing fading into the background as you drift off. Your neck is sore by the time you wake up, though judging from where the sun still shines high in the sky it couldn’t have been that long.

Robin has moved to the chair next to yours, Jonathan and Nancy sharing a floaty in the pool. And Steve is no longer in sight.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Robin says when she sees your head lift.

You rotate onto your back and stretch your arms above your head. “Mm. How long did I sleep?”

“I dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Where’d Harrington go?”

She gestures loosely towards the house. “And there goes my peace,” a pause, then, more serious; “I really wish you two would get along.”

“We’ll get there,” you say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“I think that makes me more worried, actually.” And when you swing your legs over and push yourself to stand, she adds, “Where are you going?”

“Just gonna grab a drink. I’m not gonna like, jump him, or anything.”

“Please don’t, he’s only ever won one fight.”

How many fights does one have to get into for only one win to really be notable, you want to ask, but you refrain. You take your sunglasses off completely and leave them on the chair and make your way inside.

The cool air or the AC hits you as you step inside, a welcome break from the heat that seems to be rising with the afternoon.

You’ve been in Steve’s house before, but never on your own like this. You walk to the kitchen slowly, taking in the decor around the house, the notable lack of family photos, or even ones of just Steve. It feels lived-in, yes, but it lacks the warmth of a family home. You frown at the framed landscape on the wall and move along.

You’re alone in the kitchen too, at first. Wooden cabinets giving the room a warmer tint, white backsplash with the occasional fruit tile, silver appliances. It’s simple, classic, and so clean that it doesn’t look like anybody’s cooked in it in a while.

The fridge isn’t too bad, though, a variety of sodas and a few beers, milk and orange juice and a vegetable drawer. You grab a can of Sprite and crack it open, the pop of the tab echoing in the empty room.

You close the fridge and lean your lower back against the counter. It’s cold against your sun-soaked skin.

“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” is how Steve announces his presence, shoulder leaned against the doorframe.

He’s always doing that, you’ve noticed. Leaning on something, resting his weight somewhere as if it’s exhausting to keep himself upright, to keep himself steady.

“Aw, thank you. Very hospitable of you, Harrington.”

He scoffs at you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re an excellent host.” You hold up your can in mock cheers.

And then it happens again, that split second where Steve’s eyes speak for him. They trace your figure, and you suddenly feel exposed in nothing but your swimsuit. Not in an uncomfortable way, necessarily. Just.. heated by his stare, by the warm brown of his eyes and how they seem almost pained.

Besides, you do your own looking, too. Steve’s still shirtless, still damp from being in the pool earlier. His shoulders pink from the sun. Your eyes follow the path of a drop of water that drips from his hair onto his chest, through the thatch of hair there and down over his stomach, disappearing into the band of his swim shorts.

You both suck in a breath at the same time, your eyes flicking upward to find his. Neither of you says anything about it, but there’s an awareness there, like the ACs been shut off, the room growing thicker.

“That was my last one,” he says, nodding to the can in your hand. Though it lacks the usual irritation he employs when speaking to you. It’s slight, like he’s trying to find it again.

The armor’s back.

“We could always share, Stevie,” you poke, holding the drink out for him.

He scoffs and spins on his heel to leave the room. You grin behind the can and take another sip.

-

The heat feels more cruel in August. A lingering, sweltering thing that has ripples coming off pavement. The humidity makes the air feel harder to walk through, a wall of resistance greeting you each time you step outside.

Today is one of the hottest days yet. So much so that even the shade doesn’t help very much.

In the time since Family Video’s… closure, Robin has found her new calling as a radio host, Steve working the sound effects and making sure things run smoothly, because God forbid they’re ever employed in separate workplaces again.

You’d helped them set things up at WSQK when they’d first taken this whole thing on. Unpacking boxes, figuring out a way to tame the mess of wires in the booth, getting some actual furniture in the place.

This time, you’re mostly just there to hang around, to watch them in action. To see Robin make use of her endless source of words to say and to watch Steve, a pencil tucked behind his ear, juggle the sound effect tapes and his can of soda. Still, he manages to look relaxed while doing it, hip leaned on the desk, t-shirt a little wrinkled. A little sweaty, even.

It’s an old building, with a severe lack of AC that is especially obvious on a day like today. Not a single cloud in the sky, the sun beaming relentlessly.

A fan whirs inside the booth, placed as far from the mic as possible. Another spins where you sit, aimed directly at you.

After a solid twenty minutes you get a little fidgety just sitting there. Assuredly, it has almost nothing to do with Robin’s hosting skills—who you’ve heard rehearsing through the walls at night—and almost everything to do with you.

You feel like you need to make yourself useful, especially after everything Robin’s done for you. Letting you be her roommate free of charge (“Your currency is putting up with Steve for me”), being completely willing to let you just join her friend group. To tag along to a life that isn’t naturally yours.

Tracing a finger along the surface of the table next to you and frowning when it comes away dusty, you decide to help them out by cleaning up a bit.

You find the supplies easily. You’re pretty sure you’re the one who unpacked them, and that they haven’t been touched since. There’s a duster, all-purpose cleaner, some paper towel, the basics. You grab it and shut the cupboard quietly and decide to start with the area outside the booth.

It’s easy enough to get into a rhythm, especially with music filling the speakers. If Steve weren’t currently occupied, you’re certain he’d give you shit for the way you bounce on your feet as you clean. You can almost hear him in your head. Wiping surfaces really puts a pep in your step? Seriously?

The booth is, obviously, currently (and for you, sort of always) off limits, so when you finish up with the little seating area, you move along to the living quarters. The two bedrooms are still a work-in-progress, some boxes still unopened, mattresses with no sheets, so you leave them alone and head into the kitchen.

It isn’t fully equipped, either, but a little more so than the bedrooms. It’s warmer here than where the fans had been going, and you lift your hair off the back of your damp neck and fan yourself for a second.

You check the fridge, but it’s pretty barren. At the very least, you shut your eyes and let the cold wash over you for a few seconds.

The heat seems to creep up on you here, beads of sweat building on your forehead, your mind going a little fuzzy in it. You finish wiping up the countertops and decide to go in search of another fan that probably won’t help much. It’ll only blow around the hot air, but a breeze is better than the thick stillness.

Just as you reach for the door to the basement, a voice stops you. His voice, of course.

“You can’t go down there,” Steve says, sneaking up on you, making you jump the slightest bit.

You turn to face him and find him with his arms crossed. Unsurprising. His t-shirt sticks to his chest a little, pushes against his arms, rides up to expose the band of his jeans.

“Didn’t know I needed authorization to go down a flight of stairs, security guard Harrington.” You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. “I just wanted to grab another fan. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s boiling in here.”

“We don’t have another one. Two not enough for you?”

“No,” you huff, but you give up and walk away, muttering a “dunno how you’re even wearing pants right now” as you pass him.

He follows that with a stupid call of “Perv.”

You pause, not wanting him to get the last word. He sighs audibly and walks back into the booth, and just before the door clicks shut behind him, you add an immature “Weirdo.”

It’s silly, but the annoyed furrow in his brow you spot through the glass tells you it worked.

Unsuccessful in your search for a fan, you go back to the kitchen to finish cleaning in there. Climbing up onto the counters to dust the tops of the cabinets, even busying yourself by wiping down empty drawers and shelves in cabinets.

You’re onto the one beneath the sink when you get a little dizzy, your hands reaching up to grip the edge of the countertop to keep yourself from tipping over. It passes quickly enough, but it leaves you feeling a little funny. Disoriented, sluggish.

When you push yourself up to stand, it worsens, little spots dotting your vision like you moved too fast, your head aching. You lift your hair from your neck again, squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help much, but it forces the dizziness to subside enough for you to walk out of the kitchen, through the main room, and out the front door.

Yes, it won’t be any colder outside, but maybe the fresh air will help a little. It’s stuffier inside, heat being pushed around by the fans, a thickness with nowhere to go.

The sting of the harsh sunlight on your eyes makes your head pound, but you breathe in deep a few times, still hoping whatever you’re feeling will pass like a leaf carried by the wind.

Only, it doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps building. Your heartbeat thumping in your ears, nausea creeping up on you, the spots dancing in your eyesight again.

You have to catch yourself on the station’s wall just to stay upright. Closing your eyes and taking heaving breaths.

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even hear the door opening and closing. Don’t hear the footsteps approaching until there’s a shadow in front of you and a question that comes out more genuine than you’d expect.

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks. The wording is a little harsh, because that’s how he’s used to speaking to you, but his tone is quieter, honest.

“Not used to Indiana summers anymore, I guess,” you reply, head tilting back against the wall with a little thump. It makes you wince.

And Steve, well, he surprises you. He doesn’t tell you it’s ’cause you don’t belong, or that you should’ve just stayed home. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and says “C’mere.”

“I’m fine. I just need a minute,” you say, embarrassed.

Still, you let his hand dig into your skin, let him hold you up and guide you over to where his car is parked. He doesn’t even let go of you when he digs in his pocket for the keys.

It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been to him, and despite the circumstances, you let his touch seep into you. Let his smell surround you, amber and something a little sweet. A hint of hairspray and the saltiness of sweat.

Steve opens the car door and guides you into the driver's seat with the arm still around your waist, the other hand placed delicately on the top of your head so you don’t hit it. He leans over you to start the car, holding himself up on the centre console and fidgeting with some buttons and knobs to turn the AC up.

You resist the urge to lean into him and sink into the seat, your head tipped back against the headrest.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling away and shutting the door gently. You watch him jog off through the window, feeling warm in a completely different way.

True to his word, he’s back in a couple of minutes, a water bottle in one hand and some paper towel in the other. He opens the BMW door and then takes the cap off the water bottle before handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it from him, a spark zipping up your arm. You take a few sips, and when you’re done Steve takes it and screws the cap back on.

He sets the bottle onto the roof of the car. “Here,” he says, a hand slipping to the back of your neck to get you to lean forward. You oblige, and Steve lifts your hair out of the way and places the damp paper towel there to help cool you down.

“How’s that?” he checks, a hand going in front of one of the car’s air vents to make sure they’re working. “Too cold?”

“‘S good,” you say.

And you do feel better, the pounding in your head shifting to a dull ache, your eyes focusing as they should. You feel fuzzy in a new way, looking at him. Taking in the way he makes sure the vents are aimed at you, how he hands you the water bottle again and coaxes you to take a few more sips.

It feels like you’re dreaming now.

Steve is nearly silent as he does it, like it’s completely natural for him to take care of you like this. To drop whatever he’d been outside for and let his concern bleed through the look on his face, the softness of his gaze.

It’s probably the longest he’s ever gone without snapping at you, the longest you’ve gone without taunting him in some way. The gloves have come off, and it’s just you and him. The real versions.

He sees your eyes flutter and lets the words slip before he can catch them, gentle and doting. “Hey, you feeling okay? Talk to me, honey.”

Honey. It’s earnest. Not sarcastic, but soft. What would have been a jab another time dulled to a poke, not a stab.

Steve freezes a little after he says it, worried you’ll call him out on it. Say something about how different he’s being and why he is the way he is with you.

But you do something worse. You look at him like you can see right through him, through every layer he’s covered himself in, nod, and say a delicate, “Thank you, Steve.”

He doesn’t understand why you don’t hate him by now. Can’t fathom how you never get angry at him for the things he says or the way he pushes you away. He almost wishes you would, because it would make it all so much easier.

Steve knows it’s the wrong way to go about it, has heard it from Robin a hundred times now, but his demeanour with you is his own twisted way of protecting you.

If he doesn’t let you get close to him, you’re at a greater distance from the mess he’s entangled in. If he keeps you at arm’s length, you won’t ask questions, won’t get yourself into trouble willingly.

If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have to push you away to protect you. To protect himself. But it’s far too late for that.

At first, the annoyance was real. Frustration at how clueless you were to everything, at how Robin brought you around without concern. Irritated at the prospect of having another person to look out for when he could barely manage everyone already.

But somehow, you’ve wormed your way into his life without struggle. Lingering in the corners of his mind when you’re not around, his eyes drawn to you whenever you walk into a room like a string ties him to you.

He indulges, just for a moment, and traces a knuckle across your cheek before straightening.

It’d be so easy to tell you everything, to let it spill from him in a rush and tug you close afterwards. To let the truth seep from him and move forward. But Steve, who is meant to be brave, is so afraid.

The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt because of him. So he pulls away.

“Don’t sweat too much on my seats,” he tells you before shutting the door and walking away. He’s glad he isn’t facing you, so you can’t see how hard this is for him.

You watch him leave, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space that all of a sudden feels so empty.

-

Just as it always does, August gives way to September. The heat of summer lingers during the day, the first chills of fall creeping in at night.

Not quite cold enough to wear a jacket, not warm enough to be in a tank top. This evening, you’ve opted for a mini skirt, tights, and a sweater. Steve’s in his usual jeans and a crew neck.

Steve, who you’re currently, miraculously, alone with in the WSQK van.

You’d been helping out at the station again when something went wrong with the broadcast, and after diagnosing the issue that you know nothing about, Robin sent you and Steve out to pick up some supplies to fix it.

“It’s a two-person job,” she’d urged. “And I have to stay here and be Rockin’ Robin.”

“I don’t need help,” Steve had insisted, offended at the thought of being incapable on his own.

“Actually, you do,” Robin stated. “Last time I sent you to get something you got it wrong because you can’t read labels.”

“I can read-” he cut himself off. Robin’s just as stubborn as him, and he’s not in the mood to go back and forth. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

Steve walked out, keys spinning around his finger, without a word directed at you. That is, until he’d noticed you weren’t following him and tilted his head at you. “Well? Are you coming, or what?”

“Oh,” you’d been surprised he gave in so quickly, actually. “Right. Sir, yes sir,” you saluted like an idiot.

And now you’re here, sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Steve beside you, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tight, the radio barely audible over the sound of the wheels turning, the wind around the vehicle.

It’s nearly dark out, that shade of blue just after the sun has fallen behind the horizon, streetlights flicking on and casting a warm glow on everything.

He hasn’t said a word to you besides a muttered ‘buckle up’ since you got into the car, and you’re starting to get antsy in it. You think you’d prefer his pointed comments, his barbed words, over the silence that feels louder than it should.

It isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s strained in a way. Like there’s some unspoken battle going on and whoever says the first word loses.

Tired of pulling at the loose thread on your skirt and saying nothing, you reach forward to mess with the radio. Turning up the volume so you can hear it properly, flipping through channels and pausing each time to hear what’s playing. You glance at Steve’s reactions, too.

You’re successful when a song sounds through the speakers and he actually winces. You turn it up a bit more to drive it home.

He’s getting predictable, you think. The twitch of his eyes or the arch of his brows.

Except, he does surprise you, sometimes. He did. That day in August, when you got overheated and he caught you effortlessly. When he doted on you and called you honey all sticky sweet like the word itself. When he was the barest you’ve seen him yet.

Steve, almost completely unguarded. Almost.

Today, though, his fences are mended. Built up once more. Which is why you’re not surprised in the slightest when he side-eyes you, huffs a dramatic breath, and mumbles “I hate this song.”

“Oh do you?” You look over at him, knees tilted towards his side of the van. “I couldn’t tell from the exaggerated sighing.”

He gives you this bitchy little twitch of his lips and flips it to another station. You hate how good he looks doing it.

You give him a sweet smile and switch it back.

And just to really get him, you start to sing along. Poorly. Completely off-key and a little shouty and absolutely uncaring.

Steve drags a hand over his face, but you aren’t deterred. You keep singing, grabbing the walkie from the dashboard and using it as a faux microphone. You don’t push any buttons, because that’d probably give him an aneurism.

“My ears,” he whines. “This is so-”

You cut him off by singing even louder. Totally annoying, but you can tell he’s battling a smile behind his hand, little crinkles at the corner of his mouth. It makes you grin stupid and genuine.

Then there are headlights shining through the windshield, bright enough to make you squint. You quiet and twist your head to get a look at the car, eyes widening a bit when you notice it’s one of the military vehicles.

Sure, their presence is known, expected, even, but it’s an odd time of day to see one driving around.

By the way Steve’s grip on the wheel has gone from tight to white-knuckle, he seems to think so too.

The vehicle’s red brake lights shine next, slowing to a stop just after passing by the van, and Steve slows, too. Not as abruptly, but to a crawl, keeping the military truck in his rear view. It pulls over. Steve does too.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “The U.S. army after you, or something?”

And Steve, who would usually give you some stupid retort about how you’re more likely to be on their radar—Tourists are liabilities, he’d say morosely—says absolutely nothing. Stares in the rear view mirror with concerned focus on his face. Eyes a little wide, the rest of his face composed.

“Steve?” you prod again.

“Stop it,” he says, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Just act.. normal.”

You don’t know what it is that forces you into gear. Whether it’s the look on Steve’s face or the tension in his shoulders, if it’s the beating of your heart that feels like a warning, or maybe the sound of a car door slamming and the cool blue beam of a flashlight turning on. But something has your instincts kicking in, and you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing into the back of the van.

Steve, even with how he acts around you, looks away when he notices the way your skirt rides up. A gentleman even when perpetually irritated.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks once you’re settled in the back. He turns around to look at you over his shoulder, at how you’ve kicked your shoes off.

You get on your knees and lean forward, unbuckling Steve’s seatbelt for him and grabbing a fistful of his sweater to get him to follow you into the back of the van.

“Giving him a reason to leave us alone.”

Steve, stunned, lets himself be pulled along by your grip, climbing out of his seat and into the back to join you. He kneels, too, your knees slotted together like puzzle pieces, his bumping your thigh.

You’re still holding his shirt even though he’s right in front of you, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath it, can smell his cologne and feel his breath fan across your cheek.

“Uh-” he starts, but fumbles. Never finds the words to say.

In his defence, you don’t really give him a chance to. The flashlight shines through the back window, heavy footsteps on pavement drawing nearer.

You do the only thing you can think of that’ll make the problem go away. You pull Steve in by his collar and kiss him.

Steve is, understandably, completely frozen at first. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck to try and get him to understand. His hesitation doesn’t last long after you sink your fingers into his hair, scraping his scalp a little.

No, he dives in. Hands shooting to find your waist and squeeze slightly before moving again, like they can’t settle in one place. A wide palm is splayed across the small of your back, the other lowering to your hip to urge you to scoot forward.

His mouth moves against yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s heated, a little frenzied, like he’s just been set loose. The hand on your hip shifts again, running up your arm, over your collarbone, knuckles tracing the side of your neck until he plants it on your cheek, using it to tilt your head where he wants you.

Yes, your goal had been to get him to kiss you convincingly enough that the man outside would just see a pair of young people making out and walk away, Steve goes beyond.

He kisses you like you’re the one that needs convincing of something. His lips firm, bruising, his grip unwavering.

The kind of kiss that tomorrow, even a week from now, you’ll feel warm just remembering.

Steve knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. That falling into you this way will cause irreparable damage for him. That pushing you away will become ten times more difficult, little shards of glass embedded into his heart with each shove.

But God. He just can’t stop himself.

Not with how soft you feel against him, how well you fit, how you let him guide you and make the tiniest involuntary noise when he nips at your bottom lip. How you pulled him in, nerves in your eyes, but determination, too.

How you stepped in to help him without asking any questions.

He doesn’t deserve to have you this way, and yet he can’t imagine a world in which he’d pull away first.

Which is why you’re full on making out in the back of the van, the windows probably starting to fog, the radio, the chirp of the blinker, all fading into the background and all that’s left is the sounds of your breathing, the panting when you break away from each other just for a second before dipping forward again.

You don’t hear the man curse and walk away, you don’t notice the absence of the flashlight’s harsh glow. You don’t even notice he’s gone until you hear the door slam again, the tires rolling off, headlights fading into the distance until they’re gone completely, swallowed by nighttime.

It’s only then, when you’re certain the vehicle’s gone, that you pull away from Steve with a lewd smack.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see the way he chases your kiss when you go.

And then his eyes are open, too, searching your face frantically, blinking like he’s not certain this whole thing has actually just happened. His hands slip away until they’re resting on his knees. Though, with the way you’re sitting, legs slotted together, you can feel his pinky brushing the inside of your thigh, tracing the seam of your tights.

You follow his lead now, dropping your hands away and sort of hugging yourself.

“Sorry,” you say. Quiet. “I probably should’ve asked before I… you know.”

Steve looks at you. Really looks at you. At how your arms are crossed over your stomach, your shoulders dropped. It’s like you’re trying to fold in on yourself, to make yourself smaller. To make his target more difficult to hit.

His hands twitch on his knees. His pinky still runs its tiny course against your leg.

“No, it was, um, smart,” he says. His voice comes out rough, not totally himself. “Good plan.”

You look at Steve, too. And you can see whatever inner struggle he’s having written on his face. His stupid, beautiful brown eyes looking a little lost, a little further away.

You understand him. Somehow, you know what he needs. When to push, when to back off.

“Steve Harrington giving me a compliment?” you say, attempting to bring things back on track. To diffuse his racing thoughts with something he’s used to. “Are you sick or something?”

You straighten and press the back of your hand to his forehead for emphasis.

Like a rehearsed routine, he scoffs lightly, smacks your hand away gently. Even then, it lacks its usual conviction.

-

As expected, the kiss is on your mind. Often.

This whole thing with Steve started out lighthearted. Flirting, teasing, poking, prodding. But over the course of your months spent back in Hawkins, it’s become more than that. Something in you seeks to be around him, even if it means shouldering the weight of his distance.

It’s become clearer the longer you spend with him that it isn’t how he really feels, but how he thinks he should feel. How he thinks he should act around you.

Your goal is much the same. Get under his skin, but even more than that, you just want to know the truth. The why.

You actually like him, and you haven’t even had the privilege of knowing the Steve that’s tucked away beneath the layers of protection. There are glimpses, light breaking the shadows, but a cloud always comes back to cover up the cracks.

After that night in the van, after that kiss, you’re more determined than ever. Because there’s no faking that. The want and desire, a match lit by the press of your mouths, by the touch of his hands.

So, yeah, you’re thinking about kissing Steve a lot. Sometimes, you’ll press your fingertips to your lips when the memory pushes itself forward, like you’re trying to remember exactly how it felt, that it wasn’t a dream.

Even now, sitting across from him in a booth at the diner, you’re thinking about it.

About how easy it would be to bridge the gap again, to see how he’d react if you weren’t doing it as a cover, if it was out in the open, no security blanket of pretending for the sake of your safe getaway.

You’re not hiding your distraction well enough, if the little kick and accusing glance Robin gives you from her seat beside you is anything to go by.

You shake your head at her, not sure if you’re denying whatever she’s thinking or just putting it off for now. Either way, it works, and she goes back to whatever debate she’d been having with Nancy, Jonathan chiming in every now and then and getting mostly overlooked save for a sweet pat on the knee from his girlfriend.

You watch them interact with a small smile, this group of people that have become your people. The way they’re able to joke with each other and know it’s out of love and warmth.

You look away when Nancy concedes and Robin, too proud, celebrates her win with her arms raised and a chant of ‘victory!’

Steve’s eyes are already fixed on you from across the table when you turn your head. And like that day at the pool those months ago, and other days since, he doesn’t hold your gaze, he looks away as if caught. Red-handed and the tips of his ears going pink.

The group’s silence is a hint for you to follow their lead and look over the menu, even though you all get the same thing every time. So you drop your gaze too, letting the toe of your shoe tap against Steve’s shin lightly.

Could be an accident, could be something else. I see you, it might say.

His leg shifts, but you’re not sure if it’s in response or just a reflex.

You look down at your menu and scan the options that you’ve practically memorized by now. There are only so many places to eat in Hawkins, after all, especially when groceries aren’t as easy to come by.

You’re reading the handhelds section when a splotch falls onto the page and interrupts your reading. It’s a small dot, and you look up to find the source when you feel the pressure in your nose. Another drop falls when you look back down and realize the source is you.

“Shit,” you mumble, reaching for some napkins.

Everyone looks at you at once, various levels of question and concern written on their faces as you hold a crumpled napkin to your nostril.

Steve’s the first to speak, and it’s a tone reminiscent of that day at the station when he sat you in the BMW and took care of you like it was easy, natural. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out awkward with the way your hand is held in your face. “Just a nosebleed.”

Only, that doesn’t seem to reassure him. Or anyone. They’re all still staring at you.

“I’ll just, uh, go clean up,” you say, scooching out of the booth and walking in hurried steps to the bathroom.

Steve watches you go. Well, they all do, but the look on his face is a little different. It’s not only worried, it’s etched with fear.

“I’m gonna check on her,” he announces. It hasn’t even been two minutes, but he doesn’t care. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t think it’ll slow until he can see you alive and talking.

For once, Robin doesn’t give him any crap as he walks off.

Uncaring and far too concerned, Steve shoulders the women’s bathroom door open after knocking twice. He doesn’t give you time to respond.

You’re standing at the sink, a fresh piece of paper towel held to your nose as you look in the mirror, assessing the damage. Luckily, no blood spilled onto your shirt. You flinch when the knocks come, when Steve comes tearing in like a heavy breeze, door blown open and shutting heavily behind him.

“Steve!” you pivot to face him, hip leaned against the counter, the arm that isn’t occupied with holding pressure crossed over your chest. “You know this is the girl’s bathroom, right?”

He ignores you. Doesn’t respond and instead searches your face with frantic, gorgeous eyes. “Have you been getting headaches lately? Nightmares?”

“Um, thanks for the therapy session, but-“

“Please.”

Steve Harrington, pleading with you. Safe to say it shuts your sarcasm off, makes your stomach twist with the way he shoves an anxious hand through his hair.

“No, Steve. I’m fine,” you tell him. It’s sincere. A promise, almost. “It’s probably just dry in here, or something. It’s like you’ve never seen a nosebleed before.”

“I’m not playing around.”

“Me either,” you say, but get frustrated with how your words come out a little nasally with your nose blocked. You pause, twisting to look in the mirror again and pulling the paper towel away to check if the bleeding has stopped. Luckily, it has.

You turn to Steve again, making sure to catch his eye, to hold it and speak as honestly as you can. “I’m okay. No headaches, no nightmares. Just a regular, boring nosebleed, alright?”

He holds your eye for a second afterwards, as if searching for any sign that you’re being dishonest. When he doesn’t find one, he nods, messing with his hair again and looking down at the floor. Breathing a couple of deep breaths.

You can’t look away from him.

You’re trying to find where his distress is coming from, as if you might see the answer written on him somewhere. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve so afraid, and it’s completely unmooring.

He cares about you, that much has become clearer now, but there’s something holding him back. Something other than himself. Something that genuinely frightens him.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you ask. Gentle, trying not to spook him into hiding again.

“I-” he starts, but stops himself just as quickly. He shakes his head, reroutes. Steve walks over and pulls another piece of paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink.

“Here,” he says, squeezing out the excess water and coming to stand right in front of you, the toes of your shoes touching.

Steve tilts your head up for him, his hand splayed on the side of your neck, his thumb tucked under your chin. He uses the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood from your nose.

“You don’t have to-”

“Please, honey” he says again. “Just let me.”

You do.

It’s impossible to say no to him this way, with his voice low and quiet and rough, his touch so delicate. The reappearance of the word honey. It nearly undoes you. Your eyes flick over his face as he cleans you up, his tongue poked out the slightest bit in concentration.

You’re afraid to speak, afraid to shatter whatever’s happening here. Afraid to revert whatever’s made Steve drop his weapons at the door and reveal himself. Here, in the silent bathroom, it’s your own little bubble.

The rest of the world muffled, shining pink and blue in the light and tinting the moment that way, too.

When Steve is satisfied with his work, he tosses the paper towel into the garbage without moving away. His hand is still cradling your jaw lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt you. The other, now free, wipes away the leftover moisture on your upper lip with his thumb.

Steve drops it after that, as if burned. You catch his wrist before he can let the other hand fall away the same. He doesn’t meet your eye until you squeeze, your thumb feeling the rush of his pulse.

“Hey.”

He seems embarrassed all of a sudden. His cheeks getting warmer, some kind of self-appointed guilty grimace on his face. “Mm?”

“Thank you.”

You say it in that way that feels exposing to him. Thank you, but there are other meanings sheltered beneath the two words.

I understand. I can tell you’re hiding something.

I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington. You don’t have to tell me.

You drop his wrist then, having said what you needed to. And Steve turns on his heel and leaves after whispering a small ‘yeah. ‘course.’

His shield is held in front of him again, though it no longer feels like a tough sheet of metal, but a mere piece of paper, easily poked through with the right tool.

Easily poked through if you’re the one on the other side.

-

There’s a slight shift to things since the nosebleed.

Or maybe this is only when you notice it, the tiny bits and pieces slowly building up over time until they’re big enough for you to see. A house settling on the ever-shifting earth, cracks in the porch steps, a door becoming harder to shut.

Steve hasn’t rolled his eyes at you, hasn’t so much as sighed, in at least a week. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without doing so since you’ve met, and you know it means something.

That the rock face that is Steve Harrington’s guard has slowly been eroded away by your efforts. Changed by the constant tide. His carefully pointed words dulled into a teasing that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

If you weren’t so zeroed in on him, if you didn’t know him well enough to be able to see his eyes soften or hear the change in his tone, you probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to any of it.

But you do focus on him. You do know him. Whether he wants to let you or not.

It gives you this dangerous little seed of hope. It's taken root in your chest, petals unfurling with every glance he steals that you pretend not to notice.

Hope that your mission, completely driven by your feelings for him now, might be succeeding. That you could make Steve crack. That you’ve chiseled away at that stony exterior to get a glimpse of the heart on the inside. Caring and kind, endlessly loyal.

Hope that things could truly be different. Better. That you could, at the very least, become friends.

Though the word friends doesn’t feel quite right. A square peg pushed into a round opening. It just doesn’t fit.

Not after everything that’s happened these last few weeks. Taking care of you in the sun and with your nosebleed, the genuine concern, the tenderness that leaked through. Especially not after the way he kissed you in the van.

You think about it now, walking up to the doors of the WSQK building, the van parked outside, ground crunching beneath your feet.

You weren’t planning on coming by today. You were fully planning on lounging around at Robin’s for the day. Watching whatever movies she has lying around, napping on the couch. You’d gotten about five minutes into movie number one when you saw Robin’s lucky coin left on the coffee table.

She’d told you about it once when she asked if you had any change and you had pointed it out. Told you that she keeps it in her pocket for every broadcast, that it would be ‘an abomination’ to get rid of it now.

You can tell it’s the coin because she’d placed a dollop of nail polish on it to differentiate it from the others. Won’t that mess with its luckiness, you’d asked her. Um, that’s totally not how it works, Robin had responded, like it was a ridiculous question.

So anyway, when you spotted it left behind on the table and knew she was doing a broadcast later today, you wanted to bring it to her.

Turns out her lucky token is kind of shit when it’s in your pocket instead.

You open the doors to the Squawk, expecting to find Robin and Steve bantering in the main area. To hear them, at least. Or to see Dustin fixing something with the satellite or whatever it is.

Instead, you’re met with silence.

You know people are here though. Steve’s BMW is outside, too. The doors unlocked, the lights on. There’s even a half-empty pot of coffee in the kitchen. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink.

However, your search of the main floor comes up empty. Briefly, you wonder if they’re pulling some kind of stupid prank on you. If they saw you walking up the drive and decided to hide and jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ when you jump.

Then your eyes land on the doors leading to the basement. The strip of light slipping through the cracks of the door.

You can’t go down there, you remember Steve saying. All stern and irritated. But things aren’t how they were in August. You shake your head and walk towards the doors.

Tugging a heavy one open with a click, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of voices travelling up the stairs.

“There you guys are!” you call, heading down. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Robin you forgot your-”

You freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is down here. Like, everyone. And they’ve all gone silent, staring at you with varying expressions of surprise and nerves, like they’re worried you overheard or saw something you shouldn’t have.

“-lucky coin,” you finish weakly.

“Oh!” Robin walks over to you and takes the coin from your palm, sliding it into her pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it. We were just, uh..”

She’s doing that frantic rambling thing, saying a bunch of words that don’t actually mean anything strung together. You look around and find that pretty much everyone else is acting strange.

Jonathan’s shoulders are tensed high, Nancy worrying the inside of her cheek. Lucas and Mike share a look that says something like ‘what do we do?’ and ‘I don’t know.’

And Steve. Steve can’t even look at you.

“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine!” Robin tells you, but the squeak in her voice isn’t very convincing. “Why don’t you head upstairs, and we’ll be right behind you.”

“I know when you’re not being honest, Robin,” you say.

It’s one thing when it’s the others hiding something. Lucas or Mike or whoever. You could live with them not telling you something. Hell, you’ve been coping with Steve’s secretiveness this whole time and you still haven’t given up, but it’s different with Robin.

She’s your best friend, and she doesn’t trust you enough to let you in on this.

“It’s nothing,” she tries again.

“Robin. Come on, it’s me.”

“I, um.”

Robin doesn’t get the chance to find the words, because Steve finally looks up from the floor and steps forward.

“You should go,” he says. His voice is cold. Detached, almost.

You’re taken aback by it. Not the words, necessarily, but the way he says them. This is the Steve from before. Not the one you know now.

“What?” you say, weak.

“Leave,” he practically spits.

“No. No, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” Steve adds. Every word is a sharp little paper cut swiped against your vulnerable skin. “You aren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. You don’t belong.”

“But-”

You can feel your resolve cracking with every syllable. Your heart beating an uncomfortable rhythm in your chest, your stomach sinking.

Then, he really does you in.

“You never should have come to Hawkins.”

It’s something aimed to not only cut, but stab. Words picking at an old wound.

Because there’s an underlying message in there. That you were never supposed to be in his life, that he didn’t want you in it. It’s as cruel as saying he wishes he’d never met you.

You look around at everyone else in the room, face heating, embarrassed. Nobody says anything. They don’t defend you, they don’t tell you to stay, that Steve didn’t mean it.

You nod, chin wobbling, and turn around, rushing up the stairs. Robin tries to grab your wrist, but you shake her off, the door slamming harshly behind you as you go.

The tears don’t fall until you’re outside, the wind speeding them along and making them tumble in fat drops down your cheeks, streaking your face.

You don’t belong, when you thought you’d been making progress. That maybe Steve actually liked you. You never should have come to Hawkins.

No, maybe you shouldn’t have, you think, wiping at your cheeks and your nose with the cuff of your sweater. Your hands are harsh, much harsher than Steve’s were in the bathroom at the dinner.

You kick a pebble. Even now, when he’s hurt you, he’s on your mind.

Back in the basement at the Squawk, the group’s eyes have turned onto Steve instead of you. Robin’s are the most accusing of all, though they all feel heavy against him. It makes his skin itch, uncomfortable.

“What?” he bites, before going upstairs himself.

And the thing is, Steve thought he was done nipping at you like that. He wanted to be done. With all of it. The name calling and annoyed looks, the sighing and the comments.

He wanted to move forward. He’d been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, actually. What the right words would be, if they would be enough.

Because he fucking cares about you. So much it scares him.

He doesn’t even know every piece of you, and he cares this much. It terrifies him to think about how big his feelings could get if he let you in. How badly it would hurt him if you got hurt, if it was because of him.

Steve knows what he did today was wrong. It wasn’t even what he wanted to do, but he was trying to get you as far away from the danger as possible and it manifested itself in the way he was used to.

He’s not an aggressive person. He isn’t who he used to be in high school. He doesn’t know why he bites.

And that look on your face just before you left, the wobble of your lip and the way your eyes welled but you wouldn’t let a tear fall, the defeat, your shoulders deflated. Well, that look will haunt him for a long time.

But if there had to be a monster in your life, at least it’s him and not something much, much worse. At least you’re still alive and breathing.

Steve can bear the weight of your hurt, can let it crush him and break him down to dust, as long as you’re alright in the end.

-

You cry the whole way back to Robin’s.

It’s the sadness, at first. The hurt and the sting of everything that had happened. Everyone’s silence, Steve’s words and how he sounded like a different person when he said them.

After that, it’s frustration. At yourself for thinking things had changed, for letting yourself cry over it now. And at Steve, for being so confusing. Because when the emotions subside, you look at things more broadly.

Sometimes, he can be so sweet. His eyes go soft and honest and expressive, and then he pulls it away. He puts up a wall that he just refuses to let you tear down or climb. You really thought you’d found a way, that you’d met in the middle of it.

You did your share of trying, of finding your footing between stones, and Steve held out a hand and tugged you the rest of the way over.

And then today happened.

But now, with your tears dried and your head less clouded, more than anything, you’re fed up. Tired of throwing fake punches and watching them land. Of taking hits yourself. So you come up with another plan.

You’re going to get answers out of Steve, and this time, you won’t back off until you get them.

First, you wait. You turn on the radio and listen to the Squawk, trying not to relive this afternoon every time you hear Robin’s voice or catch a sound effect and know that Steve is behind it. You listen until the broadcast ends sometime in the evening. Then you wait some more, calculating the time it would take Steve to get home from the station.

Once you’re pretty sure he’d be back at his house, you slip your shoes on and head out the door again.

The skies have darkened since earlier today, the sunset hidden behind gray clouds, but you don’t care. Don’t pause to grab an umbrella or a jacket, you just keep walking.

Eventually, rain starts to fall, but you let it seep into your clothes and over your skin.

You’re soaked by the time you get to the Harrington household, pressing the doorbell nonstop until you see Steve through the glass and hear the lock turn.

“What are you doing here?” he says, not nearly as harsh as his tone had been earlier today.

Steve is shocked to see you, but he’s glad, too. He was afraid that how he’d acted today was enough to push you away for good. It’s what he thought the right thing to do was, and it felt like the complete opposite.

He looks you over. The same clothes from before, now drenched, your shoes squeaking a little as you bounce on your feet. Your wet hair clings to your cheeks. You look beautiful, you always do.

Your shivering has him springing into action. “Jesus, you must be freezing. Come in.”

Steve tugs you inside with a hand loosely wrapped around your wrist. He drops it to shut the door behind you, then leaves. You slip off your shoes in his absence, wrap your arms around yourself.

He comes back with a towel and a blanket, first draping the towel over your shoulders, then following it up with the blanket. He rubs your arms to help warm you up.

And this is exactly what you’d been talking about. The contrast between the Steve from earlier and the one standing in front of you now is clear. Now, his instincts have kicked in. And those instincts have him taking care of you once more.

He pushes your hair off your face and behind your ear so tenderly. It’s what makes you finally speak.

“Did I do something?” you ask.

Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t back up. “What?”

“Was there something I did to make you not like me?”

“I- I don’t not like you,” he stutters out.

“Then how come you act the way you do? Like today?” You don’t even give him the chance to respond, to lie weakly to your face. “I really thought we were getting somewhere. I even thought-”

That you cared, you almost say.

You shake the thought off and continue. “I just want to know why, okay? Then I’ll go.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says. He sounds torn, pained. “You didn’t.”

“So tell me the truth,” you try. It’s strained too. The drops of water spilling from your clothes and your hair might as well be your blood with the way you feel. Like you’re bleeding out in front of him and waiting to see if he’ll wrap the wound or slice you further. “Stop being so afraid, Steve.”

“That’s not fair. You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. So make me understand.”

Steve runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. Like he’s been doing it all day. His chest is heaving, and a part of you wants to reach out and place a hand over his heart, to see if he’s as affected as you are.

His head turns to the side, you pry it back to you with a murmured, “Steve.”

“I was just trying to protect you.”

A breath is punched from you. Maybe because you’re finally getting what you wanted, that your suspicions have been confirmed. Or maybe because, even though you’d been right, it doesn’t feel good.

“You had to be.. to be mean to do that? Really?” You almost laugh at how it sounds. What could possibly be so bad that made him think he needed to in the first place? “I’m not defenceless, Steve. I’m not dumb or weak.”

“I was trying to keep you safe!” he huffs, as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. “I’m still trying to.”

“Well, stop. It’s not for you to decide what I can or can’t handle, Steve.”

“I know-”

“So what is it? What’s this big bad secret I can’t possibly be strong enough to keep?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me what you mean. Please, Steve, for once, just tell me.”

He’s practically panting now, and he knows you won’t stop until he gives you something, and maybe he’s tired of hiding, too. Both hands come up to fist his hair, drag down his face.

He’s fighting a battle that’s living in his own head, not with you.

“Steve,” you say his name again, and it undoes him.

“Because I care about you, okay?” the words seem to spill out of him like they’ve been trying to escape for a long time now, rushed and loud.

But then something changes, Steve’s wild eyes scan your face, like he’s waiting for you to shut him down, to run. When you hold his eye, scrunch your brows in a gentle question, it’s like he’s been set free completely.

“I like you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, wholly honest and devastatingly relieved, a weight finally dropped to the ground and off his back. “I like how you never mind your own business and how you reread the same books over and over. I like that you sometimes mouth the words Robin says because you know her so well. I like how much you fit in with everyone, how Dustin asks you for advice and Lucas talks to you about Max.”

Your eyes well for a whole other reason. All this time.

“I like how you speak with this little accent ‘cause you moved away, and I like that you came back.” He huffs a small laugh to himself. “I like you so much it scares the shit out of me, because this town, us, we’re not normal. It’s not- it’s not safe.”

“Wha-”

“And I thought that by pushing you away, by keeping you at a distance, you’d be far from the danger, too. That as long as you were safe, I could handle being the villain in your book, or whatever.” Steve looks down at his feet. “I realize now how stupid that sounds. I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times before, so, yeah.”

Your eyes are soft on him, and you look at him the way you always do. Like you know who he really is.

“I like you too, Steve,” you say finally, and it feels freeing. An ember relit in your chest. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”

“I should have,” he settles on. It’s his version of a white flag waving. I’ve dropped my weapons, he’s saying. It’s a battle finally over. Troops called back, the sun rising anew. “I’m sorry, honey.”

You’re still cold from the water trapped in your clothes, but the room feels far warmer.

“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I was kind of riling you up on purpose, so..”

“I fucking knew it,” Steve whispers, shaking his head, but he lets himself smile when he does. The fondness not only in his eyes but in the shape of his mouth this time.

He steps closer, your toes almost touching, and pries your hands away from where they grip the edge of the blanket tight. He holds them between his own, larger and far warmer. Steve hisses through his teeth when he feels how icy your fingers are, dipping his head down to blow some warm air on them, tightening his grip.

There are still things left unsaid, questions unanswered, but the touch is grounding. Reassuring. It’s a promise that they will be said soon, that he isn’t going anywhere.

“It worked, didn’t it?” you joke gently.

“Yeah, it worked.”

You’re not sure who moves first after that, all you know is that you’re shrugging off both the blanket and the towel to free your arms, Steve dropping your hands in favor of framing your face, thumbs running sweet lines across your cheeks.

Yours wrap around his back, drag him closer, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt, the other on the back of his neck. He shivers, from the coolness of your touch, yes, but from the honesty of it, too.

The familiarity.

His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then he’s kissing you, lips bruising against yours, but not as heated as that time in the van.

It’s a slow dance, him taking your bottom lip between his, you meeting him in the middle, your stomach swirling.

The best part isn’t the way he licks at your lip in between kisses, though it makes your heart flutter, or the sweet caress of his thumbs on your cheekbones, but the way that he pulls away.

Because the kiss is broken by his smile. Unabashed at last.

You can’t help but mirror it, cold long forgotten when he leans in and drops his forehead against yours, like he can’t bear to not have you close anymore.

“So,” you start, voice soft in the space between your faces. “Will you let me come?”

“Uh, a little forward, honey-”

You swat his stomach. “Mind out of the gutter, Harrington. Am I a part of this now?”

Steve pulls back just to make sure you can really see him, hands still warm on your cheeks as he says, “Yeah, you’re with me.”

(¬`‸´¬)

You had laughed it off at first, trying to protect your own heart, but when you saw the hurt look in Steve’s eyes you knew he was being serious. It made you think of all the times you'd noticed Steve staring at you, never one to shy away when caught, he’d simply grin, gaze lingering lovingly.

Granted, you both had been pumped up with truth serum merely moments before, but you were unsure if Steve meant what he said, or if he was just afraid that the Russians might find you again and finish the job this time.

You had grabbed his hand and said, “Tell me again when this nightmare is over, Harrington.”

He had beamed at you like you just told him the best secret in the world, and he was ready to do just that. But then your dad had supposedly died from the blast the machine had made when Joyce shut it down to stop the gate from opening back up.

You were a wreck the following weeks. The pain of losing your father not only created a hollowness you didn’t realize you could feel, but it also ripped back open the old wound of losing your sister, Sara.

Steve was silently there for you; listening to you tell stories about your dad that he already knew, picking up groceries for you and El when he knew you hadn’t left the cabin in a while, and letting you cry on his shoulder when it got too much to bear alone.

Then one day Joyce had tentatively shared the idea of you and El moving with her and the boys to California for a fresh start. You knew you didn’t have to go with her; you were a legal adult now and could take care of El on your own. But you didn’t know how to support her when you were still in the throes of your own grief, and you knew that you needed to get away from this town for a while if you wanted to heal.

When you told Steve, you had watched as his eyes grew glassy, but he didn’t protest. He had swallowed hard, gave you a short nod of understanding, and wiped your own tears that had started falling.

Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things you’d done, holding onto him tightly as the last of the Byers things were loaded into the moving truck. He had whispered by the shell of your ear that he would miss you with an affection that struck you deeply.

He had tried to lighten the mood by joking about you watching out for those surfer boys. You had kissed his cheek and told him that you had no plans to fall for a California boy when you already had an Indiana one. You had hoped that would be enough of a reassurance for him to know that you would wait for him.

California treated you well. You had grown closer to Joyce, starting to see her as a mother figure. Jonathan and Will were becoming like brothers to you, and your relationship with El had only grown stronger. They helped ease the ache in your heart, which was starting to mend, slowly, but healing from being around your new found family.

The only problem? Steve had gone cold on you.

When you first moved, the phone calls and letters from him were frequent. Even when you pulled away on the days you struggled more, he pressed on, assuring you that he was always there for you.

But then one day he wasn't, all communication stopped. His phone left unanswered when you rang him.

You finally reached out to Dustin, because you were confused, but also concerned. Dustin had made up some vague excuse, saying that Steve was just busy lately with his new job at Family Video. You had heard the hesitancy in Dustin’s voice, torn between telling you the truth or covering for his best friend.

When the battle between Henry and El had finished in the makeshift deprivation tub at a random Surfer Boy Pizza in the middle of Nevada, your family decided to travel back to Hawkins while waiting to hear from Joyce.

You planned to confront Steve. Planned to jump out of the godforsaken van you’d been stuck in, march up to him and demand answers for why he was ignoring you.

Your plan immediately fell through when you got to the Wheeler’s house. After receiving bone crushing hugs from Nancy, Dustin, and Robin, you had made eye contact with Steve.

God, he looked devastatingly handsome.

The long sleeve blue henley hugged him just right, paired with his signature jeans and Nikes. His hair was a bit shorter than the last time you saw him, clearly having it cut and tamed a bit more. Your simmering anger that you had felt for his avoidance immediately evaporated from your body. You just wanted him to hold you. You’d give anything to feel yourself wrapped in his arms, inhaling his comforting scent.

When you had taken a step closer to him, you swear you felt your stomach drop when he took a step back. His hands went to his hips as he cleared his throat and said, “It’s good to see you.”

You were hurt by it, not understanding what possibly could have happened to make him distant. Your eyes trailed him like they always did when he was in your vicinity, and you soon came to a horrible realization. While you watched him, he was watching Nancy and Jonathan’s reunion with a look of pure longing on his face.

Your breath picked up, bile rising in your throat, and you had desperately tried to blink away the tears that were rapidly developing. You felt a hand on your arm, and you turned to see Robin, giving you a look of utter sympathy.

You knew Steve didn’t owe you anything. It’s not like the two of you were even together, but surely that moment you shared in the summer meant something.

You knew that distance made people grow apart, but it had only been six months. And for him to want Nancy of all people? It meant that Steve had lied to you that day in the bathroom stall; neither over her or as into you as he claimed he was.

Your hurt had quickly been replaced with fury, which you still felt eighteen months later. It didn’t help that Steve had also developed an attitude, snappier than usual because of Dustin’s own acting out, and you found yourself butting heads with him more often than not.

It was also annoying as hell watching Steve compete with Jonathan for Nancy’s attention, which she clearly didn’t want or appreciate. When it happened, you’d visibly roll your eyes, huff out a breath of irritation, or scoff loudly.

“What’s your problem, princess?” Steve would lash out at your reaction, eyes narrowed at you.

“Bite me, Harrington,” you'd often reply with a glare.

You tried your best to avoid Steve altogether, but it was hard when he played a vital role in the crawls; like the one about to take place now.

You swing open the door to the WSQK radio station and hurriedly take the steps down to the base where the party did the planning. When you enter the room, you quickly realize that the tension is thick, everyone looking a tad uneasy.

“You’re being an asshole, kid,” Hopper barked loudly at Steve.

Seeing your dad always reminds you that it’s a miracle he’s even alive right now. It’s a miracle that not only did he jump far enough away from the explosion of the machine at Starcourt, but he also survived a Russian prison. You’ll forever be thankful to Joyce and Murray for risking their own lives to rescue him.

“Well, I wouldn’t be if she wasn’t biting my head off every time I’m around her,” Steve throws his arms up in exasperation. He’s got his legs kicked up and crossed on the table in the middle of the room, leaning back in one of the surrounding chairs.

You immediately hate the fact that you find it attractive. Hate that he looks delectable in that brown and red long sleeve, hate that the color compliments his skin tone. Hate that you know he was just talking about you in a negative way.

You shove down the hurt from his words and cross your arms defensively, “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so insufferable.”

Your words make everyone’s attention snap to you. Steve has the audacity to look a little guilty for what he’s said about you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“She’s going with you, and that’s final,” your dad snaps at Steve, voice hard with definiteness.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” your tone laced with worry about what you’re about to have to do with Steve.

“Inspector Gadget is a no show. Steve needs someone who knows how to work that signal operator while he’s driving and you’re the only one I trust to do it correctly,” Hopper looks at you with an expression that conveys that he doesn’t want to hear any arguing about it. You’re annoyed with him for making that decision for you, but your concern for Dustin wins out.

“Dustin’s not here? Did you try contacting him?” you ask the obvious, but it’s not like him to leave the group hanging like this.

“Repeatedly, with no response from the walkie and his mom hasn’t seen him either,” Lucas catches you up to speed.

“Shouldn’t someone be out looking for him? What if something’s seriously wrong?” you reply, looking around at the group currently gearing up to get ready to go.

“That’s what I said,” Steve grits out, clearly upset about it too. It takes you by surprise that he’s agreeing with you for once. You make eye contact with him, but you both quickly look away.

“No. You know how this operation goes. We need all hands on deck, and we can’t afford to make mistakes because of a lack of men stationed where we need them,” Hopper cuts in, acting like this is a military troop, which it kind of feels like sometimes.

With the decision made and teams ready to go, you drag yourself unwillingly back outside and climb into the van. You’ll need to be ready to go when Steve receives the all clear to get driving.

It catches you off guard when El shows up at the open back doors. She crawls into the van and settles next to you, head leaning silently on your shoulder in greeting. Your heart floods with a rush of adoration for the girl. She hasn’t outgrown her need for you even though she’s older now.

“Hey, you,” you smile at her.

“Sorry about Hop,” she sighs, looping her arm through yours.

“No need for you to be sorry,” you shrug, and tuck a piece of loose hair back behind her ear, “besides, he’s right. I’m the only one who can work this thing closest to the way Dustin could. He taught me how.”

“It’s my fault, why he’s moody. I pushed him for my time,” she says in frustration, and you already know she’s talking about her training.

“Your feelings. For Steve. They’re confusing,” she continues, not giving you a chance to respond about Hopper.

You close your eyes, and let out a soft breath of air through your nose.

“That’s because I’m confused. He confuses me. I don’t understand him much anymore,” you reply sadly, being honest with her.

“He likes you,” El says softly.

“No, he doesn’t. Not anymore. I’m pretty sure he might actually hate me now,” you confide in her, lips trembling just a bit as you admit the ugly truth.

“No, you don’t see. He likes you. He’s worried, not upset about you joining him,” she repeats, pushing the subject.

You shake your head, about to answer when Steve opens the front door and settles in the driver's seat.

“El, Hopper has made it to the tunnels, it’s time to head back in,” he says gently to her. A wave of anguish washes over you at the fact that his tone is warm with her, when it’s been unkind with you lately.

El gives you a small smile, jumping out of the back and closing the doors.

“Friends don’t lie,” she tries to assure you of her words about Steve. You're grateful for her comfort but also know not to believe in a false hope.

You settle yourself in position, putting on the headphones and changing the wheel accurately to where it needs to go.

“You ready?” Steve asks you, voice clipped and composed.

You give him a nod, and the two of you set off into the night to track your father through the world below yours.

****************************************************

It’s hours later, and your legs are dangling from the back of the van, doors thrown open to get some air.

Steve’s currently at the front of the car, waiting for the van to be charged up from the jump you’re currently getting from a girl named Jessica.

The plan had gone to shit. Not only did you lose Hopper just minutes into the crawl, but the generator in the van surged, causing it to stall and die. That’s on top of the fact that a demogorgon attacked the Wheelers and kidnapped Holly.

You and Steve had been sitting in shock at the terrible luck, when a car started to drive by. Steve had hopped out and started flagging the car down. When Jessica got out, you saw Steve’s face change, charm dripping from his features as he sweet talked her into giving the van a jump.

You decided you couldn’t stand the sight of him trying to flirt with her, which is how you found yourself staring into the night sky instead. You couldn’t see him, but you could hear him. It had you reminiscing on when you were the one he used to flirt with.

“Okay, we’ve got the cables connected. This better be quick though. Our good samaritan is turning sour. I think she might’ve placed me,” Steve attempts to joke, coming around the side of the van. You don’t find it funny.

“Placed you from what, Steve?” You ask harshly, already knowing where this is heading.

It’s like Steve remembers who he’s talking to you, because he coughs uncomfortably, “Stood up her sister, multiple occasions.”

“Of course,” you snap at him, remembering who he was as “King Steve” and the trail of girls that had followed him at one point.

“Um, so, did you get a chance to contact Joyce? Any update yet?” he asks, scratching at his ear, a sign that he’s nervous.

“Nancy and Mike made it to the hospital with Lucas. Their parents are alive, thank God, but barely from the sound of it. Ted’s in an induced coma, and Karen is still in surgery,” you breathe out shakily, head reeling from what’s happened.

“Do you think we should go see them? I mean, if we can get this hunk of junk moving,” he wonders out loud, and you look at him incredulously.

He’s got his arm leaning out against the door, causing the bottom of his shirt to ride up a little bit, exposing the soft skin there. You swallow thickly at the sight, heart thumping loudly, and you tear your eyes away from him.

“We need to stick to the plan,” you shake your head at the absurd thought to stop looking for Hopper.

“The hospital is on our route though. We could just like, swing by, bring flowers or something, I don’t know,” Steve trails off, looking anywhere but you.

“You mean give Nancy flowers?” you spit out sarcastically, bitterness creeping up.

“What?” he’s looking at you cluelessly.

“Give it a rest Steve. Ever since I got back from Lenora you’ve been obvious about your obsession with getting her back. Which is one thing in itself, but the fact that she’s literally Jonathan’s girlfriend and you don’t seem to care, is incredibly selfish,” you seethe at him.

Steve’s jaw drops open at your words. You watch as he tries to gather his thoughts. His jaw working, eyes looking at you in disbelief at what you’ve just told him. He opens his mouth to reply when he’s cut off by the incessant honking of a car horn.

It’s Jessica, clearly annoyed that Steve hasn’t tried to turn the van back on yet. Steve’s eyes remain on you for a moment longer, before he finally goes back to the front seat, turning the keys, trying to get the engine working again.

You hear it as it starts up, and you’re suddenly in panic mode. You can’t stop Steve from going to the hospital if that’s what he wants to do. He’s going to leave you here to try to woo Nancy. Or worse, you’ll be carted along to watch while your dad remains lost in the Upside Down.

At the thought of your dad, you start to hyperventilate a bit. You’re now realizing how dangerous this situation is. He’s alone down there with no way to contact any of you. You have no idea where to start looking for him or if the signal would even work now.

Your racing thoughts have you feeling anxious. You jump down from the van and take a seat on the curb of the road, trying to ground yourself.

“Look, I know you think that-,” Steve rounds the corner of the van again and stops short when he sees you're not in the same spot. His eyes grow concerned when he sees the look on your face, watching as you’re breathing hard.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he inquires, walking towards you. The way he’s speaking has tears spilling out because it’s the first time you’ve heard him be tender with you in awhile.

“Stick to the plan, Steve, please,” you manage to whimper out.

“What-,” he starts, but you interrupt him.

“I can’t - my dad is down there, and I can’t-,” you choke, vision completely blurred at this point. You’re barely able to make out Steve kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over you, unsure of what to do.

“We have to stick to the plan. Hopper - he’s, I can’t lose him, Steve. I can’t lose him again. Please, don’t leave me here,” you’re a rambling mess, lost in your thoughts about the idea of never being able to see Hop again.

“You need to breathe, angel,” Steve whispers to you, and you’re too far gone to even be affected by the name he just called you.

“I, I can’t,” you’re shaking now.

“Can I, um, can I touch you?” he asks the question in the most innocent way.

You nod slowly, and Steve’s hands wrap hesitantly around your elbows, just barely there, feather light.

“Is this okay?” he asks you at the contact. You close your eyes, and have to admit the feel of his grip on you calms you just a fraction, so you nod again.

At your permission, Steve slides his hands to your wrists, “Still okay?”

Your eyes are still clamped shut, but your breathing starts to slow, and you whisper out, “Yes.”

“Would it help if I held your hands now?” Steve says quietly.

“Please,” you murmur, finding his warmth soothing despite the nerves still fluttering in your chest.

His large hands link with yours, and his skin against yours makes your eyes open back up.

“Please don’t leave me, Steve,” you cry out, breath hitching.

“I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere,” his thumbs draw circles delicately against the back of your hands.

“You’ve left me before,” you blurt, voice weaved with a pain you didn’t expect.

Steve looks stunned at your words, before his face twists into an expression that can only be described as agony.

“I know, angel, God, I’m so sorry. Let’s-,” he gulps, shakes his head and tries again, “we have a lot to talk about. But let’s do it once we’ve found Hopper. Right now, I just need you to match your breathing with mine, okay?”

Steve gets you to copy his breathing, large inhales and deep exhales. When you’ve finally relaxed, the verge of panic releasing from your body, you can’t help but stare into Steve’s eyes.

You’ve missed him, terribly so. All of the scathing words and actions dissipate from your body, and you just want things to go back to the way they were before you left for California.

You’re about to tell him this, but the moment dissolves when Dustin emerges from the woods with a limp. You hop up from the ground, fawning over him, begging him to tell you what happened. He brushes you off as usual, with a bullshit excuse about crashing his bike. Dustin gets into the van, and you look over at Steve. You expected him to be watching Dustin, but his eyes are already on you.

****************************************************

You’re hugging your father and El fiercely, after being reunited from the Upside Down when your eyes catch Steve’s again. It’s been happening a multitude of times since your conversation earlier, but this time he tilts his head towards the stairs that lead down to the basement of the radio station.

You watch as he makes his way down them. The group just teamed back up and is working on recalibrating the plan, and you know you can risk sneaking away for a moment. When you pull away, Hopper catches where you’re going instantly and stops you.

“Steve?” he raises his eyebrows at you.

“It’s always been Steve,” you shrug helplessly, and Hopper gives a light snort at that.

“I know, believe me. I’ve had the displeasure of watching the two of you pine after one another for years,” Hop says smugly, with a small amount of disapproval mixed in with his words. You don’t think it’s towards Steve though, more so about the fact that he knows his little girl is growing up.

“You like Steve, don’t you?” you ask, wanting confirmation.

“Sure, when he’s not being an idiot towards you. I trust your decisions kid, just be careful,” Hopper puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezes once, before turning to join the others. You know that’s enough of a cue of approval from your rough around the edges father as you’ll ever get.

El grabs your hand, smiling knowingly, “Told you.”

She lets go and follows after Hopper, leaving you alone to make your way after Steve. You find him leaning against the table that still has the map laid out from yesterday’s failed crawl. His arms prop himself up against the table, fingers curling around the edges.

He gives you a timid smile as you move to stand beside him, leaning against the table with him, shoulder brushing his. You glance up at him from under your lashes, thinking you’ll see his side profile, but he’s already got his head turned towards you, eyes trained on you once again. You inch your hand towards his, and at the contact of your fingers against his, words start spilling from his mouth.

“I was falling in love with you,” Steve reveals, shocking you.

At his confession, you somehow stutter out, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“People always leave me,” he gulps rigidly, like the words are glass coating his throat. Your hand moves to his arm, brushing softly, silently encouraging him to continue.

“When you left for California, I understood why you made that choice, but I knew it meant that things between us would be different,” he proceeds, his sweet brown eyes still refusing to leave yours. You could drown in them if you let yourself.

“My feelings for you were intense, and you scared the hell out of me,” he breathes out, free hand coming up to stroke your cheekbone.

“People always leave me,” he repeats brokenly, “and I couldn’t handle it if you were one of them. I decided to leave you first before you had the chance.”

“And with Jonathan out of the picture, you moved on to Nancy?” you’re afraid of the answer.

He closes his eyes tightly at your words, and shakes his head in defeat like he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s about to.

“Nancy was safe, familiar. I thought I’d get over you if I fooled myself into believing she’s what I wanted,” Steve’s free hand finds your waist, and he pulls you to stand in front of him. He’s got regret written all over his face, and you can’t help yourself when you push back a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes.

“And is she? What you want?” you prompt, already knowing the answer at this point, but wanting to hear it from his own lips.

“No, I don’t want her,” Steve concedes, both hands on your waist now.

“What’s up with the showing off crap then?” you question, a teasing lilt in your voice. You have one hand dragging through his hair, and the other rests along his neck, fingers splayed around the curve of it while your thumb strokes at the base of his ear.

“Would you believe me if I said it was all for you?” he shares, getting a little shy on you, a light blush dusts his cheeks.

“You don’t have to show off for me, Steve. I just need you to be honest with me,” you tell him tracing the pretty pink color that’s gracing his face.

He nods, hands sliding up your back, “I’m sorry I’ve been an idiot. I’m sorry I’ve made things confusing for you.”

Your brows furrow at his choice of words, not understanding how he knows that you’ve been confused by his actions. He watches the wrinkle form between your brow bones, and he smooths it out with a gentle movement of his thumb; his eyes tracing your expression still - those gorgeous eyes of his still glued to you.

“I um, I heard the conversation between you and El in the van. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but El is right by the way,” he devulges, and your lips part at his assurance.

“You don’t hate me then?” you smile sheepishly at him.

“Far from it. In fact, I still think you’re the one for me,” he whispers, pulling you close, making your chest nearly pressed to his.

You elate at hearing the words that he once told you before, and you respond the way you had back then, “Tell me again once this nightmare is over, Harrington.”

Steve grins at you, brushes a kiss to your temple, and says, “You better believe I will, princess.”

“We’ve wasted so much time pretending to hate each other. I'm tired of pretending,” you gaze up at him, overcome with the sudden urge to kiss him.

You initiate it, pulling him down towards you and locking your lips with his. Steve responds immediately, lips moving against yours fervently.

The tension that has been building between the two of you melts, and it leaves behind a desperate ache of wanting.

The table is digging into Steve’s lower back, but he couldn’t care less, far too preoccupied with the way your hands start drifting towards his stomach. You can’t help yourself, after seeing the glimpse of skin there earlier, you’re desperate to touch him.

When your bare fingers slip under his shirt to feel him, Steve lets out a sharp gasp, mouth dropping open at the feeling. You continue to press kisses against his open mouth, definitely getting way ahead of yourself, but after years of wanting, it’s hard to ignore the desire you feel for him.

Your fingers splay out against his soft skin, tracing the coarse hair below his navel, and Steve lets out a low moan, pulling away from your mouth, dropping his head into the crook of your neck.

“You’ve gotta stop that, angel,” He pants out, lips moving against your collarbone.

“Why?” you feign confusion, fingers daintily moving further down towards the top of his jeans.

Steve lets out a weak laugh, hand shooting out to stop yours from traveling even lower, “Well for one thing, I really don’t want to be hard around your father when we go back upstairs.”

His words don’t help, instead they light a fire under your skin at knowing that he’s craving you the same way you want him.

“And for another thing, as much as I might want it to, I’m not letting that happen for the first time in the shitty basement of the Squawk,” he says, head lifting from your neck to look at you. His thoughtful words make you want to touch him more, but Steve’s got your hand trapped in his own.

You see a fleeting haze of lust in his eyes, and you pout at him for not giving in to you, but you understand why. When Steve releases his grip on you, you lift your hands to loop around his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips once more, “Why must you be such a gentleman, Steve Harrington?”

Steve sighs audibly against your lips, and his own hands travel to the curve of your ass, contradicting your words, the skirt you have on bunches in his grasp.

“Believe me, I’m trying really hard to control myself,” he whispers against your lips, biting down softly on your bottom one.

You're overwhelmed with need for him and choose to allow yourself to get lost in him for a few moments longer. Your tongue swipes at the seam of his lips, and he opens up easily for you, letting his own tongue tangle with yours.

You let out a whine, tugging him impossibly closer to you, tilting your head to kiss him deeply. Before things can go too far, the door at the top of the stairs bangs open, and your lips part from Steve’s.

There’s a small trail of spit connecting the two of you, and Steve clearly isn’t phased by the open door because his thumb swipes at the fluid, before popping the finger into his mouth. Your eyes blow wide at his actions, and damn if that didn’t make an intense heat pool inside of you.

You’re brought back to reality when a hand tugs at your shoulder, and you turn to see your sister.

“El!” you yelp at her interruption, embarrassment flooding over you.

“Better me than Hop,” she says urgently, gesturing at you to move away from Steve.

You make eye contact with your dad when his heavy footsteps follow El. An intense blush coats your skin, not daring to look at Steve’s facial expression.

Your dad looks between the three of you, Steve trying his best to lean casually against the table and you now standing with El a few feet away from the table.

“Everything good, Hop?” Steve asks the man, and you're impressed at how his voice comes out smoothly.

“You two have been down here awhile, you know that?” Hopper says grimly, eyes darting suspiciously between you two.

“We must’ve lost track of time while talking,” you shrug a little awkwardly. Hopper makes a noise of discontent, telling you that the group needs everyone upstairs. He makes a point of stomping back up the stairs. El grins apologetically at you and Steve, quickly following your dad.

Steve moves towards you, and interlaces one of his hands with your own, pulling you towards the stairs.

“Is that what we were doing? Talking?” he quips at you, nosing your cheek, and you push at his chest lightly.

“God, you’re lucky Hop likes you,” you laugh, grabbing at his bicep.

“I can’t wait to do more talking later, by the way,” Steve whispers by the base of your ear, before placing a swift kiss there.

You’re feeling dizzy at his words, and let him guide you back to the madness the two of you are living in right now.

November 3rd, 1987.

The rush of blood pounds against your ears, deafening the silence in your head. With every uneven breath, your heartbeat steadies itself. Inside your lungs resides the cold sting of the air, reminding your body of the hill still ahead of you. 

You stare at it, hunched over your knees as you struggle to return the much needed air into your lungs. The steep hill of a road has long since been worn down due to use. Its concrete cracked and freckled with debris. Your mother once told you it was the oldest road in Hawkins. The unimportant fact was once the only thing you knew about the road. 

Then one November night Will rode his bike down this very hill, before disappearing, changing everything you once knew. 

You stare at the stretch of road before you. Every morning you run the same path over and over again. Around Lover’s Lake, through the woods, past the Byers’ old home, before finally coming to the hill. Its steep surface always taunts you. 

It knows the reason why you run. It’s embedded with the remnants of the nightmares from the night before. 

Running has become all you have left to burn off the exhaustion that follows. 

Your legs scream at you to rest. The lactic acid within them burns, but you’ve grown used to the sensation. Struggling to catch your breath, your fingers dig into your knees and your head falls. The lack of sleep snaps every muscle in your body. 

Yet you force your legs to push off the concrete, running as hard as you physically can. You have to finish the hill. You have to keep running. It’s the only thing that drives out the screaming within your head. 

“Y/N!”

Your mother’s voice causes you to trip. The landing isn’t graceful by any means. You scrape your knees, cutting the inside of your palms and fingertips.

“Oh, sorry, sweetie!” Your mother shouts from the car, parking herself next to you. You hadn’t even heard her driving so closely to you. “Though, I do feel that I need to remind you that this is exactly why I hate you running in the road. There are plenty of perfectly good sidewalks all around Hawkins.”

“Thanks for the concern, mom,” you mumble, slowly wiping your hands off on your leggings as you evaluate whether or not you can stand. The blood that spills from your knees makes you wince. They’ll be a bitch to heal. Sighing, you look up at your mother, “What do you need?”

She sticks her head out of her window even further, doing her best to make eye contact with you from the awkward angle. She flashes you an apologetic smile that you don’t trust. “Well, my sweet girl, I need your help.”

Immediately you know what she wants you to do. “No.”

Your mother pinches her cheeks. “Y/N, dear, I really need to get to work and I’ve already tried–”

“I’m not waking him up.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And he’s your son.”

“Y/N,” your mother’s usually patient and sweet voice turns fatigued. “Please.”

Sympathy floods through you. You know she’s had yet another unpleasant morning trying to wake your brother up for school. Dropping your head, you stare down at the ground. “Fine.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Relief floods your mother’s voice. She then puts on her sunglasses, fixes her hair, and honks a friendly goodbye as she leaves. Before rolling up her window she shouts, “and please don’t get hit by any cars! Have a great day!”

Claudia Henderson speeds away in her car, leaving you to deal with Dustin all on your own. 

As usual.

The walk back down the hill serves as a small grace period before the inevitable storm. You dread what will come when you walk through your front door and into Dustin’s room. 

You used to love waking him up for school. You’d have pancakes ready for him on the table by the time he finished getting dressed. 

Now you stand before Dustin’s bedroom door, hesitant to even breathe too deeply in case he hears you. 

Fist hovering over the door, you brace yourself for impact. You knock gently the first few times, hoping the tenderness of the knocks will convince Dustin to finally let you in. “Dustin, you awake in there?”

But all that can be heard on the other side is silence. 

You’ve come to expect Dustin’s silence. 

Frustrated, with little patience left for the silence, you straighten your shoulders and start pounding on the door. Your fists turn red at the harshness, but you don’t care. The sting in your knuckles gets lost in the insistence that maybe today Dustin will open the door for you. You don’t care whether he gives in due to annoyance or to something else. 

All you want is for your brother to let you in again. 

“C’mon, Dustin,” you call through the door, voice edging on irritation. “It’s time to get up. You know mom doesn’t want you missing any more school.”

No response. 

Your palm slams against the door. “Dustin!”

Yet it all amounts to nothing.

Exhausted from more than just your run, you press your head against the door and softly say, “I love you, you know.”

Silence echoes back at you.

Forcing down the tears that threaten to spill over, you close your eyes. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to for you to come back.”

It’s what you did for me.

Though it goes unspoken, you know that Dustin hears it. 

“Come back, please.” Your fingers trace the ridges in the wood of the door. Faint, worn initials are carved into it, down near the hinges: D.H. He used to be such a lively, excited kid. 

Grief took him away. 

“I miss you.” You exhale softly, before pressing one final kiss against the door that your brother refuses to open. Swallowing down the grief, you know that you’ve done all you can. At least for now. “Have a good day at school, Dust.”

From the kitchen rings the telephone. You glance at the watch on your wrist, though you already know the time. Steve always calls just before he leaves his house to come pick you up. An old, familiar routine. 

Though your fingers linger on Dustin’s door. Steve will be expecting you to answer any second, but you can’t bear to leave your brother just yet. But his room remains silent and you know that it’s useless pulling a response from him. 

“Hi, angel.”

Steve’s voice is honey. It soothes the wounds in your skin, grazing over the cuts on your knees and the scrapes on your hands. Honey. An old remedy for childhood aches. 

“Hi, honey.” Your finger twirls around the phone’s cord. Another familiar routine. 

“You guys all set for me to be at yours in fifteen?”

You look at Dustin’s door one last time, biting your lip. It remains silent. Dustin won’t be ready in time for Steve to drive him to school. “It’ll just be me, actually.”

“Oh. Interesting.” Steve clicks his tongue. “That’s the sixth time in two weeks, angel.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes close. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Steve winces. “Sorry, I know it’s been hard–”

“I should get ready.” You interrupt your boyfriend, though not unkindly. The conversation just makes you miserable and you still need to shower. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Steve mumbles softly. There’s more he wants to say, but he knows that now just isn’t the time. 

The line disconnects. You don’t have any time to ruminate over the morning’s events as you quickly get ready. You’d hate to keep Steve waiting. Not when your skin buzzes at the idea of being near to him after a night apart. 

True to his word, Steve arrives in your driveway soon after. He beams at you through the windshield, winking playfully as he parks the car and gets out, eager to open the passenger door for you because he knows it makes you laugh. 

But as you giggle over how ridiculous Steve looks, sprinting over before you can beat him to the car’s door, movement behind the front porch catches your eye. You stop, squinting to figure out what lies behind the brustle, only to catch Dustin trying, and failing, to sneak off on his bike before either you or Steve spot him. 

At first you’re stunned, and relieved, he’s even awake and heading to school.

Then you see that he’s wearing Eddie’s old Hellfire Club shirt and immediately you’re pissed off that your brother could be so stupid and infuriating.

Dustin Henderson’s specialty. 

“Dustin!” You shout after him. You must not mask your anger very well given the fact that the kid nearly topples over on his bike. Worried you’ll only upset him further, you quickly run after him. “Wait, no. I’m not angry, I-I just wanted you to hitch a ride with me and Steve!”

“Fat chance.” Dustin shouts over his shoulder, already beginning to pedal away. “No way in hell I’m third wheeling with you and Harrington for the millionth time.”

“But–”

“Bye, Y/N.” And then Dustin is gone. 

You stand in the driveway, watching him disappear down the hill. At least he’s going towards the high school rather than away. 

How depressing it must be that your once prodigious brother now having a dwindling attendance record makes you grateful. 

“Is your brother seriously wearing that Hellfire shirt?” Steve scoffs next to you, squinting at the sun.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

“Aren’t they always rough?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, harshly squeezing your eyes shut as if that will somehow dim the sun and diminish your growing resentment. “Not now, Steve.”

“Listen, all I’m saying is–”

“Get in the car before I leave you.”

“What?” Steve whips around to face you, baffled. “I’m the one who drove here, how could you even–”

“You have five more seconds to get in the car before you find out exactly how I’ll leave you behind.”

He drops his head, slowly walking back to the car, though not without mumbling under his breath, “have fun opening your own car door.”

You smile. “I heard you.”

“Didn’t intend for you not to.”

“Start the car, smartass.”

“Yes, dear.”

– 

When you first heard of New York University, you’d been twelve. Jonathan had tugged you through the woods, swatting away bugs before they could get to you. It had been the early stages of your first summer in Hawkins.

He dragged you through the thick leaves and tall grass and brought you to a giant field that slowly ascended into a hilltop. Embedded in its weeds were beautiful yellow dandelions and their white seeds. 

Jonathan, long past his shyness around you, tackled you to the ground and laughed over your surprised squeals. He had made sure that your head would land on hand, safe, soft. He’s always been soft with you. 

It was that day that Jonathan confessed to you that he’d always wanted to attend NYU. Showcase his photography, something he picked up earlier that winter. He asked whether you’d thought about college yet, where you wanted to go. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t ever thought about your future. 

But then Jonathan had smiled at you, plucking a dandelion seed out of your hair as he did so, and you knew then that you’d never be able to leave him. His dream became yours, though in the end it was only yours to have.

Until Hawkins fell under quarantine and any chance of escaping its nightmares became a dream in itself. 

You would’ve been a sophomore at NYU by now, had you stopped Vecna.

Except you didn’t. 

Instead, Max lies in a coma while you sit in a formerly abandoned radio station amongst everyone else suffering the consequences of that bastard’s victory. 

“Count me in, pretty girl.” Robin’s gentle voice breaks you out of your spell. She looks at you expectantly, though with a fondness that makes you ache. 

You’d gotten lost in your own thoughts. Again. 

“Right, sorry.” You clear your throat, ignoring Steve’s concerned eyes as you straighten in your seat. Fingers hovering over the radio’s control panel, you adjust your headphones and give Robin a thumbs up. “You’re live in three… two…”

You mouth the final number before pointing both fingers at Robin, her designated signal that the show has begun, and she smiles wide. 

“Good morning, Hawkins!” She greets enthusiastically. “This is WSQK The Squawk.”

Quickly you flash a notebook page at Steve, which simply has the words chicken! now! scrawled on it. He salutes you and rushes to punch the poor rubber chicken wired to a mic. It’s a job he takes very seriously. 

When Robin first started her show, she was in charge of both directing Steve’s sound cues and hosting. A daunting task, but she managed to make it work. 

Then Steve accidentally cued up an applause track for someone’s funeral announcement rather than the mournful piano Robin had originally wanted. 

After that she dropped the cue job onto you, all but forcing you to join the production. While you protested and tried to get out of it, secretly you were relieved to have something to do in the mornings to distract yourself. 

It also helps that the sound booth is so small that you have to practically sit in Steve’s lap in between cues and that he always kisses the base of your neck in an attempt to get you to break out into giggles that the entire town will hear.

Robin hates it.

It’s her fault for forcing you into the job. 

“It’s my 500th broadcast,” Robin spins around in her chair after having made her usual announcements regarding the weather and cues up a celebratory song while you motion to Steve for applause. “Yeah, you heard that right, folks. Five-double-O!”

The cheesy audience applause plays over the broadcast and you can’t help but laugh. Who knew Robin Buckley would one day terrorize the town with 500 days worth of broadcasts in the midst of a military coup? 

Robin goes into the monologue she’s been writing all week full of not so subtle jabs at all Hawkins has been through this year and the unrealistic regulations you’ve been forced to endure since then. 

“And now, I’m stuck here with you, my fellow quarantine compatriots.” Robin says, snickering when you salute at her like the diligent soldier Hawkins expects you to be. “And, if I can be brutally honest, I couldn’t be happier. Because when you really think about it, why would you want to live anywhere else?”

You cue to Steve for a booing crowd, but Robin sees and reaches over to tear the page out.

Absolutely not, she mouths at you, eyebrows furrowed. 

Lame, you mouth back. 

Steve watches the interaction in amusement, deciding to resolve the issue with a sliding whistle he found the other day. Its unexpectedly pathetic sound distracts you long enough for Robin to continue her spiel.

The traitor took her side. 

With a sigh, you walk over to Steve and help him find the rest of the tracks needed for the broadcast. The two of you work fluidly together, always anticipating the other’s needs and moving just where needed. He hands you a freshly brewed cup of coffee after a sickly cough tape plays and you couldn’t be more grateful for him as the liquid warms your ever cold hands. 

You’re quiet for the rest of Robin’s broadcast, content simply handing Steve the necessary tapes and ordering him around via cues. 

“And go on that date! Which, by the way, is exactly what yours truly is doing tonight.”

A loud, shocked gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it. Embarrassed, you clamp your hands over your mouth and pray that it escaped Robin’s notice. 

You should know better by now. 

Hearing your shock, Robin spins in her chair and grabs her chest, feigning pain. “Did you hear that cute little gasp, folks? It seems that Hawkins’ sweetheart is surprised that I have my own sweetheart. Or, maybe…” she leans in close to you now, wiggling her eyebrows at your horror of being publicly denounced, “she’s just jealous that she isn’t the only person in town who gets serenaded via broadcast.”

Steve just barely suppresses his laughter with a cough, which only mortifies you more. Pinching his side, you harshly whisper at Robin, “I’m not jealous! I just didn’t think you’d announce your relationship so openly!”

“Regardless,” Robin ignores your frantic explanation and cues up her next song. “This one’s for you, babe.”

Some new song plays, but you don’t hear it over your struggle against Steve’s hands around your waist preventing you from jumping over the tape player and tugging Robin’s headphones off in retaliation.

“Let go of me!” You whisper as loud as you dare, trying to twist out of Steve’s grasp.

“Not worth it, angel,” he sighs into your ear. “I’ll help you sneak coffee grounds into her shoes after this but–”

Suddenly the broadcast begins cutting in and out. Static leaks into the audio as you and Steve look at each other in alarm. Then, at the same time, you both run to the control panel, hitting every button you can think of in a vain attempt to fix whatever has gone wrong. 

Probably not the most efficient method, but the two of you have never been the best under pressure together. 

“What the hell?” Robin shouts, watching you and Steve running around like headless chickens. “What did you guys do?”

“Nothing!” You both exclaim in unison, just before the broadcast completely shuts off. 

“Oh,” you wince. “That can’t be good.”

Robin tears off her headphones. “Shit!”

She runs out of the sound booth with you and Steve close behind. Irritation and disappointment radiates off of her skin while remorse coats yours. You can’t imagine how excited Robin had been to play her song for Vickie. 

“I told you to stop thumbing your nose at the military.” Steve berates as Robin scours the station for any sign of technical issues that can quickly be resolved. 

“You really think the military did this?” You ask, scrunching your nose. “I mean, Robin wasn’t as snarky as she could’ve been. I thought it was relatively tame.”

“Thank you, pretty girl.” Robin slams her hand against one of the station’s panels. “Seriously, I was just reiterating their goddamn rules, encouraging compliance!”

Steve sighs. “Right. No sarcasm there.”

“Says the dingus with the rubber chicken.”

“These are very serious people, Robin.”

“They’re morons, not ‘serious people’.” You scoff, but when you see the panic growing in Robin’s eyes, you tuck your hair behind your ears and exhale slowly. There’s only one person you know who’ll be of any use. “Listen, I’ll radio Dustin and see what he thinks.”

Robin doesn’t acknowledge what you’ve said, focused on turning some random dial she’s found over and over again without any luck. 

It’s Steve who hears you, and he’s the one who grabs the walkie before you can. 

“You sure you want to call the kid right now?” He asks you, holding the device over your head. “I mean, no offense, but do you really think he’ll answer after the psychological warfare I witnessed this morning?”

“He’s my brother,” the excuse has become an old friend on your tongue. You’ve repeated it every day, every time, for months now. “We have to at least try before Robin loses her mind.”

Steve wants to argue further, but Robin’s voice starts to raise and you both know she’s five seconds away from a breakdown. Reluctant, he grabs the nearest walkie and extends its antenna. “Henderson, you copy?”

You hold your breath at the silence that follows. Steve looks at you, shaking his head slightly when still no response comes. Growing anxious at the silence, you grab the walkie from him. “Dustin? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” He sounds tired, edging on the annoyance you’ve become familiar with.

Yet hearing Dustin’s voice, regardless of the displeasure that intertwines within his cadence that stings your skin, causes you to exhale in relief.

“Hey, buddy. Listen, we’re having some trouble with the tower.”

“Took you long enough.” Steve snatches the walkie from you, frustration cutting through the room. 

“God, you sound swell.” You can practically hear Dustin rolling his eyes at Steve’s impatience. Something you find yourself doing as well. “Let me take a wild guess, you and my sister aren’t calling to wish me a good morning.”

“You’re the one who refused to ride with us,” you snatch the walkie back from Steve, now annoyed with both of the boys. “And I know you heard me standing outside your door this morning.”

“Are you seriously calling just to berate me? Jesus, can’t you just–”

Steve cuts in before Dustin ever growing resentment spikes. “Alright, we really don’t have time for this seeing as how we’ve got a situation down here at the Squawk. The signal’s gone all wonky.”

“I was getting there,” you say through gritted teeth, glaring at your boyfriend. He takes a cautious step back. A wise choice. Exhaling the last of your frustration, you continue. “But Steve’s right. We think Robin finally pissed off the higher ups.”

“Doubtful. She was encouraging compliance.” 

“Told you!” Robin shouts, which Steve waves an annoyed hand at. 

Biting back a smile, you press for more. “That’s what I figured, but the broadcast suddenly went out and we can’t get the signal back. Any ideas?”

“Check the remote radio head.” Dustin suggests. Faintly you can hear a mixture of voices behind him. He must’ve just arrived at the school. 

Steve crosses his arms. “What the hell is a radio head?”

“Remote radio head,” your brother sighs tiredly. “Just read the manual, guys.”

To be completely honest, you had no idea that the radio tower came with an instruction manual. 

“Sure, we could read it, but…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “You know I’m pretty horrible with AV stuff. Maybe you could walk us through the more complicated parts? Help us with the terminology?”

Selfishly, you just want to hear your brother’s voice for a little while longer. Even if all he does is give curt, short responses. 

You miss him. 

“Find a dictionary and learn the terminology yourself.” Dustin huffs into the walkie. You flinch at the tone. “I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.”

Steve bristles next to you.

You try to still the slight tremor of your hands. 

Despite how many times Dustin has rejected you, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how deeply the sting cuts into your pulse. 

“But what if I always want you to be there?” You hate how small your voice sounds. How, even with how hard you try for it not to, the waver in your vocal chords reveals the hurt. 

A beat of silence passes. Dustin doesn’t say anything. 

Instead the walkie shuts off. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve runs an angry hand through his hair. “Does he seriously have to ignore you every time you try to reach out to him?”

He throws the walkie onto the couch and paces the room. “It’s his tone. It’s always his goddamn tone!” 

Robin turns to you, eyes weary as Steve continues to pace around the room and mumble angrily to himself. She silently asks what you want to do, but you just shake your head. 

You’re familiar with Steve’s anger directed towards your brother.

You despise it. 

“I don’t know how you aren’t sick of it by now, Y/N.” Steve laughs humorlessly. “I sure as hell am.”

And there it is. The insistence that you be in the middle of Steve and Dustin constantly arguing. As if you aren’t already dangerously close to losing your little brother in his grief. As if you want to constantly be begging for Steve’s understanding and Dustin’s vulnerability. 

But as Steve tugs at his hair and continues to talk a mile a minute about how much your brother pisses him off, you just choose to bite your tongue. Like you always seem to do these days. 

“We should look for the manual.” You say instead, needing something to distract yourself with.

Steve’s footsteps falter, having not expected you to move on from Dustin’s dismissal so quickly, but Robin seems to sense what he can’t and nods eagerly. “I couldn’t agree more!”

Before Steve can say anything else, Robin takes your arm and drags you away from him, the two of you giggling at Steve’s almost immediate protests.

It’s enough to distract you. If even for a little while.

– 

Finding the instruction manual turns out to be a shockingly difficult task. 

With how large the radio station’s infrastructure is, trying to find some ancient document is like trying to find a needle in the haystack. 

“I swear to God this stupid thing does not exist.” Robin slams yet another filing cabinet closed. Seems her search through the office hadn’t gone well. 

“It fucking better exist.” You roll your shoulders in an attempt to lessen the tension within your spine from crouching over a rack of files. “This really isn’t a pleasant experience.”

Jonathan snorts next to you. He’d shown up alongside Nancy just as you, Steve, and Robin started scouring the tower for the alleged manual. While Nancy chose to search through the bookshelf, Jonathan announced that he would search alongside you.

Something that Steve narrows his eyes at. 

You choose to pretend that you don’t notice. 

“Can you try Dustin again, bug?” Jonathan asks after rifling through the fifth file without any luck. 

“He turned off his walkie!” Robin answers for you, rushing over to search through yet another pile of boxes. 

“What’s been up with him lately?” Your head falls against the wall at Nancy’s question. Hearing your defeat, she hums to herself. “Noted.”

Eventually Nancy manages to find the manual, which ends up being a giant binder held together with a rather concerning amount of paperclips and tape. She holds it up gleefully and beckons everyone over to a table, dropping the thing down. 

You all crowd around Nancy as she quickly flips through the pages, searching for anything that even remotely resembles what Dustin had been talking about. 

“Wait, there it is,” Steve reaches over to point at a figure, inadvertently placing the majority of his body against Nancy’s as their hands graze. She tenses at the touch. “There it is. Remote radio head.”

It takes Nancy a second to respond. You watch as she swallows nervously, obviously uncomfortable with how close Steve has become. A thick, dark cloud of uncertain tension ebbs off them, and an unpleasant taste sours your mouth. 

The taste only bitters more when you notice the way Jonathan’s disdainful eyes linger on Steve. 

He knows just as well as you do why Nancy shifts away from your boyfriend. While you trust Steve more than anything, Jonathan doesn’t. 

The small, innocent touch will be yet another rift between Nancy and Jonathan. It will become yet another thing you have to pretend you don’t notice. Something you can’t talk about. Not with anyone. 

Steve hasn’t quite forgiven Jonathan for the phone call. 

Do you ever wonder if we’ve made a mistake?

And Jonathan hasn’t quite forgiven Steve for falling in love with you. 

I’ll always love you the most, bug.

Lost in your thoughts, you miss Robin asking how to find the remote radio head and Nancy’s terrifying, yet genius mind coming up with the solution: the radio tower itself. 

– 

Immediately you hate the plan. 

You’ve never stepped foot anywhere close to the radio tower due to its unnatural size and the unease it brings you. 

As you stand before the tower alongside the others, squinting against the harsh sunlight and height, you’re reminded yet again of how much you loathe the ideas Nancy comes up with. 

“It’s up there somewhere,” she says, squinting at the sun as well. “It’s gotta be.”

“Are we going based on fact or a hunch?” You ask. “Because as much as I adore you, I’m getting nauseous just looking at this thing.”

Robin pokes your side. “Scared of heights, pretty girl?”

“As if you would climb up there.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Robin laughs, looking around at everyone else. “But, that does beg the question of who will climb to the tippy top of this bad boy.”

Nancy studies the tower, unsure. “Without a harness or anything, it does seem kind of dangerous.”

You choke back a scoff. “Kind of dangerous? C’mon, Wheeler. It’s a death trap.”

“Sounds like a job for me.”

Immediately you grab the back of Steve’s jacket and yank him to your side. “I’ll kill you.”

“Sounds pretty death trap-y to me.” He smirks at you, grabbing the hand that holds him back to kiss the inside of your wrist. He caresses the skin tenderly, amused by your reaction. “Relax, angel.”

In all honesty, he doesn’t actually want to climb the tower. Steve only volunteered because he thinks you’re adorable when you fret over him. He’s about to say as much when Jonathan suddenly steps forward and puffs his chest. 

“I actually think this might be a better job for me.”

What little rationality that Steve has quickly gets forgotten when Jonathan opens his mouth. 

“I got this Byers,” Steve throws his jacket off and slams it against the other’s chest. A small rush of satisfaction courses through him when Jonathan grimaces at the force. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Steve Harrington.” His name barrels through your gritted teeth. You know that he’s only trying to show off for you. “Don’t you dare.”

Hearing the finality in your voice is almost enough to get Steve to back down. But then Jonathan starts taking his jacket off as well and walks towards the tower and Steve really does wish he knew how to not make stupid decisions based around his pride. 

“I’ll be fine, angel.” He calls over his shoulder, unable to turn fully to look at you in fear that your beauty will break him. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget about the voltage, dingus.” Robin shouts at him. “Unless you want to fry.”

Embarrassment washes over Steve. He can feel your eyes burning into his back and how eagerly you want to scream “I told you so”. 

He’s in way too deep now to back down.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve directs his path towards the tower’s electricity shed, pretending it had been his plan the entire time. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“You sure?” You call out, annoyance clear in your voice. 

Steve ducks his head and continues walking. He knows it’s best not to keep engaging with you. You’re already pissed off at him as it is. 

Finding the necessary dial to shut off the tower’s power surge, he turns it all the way to the left until the faint electric hum shuts off. One step down. Pleased with himself, Steve exits the shed and is about to brag before he sees Jonathan dangling off the tower’s ladder like a fucking idiot. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I got this, dude.” Jonathan’s smug face pisses Steve off even more. “Don’t sweat it.”

And the race is on. 

Steve runs towards the tower’s ladder and throws himself up, climbing as fast as he physically can to make up for Jonathan’s head start.

You watch from the ground, not even bothering to try and stop what’s happening. It’s embarrassingly immature. While you understand Steve’s feelings towards Jonathan, you hate how he feeds into them. Anyone can see how fragile Jonathan’s relationship with both you and Nancy has become, and everyone knows that you’ll always be Steve’s.

Yet instead of having a conversation about it, or even allowing himself to be the bigger person, Steve feeds into Jonathan’s insecurity like he’s chasing after the high. 

Nancy turns away in disgust as Jonathan and Steve race to the top of the tower, and her sigh echoes your own disappointment. 

“How committed are the four of you to monogamy?” Robin throws her around you and Nancy, squeezing the two of you together with a glint in her eyes.

You shove her away. “Please stop talking, Robin.”

She pinches your cheek as she grins wickedly, far too amused with the situation. “Aw, c’mon, I’m sure there’s plenty of room for more in your relationship–”

The rev of an engine cuts Robin off, its harsh sound loudly announcing Murray’s arrival. He waves excitedly from his giant cargo truck and for once in your life you’re relieved to see the bastard. 

“I thought the next delivery was scheduled for tomorrow?” You tilt your head in confusion. 

Nancy’s eyes draw together. Concern sketches her features. “Me, too.”

Your teeth scrape over your lips. While you’re grateful Murray’s arrival has given you an excuse to turn away from your idiotic boyfriend and best friend, you know that Murray’s early delivery can’t mean anything good. 

Something is about to happen. You’re sure of it. 

Murray waits for you down the hill. He rubs his hands together in anticipation, eager to show what he’s smuggled in this time. 

“Ladies, hello!” He cackles in glee, yellow teeth and all. “Always a pleasure to see your beautiful faces.”

You don’t bother to mask your disgust. “Yeah. Right back at ya.”

“Santa’s brought a full sack today.” Murray ignores your indifference and opens the truck’s backdoor in a flourish. He grabs a large sack of supplies and throws it onto the ground before you. “A fresh telemetry bag. Scarcer than hen’s teeth, these things.”

He hands you the box and you carefully inspect the thing. “This is what Dustin wanted, right?”

“Correct, little miss. His requests are always the most annoying things on God’s green earth to find.” The disdain in Murray’s voice pleases you. He then turns to Nancy and hands her two large metal containers. “As for you, here are enough bullets and shells for Hop to start a small war, if he so chooses.”

Nancy accepts the containers with a small nod. 

“And did someone order a salad?” Murray holds up what you sincerely hope isn’t a grenade, but when he smiles wide with a crazed look in his eyes, you know it can only be a lethal weapon he’s playing with in his hands. “A grenade salad. Ha! Get it? I hid the grenades under the lettuce, and–”

“Is there anything else?” You interject, long fed up with the man’s horrible jokes and monologues. 

Murray glares at you. “You know, I work really hard to provide for your needs. A little respect wouldn’t hurt.”

You shrug. “I think I’ll pass.”

Robin snickers behind you and Nancy covers her mouth, hiding a pleased smile. Knowing he’s outnumbered, Murray purses his mouth and finishes his haul. “I also brought Gatorade for El’s battery, in case anyone was wondering.”

“God, please toss me one,” Steve slides next to you, severely out of breath and apparently alive with Jonathan, who doesn’t look any better. “I’m dying here.”

Murray happily complies, tossing the Gatorade bottle in the air, not anticipating that you’d intercept it and take the drink for yourself. “Thanks, Bauman.” 

“What the hell, Y/N?” Steve exclaims, choking on his own shock and eliciting several dry, overexhausted coughs after you elbow him in the ribs. “Fuck!”

“On a tight leash, Harrington?” Murray clicks his tongue, smug. 

Unscrewing the cap off the bottle, you flick the small piece of metal at the guy’s head. “Aren’t you a grown man?”

Murray steps closer to you, eyes seething and on the brink of losing all composure. “Alright, listen here, you little shit–”

“Is there anything else?” Nancy clears her throat expectantly. While she understands your prolonged annoyance for Murray, she wishes you’d piss him off after he’s delivered everything, rather than during. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”

The man inhales sharply for a moment, clenching his jaw as if to steady himself. You watch the overdramatic show of patience in obvious amusement. “Yeah, anything else, Bauman?”

“No,” Murray spits out venomously. “At least, not for you.” He turns back to his truck and fishes out an old cassette tape and dangles it in Jonathan’s face. “As for you, Mr. Byers, I know you’re allergic to jazz, but just a whirl. You might find it rather engaging.”

He then proceeds to use his entire face to wink at Jonathan, laughing to himself over a joke none of you seem to understand. Jonathan quickly snatches the tape from Murray and shoves it into his pocket, face red in embarrassment. 

Jonathan’s reaction unsettles something within your chest. The strings snap together in a brutal crescendo, pricking your skin as the lines break apart inside your ribcage. Jonathan keeps his eyes down, low enough that you can’t look into them. 

You dislike the way Murray presented the cassette tape. The words he used. 

But it all gets forgotten when the man hits Nancy’s head with an envelope of papers. “And for the station manager, the reason for my premature delivery.”

She snatches the envelope and fingers through its contents without hesitation. You all crowd around her, silent. You’ve become familiar with the envelopes and what they bring. 

The crack in your left ribcage seeps open. 

Dread creeps in. 

“A burn? Tonight?” Nancy asks, shaking her head. “But it’s–”

“Too soon. I know.” Murray’s normally overzealous nature falters. Even he can’t mask the worry. “Whatever they’re doing in the Upside Down evidently needs a serious injection of resources.”

Nancy flips through the pages of the leaked document. All crowded with numbers and orders, you’ve lost count of how many correspondences you’ve read through by now. They blur together, yet even as the numbers become harder to decipher due to how quickly Nancy rifles through them, you know why Murray came when he did. 

“They’re requesting more supplies than they normally do,” you peer over Nancy’s shoulder, face twisting in concern. “The supply drop could take hours.” 

Murray shrugs. “Two, at the minimum.”

“Which gives Hopper plenty of time for a crawl.” The rough timbre of Nancy’s voice reveals more than her words do. 

The dread seeps into your lungs. Thick like molasses, you know there isn’t any use trying to escape it. 

“Maybe tonight’s the night we finally find that bastard and end this.” 

Murray’s words hang in the air. 

End this.

But will it ever really end?

You’ve long stopped believing in miracles or that retribution can exist alongside the cruelty that predates it. 

Except Nancy’s hands remain steady, without any tremor, still somehow always firm in her belief that one day Vecna’s blood will finally cease the nightmares. 

You wish you had her faith. 

But for now, all you can do is prepare for yet another crawl. 

–

The beginning is always the same. 

Nancy’s quick eyes skim through the document’s pages as instructs you to write down every piece of information she deems relevant to the crawl. What time it will begin, how many men will be sent, which route they’ll take. 

Once completed, the two of you then pour over the details and try to piece them into a jigsaw code of a puzzle only few will understand. 

Steve adds in pieces of his own humor in an attempt to mask the code even further, while Jonathan selects the music that will play and alert the rest of the party to be ready. 

Then all Robin has to do is go on air as Rockin’ Robin with her script in hand and deliver the code while you and the others sit quietly behind her, bracing for what’s to come. 

The beginning has always been the easiest. 

In the midst of creating ciphers and analyzing complex military documents, you can usually convince yourself that maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time the crawl will amount to anything other than disappointment and frustration. 

But then you’re perpetually reminded that you will never get what you want.

Nancy always insists that she have you, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan go over what you’ve found in the documents together in the radio station’s basement with nothing but a projector to light the room. 

Though you understand why she remains adamant about going over the details and plan, it's become the thing you hate most about the crawls. Being stuck in the dark, rotting basement going over the same gridlines of Hawkins that you memorized well over a year ago as Nancy recites the same plan she always does creates a misery you never thought possible. 

“If Murray’s intel is correct, the supply convoy is set to reach Hawkins at 10:00 sharp. Meaning I want Hopper in the tunnels and en route to MAC-Z no later than 9:00.” Nancy motions to the military base on the gridmap with a pointer Robin jokingly got her months ago that she still hasn’t thrown away. 

Nancy conveys so much confidence as she speaks. It’s a shame it centers around a topic you really, really hate. 

“Barring any delays, I expect that the convoy will reach MAC-Z by about 10:15.”

“And the crawl begins." You finish for Nancy with a sigh.

Her pointer now aims at you. “Exactly, meaning Hop will be going a gentle 30 miles per hour while you, Dustin, and Steve do your best to keep up with his telemetry tag’s signal.”

“I’ll blow through any red lights we come across so we stay within range.” Steve nods to himself, satisfied with his own plan that he spoke with no one else about. A terrible plan, at that.

Your foot kicks the edge of his chair fondly, getting his attention. “And that’s why I’ll be the one driving.”

“Oh, in your dreams, angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you childishly, leaning back in his chair so his hair splays across your lap. “My car’s too pretty for you to drive.”

“More importantly,” the slight rise in Nancy’s voice is enough to snap Steve’s chair back to the ground, forcing his attention back to her. “We’ll lose Hopper if you get pulled over,” she then looks pointedly at you, “Regardless of who’s driving.”

Steve waves his hands up in surrender, knowing better than to argue with the girl. You simply place your chin in your hand, bored. Beneath the table you sit at hides your clenched fists. “Carry on, Wheeler.”

She purses her lips and exhales curtly before continuing. “As I was saying, Hop will have two whole hours to search for Vecna, which is ample time. He’s cleared zones faster, meaning all signs point to yet another successful crawl.”

Successful.

“An interesting word choice.” The molten dread within your chest solidifies to bitterness, and you don’t realize you’ve voiced your resentful thoughts until Nancy’s contempt eyes bear into yours. 

“I’m sorry?” She asks defensively, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem, Y/N?”

Awkwardly you clear your throat. “Nothing, it’s just…”

“We’re good.” Jonathan shuffles his feet, anxious to move onto a different conversation. He can feel a shift in the air, the charged static forming between you and Nancy that he desperately wants to avoid. “Promise.”

“We definitely aren’t good. I mean, no offense, but Zone G1 is not that exciting or Vecna-y.” Robin’s bluntness cuts through the room, voicing what you’ve been too afraid to.

Taking the risk, you swallow down your own hesitations as well and bite the bullet that Robin has inexplicably shot. “There’s nothing in the zone, either. Nowhere he could hide in that Hopper wouldn’t be able to find.”

The stiffness in Nancy’s posture sends pins through your body. Her eyes, always cunning and alert, darken into something malicious, almost even protective. She doesn’t say anything, though. She simply sets her cold gaze on the room, studying everyone before her. 

“Or maybe…” Steve’s loose arm around you flicks in the air, indifferent. “He’s already dead.”

Robin shot the gun, you bit its bullet, and Steve echos its finality. 

“Your plan is great, Nance, but this is crawl what? Aren’t we in the thirties now?” He continues, voicing the dread and contempt that has consumed you for months.

“Thrity-three,” you speak slowly, quietly. As if it will hide the pain that the knowledge plagues you with. You’ve written to Max thirty-three times now about the crawls. “This would be crawl thirty-four.”

Steve’s hand rubs up and down your back. Only he knows why you’ve counted each and every crawl. Why their every failure cuts deeper and deeper into your chest, like a landmine waiting to blow. 

“El can’t find him in her bath and that Will and Y/N haven’t felt Vecna since the world basically fell apart,” Steve scratches his face, worried he’s overstepping with the reminder that you’re still marked, still a target. “Don’t you feel like we’re scouring a battlefield that we already won?”

“Have you forgotten what he showed Nancy? Hawkins on fire.” Jonathan stands in for Nancy’s silence, infuriated. “Karen, Holly, everyone dead.”

“And what about what he showed me?” Your anger flings from your throat harsher than you intend for it to. The anger rings throughout the room, forcing everyone to stand in its messy wake, silent. Fingers digging into your palms, your eyes close and exhale slowly. “He showed me my father. He made me relive Will’s disappearance and-and…”

Your voice trails off as Nancy’s eyes avert yours. She shifts ever so slightly, the only indication of her unease, and you choke back your own discomfort at the memory you both share.

Did you really think I’d forget her, Y/N?

The venom that had laced Steve’s voice will always fester your skin, no matter how many nights you’ve spent trying to forget them. 

I can’t. At least, not as easily as your dad forgot you.

You wonder if Nancy has forgotten the venom, or if it haunts her, too. 

“What I’m trying to say is that Vecna only shows your worst fears,” your fingers scratch the tabletop beneath you, unable to look at anyone. “He’ll do anything to get into your head and scare you.”

“Yeah, well he did a good job because I am scared.” Nancy blurts out, her composure finally gone. “And you should be scared, Y/N. Because if he’s still out there, I can promise you that he’ll finish you off and end our world.”

As soon as she’s said it, the fire in Nancy’s eyes dims. A frail hand covers her mouth, but the damage has been done. She drops her head in shame. “I-I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

So deeply you want to scream at her how exhausted you are of trying to hold onto a hope that refuses to be grasped after every failed crawl. You want to scream at Nancy that every morning you run until you can’t breathe because it’s the only sensation similar enough to the death that took Max from you. You want to scream that you’re sick of pretending you don’t have the same bloodlust for Vecna’s body, a yearning so intense that it terrifies you. 

Above all, you just want to scream at Nancy that all your life all you’ve ever done is fail again and again in what matters the most, in protecting who you love. 

To expect you to want to endure it all over again is a fate much more cruel than Vecna’s curse. 

But rather than scream until your throat becomes a bloodied mess of vocal chords, you just stare back at Nancy’s mournful eyes and force a smile.

“It’s alright,” you tell her, too tired to mask the apathy. You’re sick of pretending. “Let’s just stick to the original plan for tonight.”

The frown line between Nancy’s brows only deepens. “Are you sure? If you really feel strongly about something, you know I’d trust whatever call you make.”

“I want him dead.” The words come out softly, an exhale more than anything. But they’re the only semblance of truth that you can provide Nancy. 

She studies your face, eyes silently caressing the silhouette of your body. The gaze lingers on your chapped lips, your nailbeds that have been picked raw, the way your hair hides more of your face than it used to. 

“Then it’s settled,” she eventually announces, gesturing to the others. “Tonight, kill Vecna.”

The declaration should provoke celebration and inspire awe. But no one stirs. Steve remains lock-jawed by your side, fingers pressed lightly into your skin to calm his own uncertainties. Jonathan keeps his head down, caught between relief and mourning. You’re no better, gnawing at your lip until you taste the familiar metallic consequence while Robin picks at her own nails and shifts in her seat, never one for being in a stuffy room for long. 

She breaks first. 

“Well, this was certainly a pleasant and absolutely not at all uncomfortable conversation,” Robin jumps up from her seat, wringing her hands out as if it will disperse her nausea. “And while I totally long to stay here with you guys, I unfortunately have to go make a rather doomed phone call and cancel a date that I was actually really looking forward to.” 

Hand at her temples, Robin salutes the room and leaves you stranded with the ensemble to your estranged love triangle that you want no part of. 

Lovely. 

“I should go, too.” Desperate for air, you quickly stand and head for the staircase. “Need to call Dustin and make sure he has everything for the crawl tonight.”

Steve jumps to his feet as well. “I’ll help you call him–”

“I’d rather do it alone, actually.” You don’t mean to interrupt him, but it’s obvious how anxious Steve is to go with you and while you adore how tenderly he treats you, you’re terrified that he’ll start yet another argument with Dustin and become the crux of your brewing breakdown. 

Seeing the disappointment on Steve’s face, you kiss the crown of his head, stroking his cheek. “I’ll be right back, honey. Promise.” 

He sighs into the touch, mumbling softly enough so that only you will hear, “Can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with Byers and Nancy.”

“Why do you think I want to leave?” You whisper, laughing under your breath. 

Steve’s eyes shine back, full of the ever present boyish charm that you stood no chance of surviving. 

– 

You radio Dustin a total of fourty-nine times.

Not once does he answer. 

Steve finds you in a spare closet, screaming into a walkie over and over again demanding that your brother respond. 

“Dustin Henderson, I swear to God if you don’t answer me I will shove Tew’s litter down your pillowcase and make sure you get pinkeye for the rest of your life!”

“What did the kid do now?” Your boyfriend comes up behind you, wrapping a loose arm over your shoulders. 

You brush him off, too worried and overwhelmed to stand still. “He’s not answering.”

Steve snorts. “Shocking.”

“I’m serious, Steve.” You spin around, facing him with anxious eyes. “I’m starting to worry. He’s never been radio silent like this.”

“Are you forgetting what happened this morning? The little shit totally shut you out. Again, might I add. Like he does every time. I’m not surprised he’s decided to go full AWOL.”

“He always answers eventually.” You argue weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds. “Dustin’s never just gone completely silent without warning.”

“The kid also never used to spit profanities at you until one day he thought it’d be a brilliant idea,” Steve shrugs. “Now it’s all he does.”

Your eyes sting in frustration, though you have nothing left to say. Not to Steve, anyways. He used to be the only other person in your life who truly understood your brother, but lately you wonder if Steve ever knew Dustin at all. 

“Y/N? Steve?” A hesitant knock sounds against the closet door. “You guys in there? And, uh, are you… decent?”

Will’s shy voice accompanies the knock, and you swing the door open without second thought, startling both him and Steve. 

“Where’s my brother?” You demand immediately, not bothering to acknowledge Will’s previous implications. 

He stumbles back, slightly alarmed. “Dustin isn’t here yet?”

It’s the absolute worst thing Will could’ve ever said. 

You barrel out of the doorway, ignoring Steve’s small yelp of pain when you accidentally elbow his chest trying to get out of the closet. Instead you start scouring the radio station, slamming every door open and shouting Dustin’s name until your tongue goes numb. 

On your rampage you run into Mike and Lucas in the field, both attempting to radio your brother as well. Seeing them prompts bile to rise in your throat. 

They don’t know where he is, either. 

“When was the last time you saw Dustin?” You demand the minute you’re close enough to the boys, Will and Steve struggling to keep up behind you. “Why didn’t you guys bike here with him? Where did he go?”

“Woah, slow down.” Mike throws his hands up in defense. “We just got here and I can guarantee that we know shit else like you.”

Lucas rubs the back of his neck. “We gotta tell her about Andy, man.”

“Who the fuck is Andy?” Heart rate spiking, you almost pass out from how fast you turn to face Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”

“I just got off the phone with Mrs. Henderson.” Robin joins the group, unaware of the argument unfolding. “She hasn’t heard from Dustin all day.”

“No way we’re telling Y/N about Andy.” Mike scoffs at Lucas, ignoring what Robin has said. “You know that Dustin would kill us.”

Lucas slaps the kid’s shoulder childishly. “We have to! He almost gave Dustin a black eye today for wearing that stupid Hellfire shirt–”

“Where’s my brother?” 

Your shout echoes off the woodline. Its reverberation cascades down your spine. 

Yet no one can expel the remnants of the outburst with any semblance of what you want to hear. 

“We don’t know, Y/N.” Mike murmurs, his careful hand grazing yours. He doesn’t want to give you unnecessary false hope. He understands better than anyone how painful it can be. “He didn’t meet us after school. That’s all I can tell you.”

“But he’ll be here soon.” Will offers, trying to comfort you as best as he can. “Dustin always shows up for a crawl.”

The tall grass beneath your feet tempts you to lay amongst them. You’re so exhausted from it all. “He should be here by now.”

“Yet he’s an hour late.” Robin not so gently reminds you. 

“So we go and look for him.” It’s the only answer you’ll accept. You’re not going on a goddamn crawl without knowing whether or not your little brother is okay. 

But a look gets passed between the boys. An underlying understanding seems to connect the three of them together, unifying against you before you can even come up with a defense. 

“You know we don’t have time, Y/N.” Lucas says delicately, eyes apologetic. 

“But–”

“Dustin would want us to do the crawl without him.” Mike cuts in, not unkindly, though firm. “Look, we’re all worried about him, but this is our shot at Vecna that we can’t miss. And if we don’t have your brother… someone has to step in for him.”

They want you to take your brother’s place.

Steve carefully takes your hand, risking everything when he says, “Dustin isn’t a kid anymore, angel.”

I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.

But what if I always want you there?

The silence that followed had been Dustin’s answer. 

You just have to accept it. 

“Fine,” you spit out, always prone to succumbing to the needs of others. “But the minute we’re done with this, we’re looking for Dustin.”

“No member of the party gets left behind.” Mike interlocks his pinky with yours. “Promise.”

While the gesture warms your skin, you wish you could believe that its sentiment was sacred and untouchable. 

Instead it leaves a hollow pit in your stomach.

– 

Everyone gathers their things in silence. No one needs to ask what to bring or where to go. You all have your designated areas and tasks from dozens of crawls before. 

Nancy and Will help Mike and Lucas ready their gear for the stakeout. While you’ve always hated sending them so close to MAC-Z, you’re at least comforted by the fact that you were able to secure Bookstrordinary as their base, providing them with information about where to hide and how to escape the building quickly if they were to get caught. 

Joyce helps Hopper with his bullet proof vest and readies his gun, Robin readies the radio signal, and Jonathan prepares the telemetry tracker.

You sit in the WSQK van with Steve, going over Dustin’s detailed instructions about how to signal for the tracker.

“Jesus, this kid has awful handwriting.” Steve sighs under his breath, eyes straining at your brother’s messy scrawls. 

“No one in our family has nice handwriting.” You sort through your own papers, making sure you have all the necessary data from last week’s crawl. Dustin insists that you help him track the exact distance of each route for crawls as a way to compile more data that could help in the future. 

You think it’s unnecessary, but arguing with Dustin never ends well. 

The reminder of him tugs at your chest. You wish he was here, you wish you knew where he was and why he always chooses to run away these days. 

Steve playfully tosses a pen at you. “I like your handwriting.”

“You’re easy to please.”

“Watch it, angel.”

You giggle despite the grief in your chest, tossing the pen back at him, and for a moment you’re just two kids in a car, happy and in love. 

“Harrington, Henderson, you guys getting any signal? Tag is active.” Robin’s voice interrupts from the walkie. 

“Yeah, just give us a second.” Steve bites the pen in his mouth and grabs the walkie. He then throws his legs over the driver’s seat and crawls towards the back of the van where the hatch to the antenna resides. He frowns for a moment, unsure what to do next. “Any idea what to do next, Henderson?”

You shake your head. Dustin never taught you. “Maybe twist it?”

Steve spits the pen out and sighs, fixing his hair. “Well, here goes nothing.”

He grabs the handle to the wheel and attempts to turn it. Except it never moves. He tugs at it with more force, but the wheel remains locked. With a frustrated huff he grabs the walkie again. “Anybody know how Henderson’s wheelie thing works?”

Robin takes a moment to respond. “Uh, there should be a safety lock under the wheel.”

“Safety lock, real necessary.” Steve laughs in disbelief, but when he sees your pointed glare, he drops the subject and tries the wheel again. This time, it moves. He turns the antenna towards the station as you hand him a pair of headphones to put on. 

“Okay,” he says into the walkie. “I’m getting a signal. It’s pretty quiet, though.”

Steve slowly turns the wheel’s handle, eyes steady on the decibel meter attached to the van. “Okay, signal’s holding a steady 90 dB… But how am I supposed to monitor this and drive without Henderson?”

“Isn’t Y/N already with you?” Robin’s confusion rings clear through the static. 

You crawl over to Steve and take over the walkie. “I have to track the route and time how long it takes us. Dustin uses it to calibrate the telemetry tags.”

The walkie goes quiet. 

“Robin?” You look down to see if the signal somehow has been cut off. “Hello?”

“Guess they didn’t consider who to send beforehand.” Steve yanks the headphones off. “They must’ve thought Dustin would show by now.”

“He still might.” You aren’t sure why vehemently insist on believing the impossible.

Steve spares you pity, choosing to change the subject. “Who do you think they’ll send, anyways? I mean, no one really understands this stuff like Dustin does.”

“Nancy should be able to do it.” You say hopefully. “She’s smart enough to figure it out quickly.”

“As if Byers would let her anywhere near me–”

The van’s backdoors swing open.

You turn, expecting to find Nancy climbing through them, but when you see Jonathan, you freeze. 

“Oh,” the words tumble out on their own as you stare at him. “They sent you.”

He fixes his jacket, eyes avoiding yours. “Don’t sound too excited, bug.”

In the corner of your eye you notice Steve’s fingers clenching the steering wheel at the nickname. You hadn’t even noticed he went back to the driver’s seat. 

Knowing that nothing you can say will alleviate the already choking tension, you force a smile at Jonathan before crawling back to the passenger seat. 

“You comfortable back there, Byers?” Steve asks, innocently enough. For a moment you think he’s playing nice, trying to appease you, but instead he turns to look at Jonathan with cruel, teasing eyes. “Or do you want me to get you a pillow?”

Jonathan forces the headphones on. “Just focus on driving.”

Your head drops to your hands. Running on little sleep and emotionally drained, you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night trapped in a van with the two idiots. 

From the rear window you spot Mike on his bike alongside Lucas, waving his hands in the air to signal that they’re ready to head towards the meeting point.

It’s time. 

Fingers grazing over the knives in your back pocket, you turn to Steve. “Let’s go.”

He nods, starting the engine.

The crawl has begun. 

–

Waiting in the hidden alleyway with Steve and Jonathan quickly becomes a nightmare.

While no one talks, the silence weighs so heavily within the van that it cracks open your chest and steals any oxygen left in it. 

Your fingers trace over the papers for the crawl, scratching at the ink splotches of numbers and miles written within it and trying to busy your mind to prevent yourself from spiraling.

Steve busies himself with a snack he stole from Murray. He eats messily, noisily, and with every grotesque swallow you can feel Jonathan’s patience waning. 

You dread the inevitable explosion. 

“We got action.” The crackle of the walkie coming to life with Mike’s voice startles you. You’d almost forgotten why you were even stuck in the van in the first place. “Four trucks, outer east gate on Main.”

Jonathan’s hand comes up to his headphones, the other to the wheel. He readies himself for a signal. He knows how crucial the timing is. 

You hold your breath as Mike counts down to the burn. If all goes well, you should be driving in minutes. 

“Hopper’s in.”

You allow yourself to exhale. All Hopper has to do now is get through the gate undetected. Your eyes close, silently hoping your luck hasn’t run out just yet as you whisper, “C’mon, Hop.”

Seconds later Mike announces, “He’s flipped.”

Steve fist bumps the air. “We’re in!”

But his celebration is short lived once Joyce takes over the walkie, directing the attention to her son. “Jonathan, signal?”

Jonathan turns the wheel painstakingly slowly, careful not to go over or under. Once he finds Hopper’s signal, he walkies back to his mother, “Snagged it.”

“Should I go?” Steve asks, mouth full of food.

“No… hold.” Jonathan shakes his head. His eyes never leave the monitor as his fingers twist the wheel. You can see he’s holding his breath. “Hold… hold… Go!”

He locks the antenna’s wheel before he can lose Hopper again and Steve speeds off, flinging the van sideways at the abrupt turn. You brace yourself on the dashboard, forcing down the nausea so that you can monitor the car’s speed. You still have a job to do. 

You’ve driven this route a dozen times. Looking at your notes, you notice that every time prior the military tanks consistently drove slower. Yet tonight the van flies down the route, struggling to keep up with the telemetry tag in the Upside Down. 

At first you think you’ve miscalculated something. Maybe you started the stopwatch too soon, or maybe the speedometer in the van has malfunctioned in some way.

That’s when it all goes wrong. 

“We’re losing him!” Jonathan shouts from the backseat, alarmed. 

“How?” You spin around in your seat, fearful that he’s simply misread the decibels.

“I-I don’t know–” Jonathan’s eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, stop! We need to stop!”

Steve flings an arm over your chest as he slams on the brakes, the force nearly sending you through the windshield. He looks at you in concern. “Christ, are you alright, Y/N?”

Except you don’t hear him. Your head swarms with dread as you stumble to your feet and kneel besides Jonathan. “What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t answer you, too busy forcing the antenna whatever way it will go in a desperate attempt to locate Hopper again. Your teeth dig into your lips. 

You can’t lose him. Not again. 

“We got him.” Jonathan’s relief rivals your own as you both breathe heavily against each other.

You cling to his knee, unsteady as all the dread that built its way to the crevice of your collarbones spikes your blood.

Steve’s gentle voice attempts to coax your heartbeat back down. “Breathe, angel. We got Hop, it’s okay.”

Your nails dig into Jonathan’s skin. “Then why are we stopped?”

Neither Steve nor Jonathan can give you an answer. The three of you sit in silence, all unable to voice what you desperately hope isn’t true. 

Suddenly the lights in the van begin to flicker.

The rapid flash of light elicits a sickening sense of deja-vu. It’s happening again. It always happens again. 

Something has gone wrong. 

“What’s going on?” Steve exclaims, now rushing to join you and Jonathan in the back. “What the hell is this thing doing?”

You lunge for the walkie, shaking as you scream, “Joyce? Joyce?”

No one answers. 

“Answer me!” Your vocal chords strain against your screams. “Someone answer! What happened to Hopper?”

But all contact has been lost. The radio station’s power must have gone out.

Back pressed against Steve’s chest, you sit in complete shock as the terror consumes you. You’re helpless against it. That’s all you ever are.

Helpless. 

Muffled, static filled panic screeches from your bag. 

“Y/N? Do you–copy?” Barely able to decipher the words, you scramble to the bag and find the source of the voice. Dustin left his personal walkie. Robin must’ve remembered.

“Robin?” The panic in your shrill voice nearly deafens you. 

“There’s a–demogorgon–” Whatever Robin is saying is barely audible. The walkie isn’t within its normal range. Static infiltrates every word that comes through.

You bring the walkie closer to your lips. “Robin, I-I can’t understand what you’re saying–”

“The Wheelers!” She screams at you, loud enough that the static doesn’t drown her. “There’s a demogorgon–running towards–Wheelers!” 

A metallic ringing pierces your ear drums. 

The Wheelers are in danger. 

Adrenaline infiltrates your veins. Every one of your senses sharpens. 

You’re not far from their home. A mile, maybe even less. 

You’ve spent all summer running. You could be there within minutes if you left now. 

The only thought running through your head as you fling open the van’s doors is Holly, alone without her siblings in the home. She needs you. 

They need you. 

“Y/N, where are you going?” Steve shouts after you, already stumbling to his feet to follow you into the dark. 

Jonathan isn’t any better as he tears his headphones off and nearly falls out of the van. “What the hell?”

“Nancy and Mike need me!” You’re standing in the middle of the road, torn between staying or leaving. But it was never really a decision. “Stay here, alright?”

“Didn’t you hear Robin?” Steve reaches out for you, tries to pull you back into the van. “There’s a demogorgon out there, no way am I letting you go by yourself!”

“I’m going.”

And before Steve’s hand can land on your wrist, you run. 

All you do is run.

-

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November 3rd, 1987.

The rush of blood pounds against your ears, deafening the silence in your head. With every uneven breath, your heartbeat steadies itself. Inside your lungs resides the cold sting of the air, reminding your body of the hill still ahead of you. 

You stare at it, hunched over your knees as you struggle to return the much needed air into your lungs. The steep hill of a road has long since been worn down due to use. Its concrete cracked and freckled with debris. Your mother once told you it was the oldest road in Hawkins. The unimportant fact was once the only thing you knew about the road. 

Then one November night Will rode his bike down this very hill, before disappearing, changing everything you once knew. 

You stare at the stretch of road before you. Every morning you run the same path over and over again. Around Lover’s Lake, through the woods, past the Byers’ old home, before finally coming to the hill. Its steep surface always taunts you. 

It knows the reason why you run. It’s embedded with the remnants of the nightmares from the night before. 

Running has become all you have left to burn off the exhaustion that follows. 

Your legs scream at you to rest. The lactic acid within them burns, but you’ve grown used to the sensation. Struggling to catch your breath, your fingers dig into your knees and your head falls. The lack of sleep snaps every muscle in your body. 

Yet you force your legs to push off the concrete, running as hard as you physically can. You have to finish the hill. You have to keep running. It’s the only thing that drives out the screaming within your head. 

“Y/N!”

Your mother’s voice causes you to trip. The landing isn’t graceful by any means. You scrape your knees, cutting the inside of your palms and fingertips.

“Oh, sorry, sweetie!” Your mother shouts from the car, parking herself next to you. You hadn’t even heard her driving so closely to you. “Though, I do feel that I need to remind you that this is exactly why I hate you running in the road. There are plenty of perfectly good sidewalks all around Hawkins.”

“Thanks for the concern, mom,” you mumble, slowly wiping your hands off on your leggings as you evaluate whether or not you can stand. The blood that spills from your knees makes you wince. They’ll be a bitch to heal. Sighing, you look up at your mother, “What do you need?”

She sticks her head out of her window even further, doing her best to make eye contact with you from the awkward angle. She flashes you an apologetic smile that you don’t trust. “Well, my sweet girl, I need your help.”

Immediately you know what she wants you to do. “No.”

Your mother pinches her cheeks. “Y/N, dear, I really need to get to work and I’ve already tried–”

“I’m not waking him up.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And he’s your son.”

“Y/N,” your mother’s usually patient and sweet voice turns fatigued. “Please.”

Sympathy floods through you. You know she’s had yet another unpleasant morning trying to wake your brother up for school. Dropping your head, you stare down at the ground. “Fine.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Relief floods your mother’s voice. She then puts on her sunglasses, fixes her hair, and honks a friendly goodbye as she leaves. Before rolling up her window she shouts, “and please don’t get hit by any cars! Have a great day!”

Claudia Henderson speeds away in her car, leaving you to deal with Dustin all on your own. 

As usual.

The walk back down the hill serves as a small grace period before the inevitable storm. You dread what will come when you walk through your front door and into Dustin’s room. 

You used to love waking him up for school. You’d have pancakes ready for him on the table by the time he finished getting dressed. 

Now you stand before Dustin’s bedroom door, hesitant to even breathe too deeply in case he hears you. 

Fist hovering over the door, you brace yourself for impact. You knock gently the first few times, hoping the tenderness of the knocks will convince Dustin to finally let you in. “Dustin, you awake in there?”

But all that can be heard on the other side is silence. 

You’ve come to expect Dustin’s silence. 

Frustrated, with little patience left for the silence, you straighten your shoulders and start pounding on the door. Your fists turn red at the harshness, but you don’t care. The sting in your knuckles gets lost in the insistence that maybe today Dustin will open the door for you. You don’t care whether he gives in due to annoyance or to something else. 

All you want is for your brother to let you in again. 

“C’mon, Dustin,” you call through the door, voice edging on irritation. “It’s time to get up. You know mom doesn’t want you missing any more school.”

No response. 

Your palm slams against the door. “Dustin!”

Yet it all amounts to nothing.

Exhausted from more than just your run, you press your head against the door and softly say, “I love you, you know.”

Silence echoes back at you.

Forcing down the tears that threaten to spill over, you close your eyes. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to for you to come back.”

It’s what you did for me.

Though it goes unspoken, you know that Dustin hears it. 

“Come back, please.” Your fingers trace the ridges in the wood of the door. Faint, worn initials are carved into it, down near the hinges: D.H. He used to be such a lively, excited kid. 

Grief took him away. 

“I miss you.” You exhale softly, before pressing one final kiss against the door that your brother refuses to open. Swallowing down the grief, you know that you’ve done all you can. At least for now. “Have a good day at school, Dust.”

From the kitchen rings the telephone. You glance at the watch on your wrist, though you already know the time. Steve always calls just before he leaves his house to come pick you up. An old, familiar routine. 

Though your fingers linger on Dustin’s door. Steve will be expecting you to answer any second, but you can’t bear to leave your brother just yet. But his room remains silent and you know that it’s useless pulling a response from him. 

“Hi, angel.”

Steve’s voice is honey. It soothes the wounds in your skin, grazing over the cuts on your knees and the scrapes on your hands. Honey. An old remedy for childhood aches. 

“Hi, honey.” Your finger twirls around the phone’s cord. Another familiar routine. 

“You guys all set for me to be at yours in fifteen?”

You look at Dustin’s door one last time, biting your lip. It remains silent. Dustin won’t be ready in time for Steve to drive him to school. “It’ll just be me, actually.”

“Oh. Interesting.” Steve clicks his tongue. “That’s the sixth time in two weeks, angel.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes close. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Steve winces. “Sorry, I know it’s been hard–”

“I should get ready.” You interrupt your boyfriend, though not unkindly. The conversation just makes you miserable and you still need to shower. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Steve mumbles softly. There’s more he wants to say, but he knows that now just isn’t the time. 

The line disconnects. You don’t have any time to ruminate over the morning’s events as you quickly get ready. You’d hate to keep Steve waiting. Not when your skin buzzes at the idea of being near to him after a night apart. 

True to his word, Steve arrives in your driveway soon after. He beams at you through the windshield, winking playfully as he parks the car and gets out, eager to open the passenger door for you because he knows it makes you laugh. 

But as you giggle over how ridiculous Steve looks, sprinting over before you can beat him to the car’s door, movement behind the front porch catches your eye. You stop, squinting to figure out what lies behind the brustle, only to catch Dustin trying, and failing, to sneak off on his bike before either you or Steve spot him. 

At first you’re stunned, and relieved, he’s even awake and heading to school.

Then you see that he’s wearing Eddie’s old Hellfire Club shirt and immediately you’re pissed off that your brother could be so stupid and infuriating.

Dustin Henderson’s specialty. 

“Dustin!” You shout after him. You must not mask your anger very well given the fact that the kid nearly topples over on his bike. Worried you’ll only upset him further, you quickly run after him. “Wait, no. I’m not angry, I-I just wanted you to hitch a ride with me and Steve!”

“Fat chance.” Dustin shouts over his shoulder, already beginning to pedal away. “No way in hell I’m third wheeling with you and Harrington for the millionth time.”

“But–”

“Bye, Y/N.” And then Dustin is gone. 

You stand in the driveway, watching him disappear down the hill. At least he’s going towards the high school rather than away. 

How depressing it must be that your once prodigious brother now having a dwindling attendance record makes you grateful. 

“Is your brother seriously wearing that Hellfire shirt?” Steve scoffs next to you, squinting at the sun.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

“Aren’t they always rough?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, harshly squeezing your eyes shut as if that will somehow dim the sun and diminish your growing resentment. “Not now, Steve.”

“Listen, all I’m saying is–”

“Get in the car before I leave you.”

“What?” Steve whips around to face you, baffled. “I’m the one who drove here, how could you even–”

“You have five more seconds to get in the car before you find out exactly how I’ll leave you behind.”

He drops his head, slowly walking back to the car, though not without mumbling under his breath, “have fun opening your own car door.”

You smile. “I heard you.”

“Didn’t intend for you not to.”

“Start the car, smartass.”

“Yes, dear.”

– 

When you first heard of New York University, you’d been twelve. Jonathan had tugged you through the woods, swatting away bugs before they could get to you. It had been the early stages of your first summer in Hawkins.

He dragged you through the thick leaves and tall grass and brought you to a giant field that slowly ascended into a hilltop. Embedded in its weeds were beautiful yellow dandelions and their white seeds. 

Jonathan, long past his shyness around you, tackled you to the ground and laughed over your surprised squeals. He had made sure that your head would land on hand, safe, soft. He’s always been soft with you. 

It was that day that Jonathan confessed to you that he’d always wanted to attend NYU. Showcase his photography, something he picked up earlier that winter. He asked whether you’d thought about college yet, where you wanted to go. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t ever thought about your future. 

But then Jonathan had smiled at you, plucking a dandelion seed out of your hair as he did so, and you knew then that you’d never be able to leave him. His dream became yours, though in the end it was only yours to have.

Until Hawkins fell under quarantine and any chance of escaping its nightmares became a dream in itself. 

You would’ve been a sophomore at NYU by now, had you stopped Vecna.

Except you didn’t. 

Instead, Max lies in a coma while you sit in a formerly abandoned radio station amongst everyone else suffering the consequences of that bastard’s victory. 

“Count me in, pretty girl.” Robin’s gentle voice breaks you out of your spell. She looks at you expectantly, though with a fondness that makes you ache. 

You’d gotten lost in your own thoughts. Again. 

“Right, sorry.” You clear your throat, ignoring Steve’s concerned eyes as you straighten in your seat. Fingers hovering over the radio’s control panel, you adjust your headphones and give Robin a thumbs up. “You’re live in three… two…”

You mouth the final number before pointing both fingers at Robin, her designated signal that the show has begun, and she smiles wide. 

“Good morning, Hawkins!” She greets enthusiastically. “This is WSQK The Squawk.”

Quickly you flash a notebook page at Steve, which simply has the words chicken! now! scrawled on it. He salutes you and rushes to punch the poor rubber chicken wired to a mic. It’s a job he takes very seriously. 

When Robin first started her show, she was in charge of both directing Steve’s sound cues and hosting. A daunting task, but she managed to make it work. 

Then Steve accidentally cued up an applause track for someone’s funeral announcement rather than the mournful piano Robin had originally wanted. 

After that she dropped the cue job onto you, all but forcing you to join the production. While you protested and tried to get out of it, secretly you were relieved to have something to do in the mornings to distract yourself. 

It also helps that the sound booth is so small that you have to practically sit in Steve’s lap in between cues and that he always kisses the base of your neck in an attempt to get you to break out into giggles that the entire town will hear.

Robin hates it.

It’s her fault for forcing you into the job. 

“It’s my 500th broadcast,” Robin spins around in her chair after having made her usual announcements regarding the weather and cues up a celebratory song while you motion to Steve for applause. “Yeah, you heard that right, folks. Five-double-O!”

The cheesy audience applause plays over the broadcast and you can’t help but laugh. Who knew Robin Buckley would one day terrorize the town with 500 days worth of broadcasts in the midst of a military coup? 

Robin goes into the monologue she’s been writing all week full of not so subtle jabs at all Hawkins has been through this year and the unrealistic regulations you’ve been forced to endure since then. 

“And now, I’m stuck here with you, my fellow quarantine compatriots.” Robin says, snickering when you salute at her like the diligent soldier Hawkins expects you to be. “And, if I can be brutally honest, I couldn’t be happier. Because when you really think about it, why would you want to live anywhere else?”

You cue to Steve for a booing crowd, but Robin sees and reaches over to tear the page out.

Absolutely not, she mouths at you, eyebrows furrowed. 

Lame, you mouth back. 

Steve watches the interaction in amusement, deciding to resolve the issue with a sliding whistle he found the other day. Its unexpectedly pathetic sound distracts you long enough for Robin to continue her spiel.

The traitor took her side. 

With a sigh, you walk over to Steve and help him find the rest of the tracks needed for the broadcast. The two of you work fluidly together, always anticipating the other’s needs and moving just where needed. He hands you a freshly brewed cup of coffee after a sickly cough tape plays and you couldn’t be more grateful for him as the liquid warms your ever cold hands. 

You’re quiet for the rest of Robin’s broadcast, content simply handing Steve the necessary tapes and ordering him around via cues. 

“And go on that date! Which, by the way, is exactly what yours truly is doing tonight.”

A loud, shocked gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it. Embarrassed, you clamp your hands over your mouth and pray that it escaped Robin’s notice. 

You should know better by now. 

Hearing your shock, Robin spins in her chair and grabs her chest, feigning pain. “Did you hear that cute little gasp, folks? It seems that Hawkins’ sweetheart is surprised that I have my own sweetheart. Or, maybe…” she leans in close to you now, wiggling her eyebrows at your horror of being publicly denounced, “she’s just jealous that she isn’t the only person in town who gets serenaded via broadcast.”

Steve just barely suppresses his laughter with a cough, which only mortifies you more. Pinching his side, you harshly whisper at Robin, “I’m not jealous! I just didn’t think you’d announce your relationship so openly!”

“Regardless,” Robin ignores your frantic explanation and cues up her next song. “This one’s for you, babe.”

Some new song plays, but you don’t hear it over your struggle against Steve’s hands around your waist preventing you from jumping over the tape player and tugging Robin’s headphones off in retaliation.

“Let go of me!” You whisper as loud as you dare, trying to twist out of Steve’s grasp.

“Not worth it, angel,” he sighs into your ear. “I’ll help you sneak coffee grounds into her shoes after this but–”

Suddenly the broadcast begins cutting in and out. Static leaks into the audio as you and Steve look at each other in alarm. Then, at the same time, you both run to the control panel, hitting every button you can think of in a vain attempt to fix whatever has gone wrong. 

Probably not the most efficient method, but the two of you have never been the best under pressure together. 

“What the hell?” Robin shouts, watching you and Steve running around like headless chickens. “What did you guys do?”

“Nothing!” You both exclaim in unison, just before the broadcast completely shuts off. 

“Oh,” you wince. “That can’t be good.”

Robin tears off her headphones. “Shit!”

She runs out of the sound booth with you and Steve close behind. Irritation and disappointment radiates off of her skin while remorse coats yours. You can’t imagine how excited Robin had been to play her song for Vickie. 

“I told you to stop thumbing your nose at the military.” Steve berates as Robin scours the station for any sign of technical issues that can quickly be resolved. 

“You really think the military did this?” You ask, scrunching your nose. “I mean, Robin wasn’t as snarky as she could’ve been. I thought it was relatively tame.”

“Thank you, pretty girl.” Robin slams her hand against one of the station’s panels. “Seriously, I was just reiterating their goddamn rules, encouraging compliance!”

Steve sighs. “Right. No sarcasm there.”

“Says the dingus with the rubber chicken.”

“These are very serious people, Robin.”

“They’re morons, not ‘serious people’.” You scoff, but when you see the panic growing in Robin’s eyes, you tuck your hair behind your ears and exhale slowly. There’s only one person you know who’ll be of any use. “Listen, I’ll radio Dustin and see what he thinks.”

Robin doesn’t acknowledge what you’ve said, focused on turning some random dial she’s found over and over again without any luck. 

It’s Steve who hears you, and he’s the one who grabs the walkie before you can. 

“You sure you want to call the kid right now?” He asks you, holding the device over your head. “I mean, no offense, but do you really think he’ll answer after the psychological warfare I witnessed this morning?”

“He’s my brother,” the excuse has become an old friend on your tongue. You’ve repeated it every day, every time, for months now. “We have to at least try before Robin loses her mind.”

Steve wants to argue further, but Robin’s voice starts to raise and you both know she’s five seconds away from a breakdown. Reluctant, he grabs the nearest walkie and extends its antenna. “Henderson, you copy?”

You hold your breath at the silence that follows. Steve looks at you, shaking his head slightly when still no response comes. Growing anxious at the silence, you grab the walkie from him. “Dustin? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” He sounds tired, edging on the annoyance you’ve become familiar with.

Yet hearing Dustin’s voice, regardless of the displeasure that intertwines within his cadence that stings your skin, causes you to exhale in relief.

“Hey, buddy. Listen, we’re having some trouble with the tower.”

“Took you long enough.” Steve snatches the walkie from you, frustration cutting through the room. 

“God, you sound swell.” You can practically hear Dustin rolling his eyes at Steve’s impatience. Something you find yourself doing as well. “Let me take a wild guess, you and my sister aren’t calling to wish me a good morning.”

“You’re the one who refused to ride with us,” you snatch the walkie back from Steve, now annoyed with both of the boys. “And I know you heard me standing outside your door this morning.”

“Are you seriously calling just to berate me? Jesus, can’t you just–”

Steve cuts in before Dustin ever growing resentment spikes. “Alright, we really don’t have time for this seeing as how we’ve got a situation down here at the Squawk. The signal’s gone all wonky.”

“I was getting there,” you say through gritted teeth, glaring at your boyfriend. He takes a cautious step back. A wise choice. Exhaling the last of your frustration, you continue. “But Steve’s right. We think Robin finally pissed off the higher ups.”

“Doubtful. She was encouraging compliance.” 

“Told you!” Robin shouts, which Steve waves an annoyed hand at. 

Biting back a smile, you press for more. “That’s what I figured, but the broadcast suddenly went out and we can’t get the signal back. Any ideas?”

“Check the remote radio head.” Dustin suggests. Faintly you can hear a mixture of voices behind him. He must’ve just arrived at the school. 

Steve crosses his arms. “What the hell is a radio head?”

“Remote radio head,” your brother sighs tiredly. “Just read the manual, guys.”

To be completely honest, you had no idea that the radio tower came with an instruction manual. 

“Sure, we could read it, but…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “You know I’m pretty horrible with AV stuff. Maybe you could walk us through the more complicated parts? Help us with the terminology?”

Selfishly, you just want to hear your brother’s voice for a little while longer. Even if all he does is give curt, short responses. 

You miss him. 

“Find a dictionary and learn the terminology yourself.” Dustin huffs into the walkie. You flinch at the tone. “I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.”

Steve bristles next to you.

You try to still the slight tremor of your hands. 

Despite how many times Dustin has rejected you, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how deeply the sting cuts into your pulse. 

“But what if I always want you to be there?” You hate how small your voice sounds. How, even with how hard you try for it not to, the waver in your vocal chords reveals the hurt. 

A beat of silence passes. Dustin doesn’t say anything. 

Instead the walkie shuts off. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve runs an angry hand through his hair. “Does he seriously have to ignore you every time you try to reach out to him?”

He throws the walkie onto the couch and paces the room. “It’s his tone. It’s always his goddamn tone!” 

Robin turns to you, eyes weary as Steve continues to pace around the room and mumble angrily to himself. She silently asks what you want to do, but you just shake your head. 

You’re familiar with Steve’s anger directed towards your brother.

You despise it. 

“I don’t know how you aren’t sick of it by now, Y/N.” Steve laughs humorlessly. “I sure as hell am.”

And there it is. The insistence that you be in the middle of Steve and Dustin constantly arguing. As if you aren’t already dangerously close to losing your little brother in his grief. As if you want to constantly be begging for Steve’s understanding and Dustin’s vulnerability. 

But as Steve tugs at his hair and continues to talk a mile a minute about how much your brother pisses him off, you just choose to bite your tongue. Like you always seem to do these days. 

“We should look for the manual.” You say instead, needing something to distract yourself with.

Steve’s footsteps falter, having not expected you to move on from Dustin’s dismissal so quickly, but Robin seems to sense what he can’t and nods eagerly. “I couldn’t agree more!”

Before Steve can say anything else, Robin takes your arm and drags you away from him, the two of you giggling at Steve’s almost immediate protests.

It’s enough to distract you. If even for a little while.

– 

Finding the instruction manual turns out to be a shockingly difficult task. 

With how large the radio station’s infrastructure is, trying to find some ancient document is like trying to find a needle in the haystack. 

“I swear to God this stupid thing does not exist.” Robin slams yet another filing cabinet closed. Seems her search through the office hadn’t gone well. 

“It fucking better exist.” You roll your shoulders in an attempt to lessen the tension within your spine from crouching over a rack of files. “This really isn’t a pleasant experience.”

Jonathan snorts next to you. He’d shown up alongside Nancy just as you, Steve, and Robin started scouring the tower for the alleged manual. While Nancy chose to search through the bookshelf, Jonathan announced that he would search alongside you.

Something that Steve narrows his eyes at. 

You choose to pretend that you don’t notice. 

“Can you try Dustin again, bug?” Jonathan asks after rifling through the fifth file without any luck. 

“He turned off his walkie!” Robin answers for you, rushing over to search through yet another pile of boxes. 

“What’s been up with him lately?” Your head falls against the wall at Nancy’s question. Hearing your defeat, she hums to herself. “Noted.”

Eventually Nancy manages to find the manual, which ends up being a giant binder held together with a rather concerning amount of paperclips and tape. She holds it up gleefully and beckons everyone over to a table, dropping the thing down. 

You all crowd around Nancy as she quickly flips through the pages, searching for anything that even remotely resembles what Dustin had been talking about. 

“Wait, there it is,” Steve reaches over to point at a figure, inadvertently placing the majority of his body against Nancy’s as their hands graze. She tenses at the touch. “There it is. Remote radio head.”

It takes Nancy a second to respond. You watch as she swallows nervously, obviously uncomfortable with how close Steve has become. A thick, dark cloud of uncertain tension ebbs off them, and an unpleasant taste sours your mouth. 

The taste only bitters more when you notice the way Jonathan’s disdainful eyes linger on Steve. 

He knows just as well as you do why Nancy shifts away from your boyfriend. While you trust Steve more than anything, Jonathan doesn’t. 

The small, innocent touch will be yet another rift between Nancy and Jonathan. It will become yet another thing you have to pretend you don’t notice. Something you can’t talk about. Not with anyone. 

Steve hasn’t quite forgiven Jonathan for the phone call. 

Do you ever wonder if we’ve made a mistake?

And Jonathan hasn’t quite forgiven Steve for falling in love with you. 

I’ll always love you the most, bug.

Lost in your thoughts, you miss Robin asking how to find the remote radio head and Nancy’s terrifying, yet genius mind coming up with the solution: the radio tower itself. 

– 

Immediately you hate the plan. 

You’ve never stepped foot anywhere close to the radio tower due to its unnatural size and the unease it brings you. 

As you stand before the tower alongside the others, squinting against the harsh sunlight and height, you’re reminded yet again of how much you loathe the ideas Nancy comes up with. 

“It’s up there somewhere,” she says, squinting at the sun as well. “It’s gotta be.”

“Are we going based on fact or a hunch?” You ask. “Because as much as I adore you, I’m getting nauseous just looking at this thing.”

Robin pokes your side. “Scared of heights, pretty girl?”

“As if you would climb up there.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Robin laughs, looking around at everyone else. “But, that does beg the question of who will climb to the tippy top of this bad boy.”

Nancy studies the tower, unsure. “Without a harness or anything, it does seem kind of dangerous.”

You choke back a scoff. “Kind of dangerous? C’mon, Wheeler. It’s a death trap.”

“Sounds like a job for me.”

Immediately you grab the back of Steve’s jacket and yank him to your side. “I’ll kill you.”

“Sounds pretty death trap-y to me.” He smirks at you, grabbing the hand that holds him back to kiss the inside of your wrist. He caresses the skin tenderly, amused by your reaction. “Relax, angel.”

In all honesty, he doesn’t actually want to climb the tower. Steve only volunteered because he thinks you’re adorable when you fret over him. He’s about to say as much when Jonathan suddenly steps forward and puffs his chest. 

“I actually think this might be a better job for me.”

What little rationality that Steve has quickly gets forgotten when Jonathan opens his mouth. 

“I got this Byers,” Steve throws his jacket off and slams it against the other’s chest. A small rush of satisfaction courses through him when Jonathan grimaces at the force. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Steve Harrington.” His name barrels through your gritted teeth. You know that he’s only trying to show off for you. “Don’t you dare.”

Hearing the finality in your voice is almost enough to get Steve to back down. But then Jonathan starts taking his jacket off as well and walks towards the tower and Steve really does wish he knew how to not make stupid decisions based around his pride. 

“I’ll be fine, angel.” He calls over his shoulder, unable to turn fully to look at you in fear that your beauty will break him. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget about the voltage, dingus.” Robin shouts at him. “Unless you want to fry.”

Embarrassment washes over Steve. He can feel your eyes burning into his back and how eagerly you want to scream “I told you so”. 

He’s in way too deep now to back down.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve directs his path towards the tower’s electricity shed, pretending it had been his plan the entire time. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“You sure?” You call out, annoyance clear in your voice. 

Steve ducks his head and continues walking. He knows it’s best not to keep engaging with you. You’re already pissed off at him as it is. 

Finding the necessary dial to shut off the tower’s power surge, he turns it all the way to the left until the faint electric hum shuts off. One step down. Pleased with himself, Steve exits the shed and is about to brag before he sees Jonathan dangling off the tower’s ladder like a fucking idiot. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I got this, dude.” Jonathan’s smug face pisses Steve off even more. “Don’t sweat it.”

And the race is on. 

Steve runs towards the tower’s ladder and throws himself up, climbing as fast as he physically can to make up for Jonathan’s head start.

You watch from the ground, not even bothering to try and stop what’s happening. It’s embarrassingly immature. While you understand Steve’s feelings towards Jonathan, you hate how he feeds into them. Anyone can see how fragile Jonathan’s relationship with both you and Nancy has become, and everyone knows that you’ll always be Steve’s.

Yet instead of having a conversation about it, or even allowing himself to be the bigger person, Steve feeds into Jonathan’s insecurity like he’s chasing after the high. 

Nancy turns away in disgust as Jonathan and Steve race to the top of the tower, and her sigh echoes your own disappointment. 

“How committed are the four of you to monogamy?” Robin throws her around you and Nancy, squeezing the two of you together with a glint in her eyes.

You shove her away. “Please stop talking, Robin.”

She pinches your cheek as she grins wickedly, far too amused with the situation. “Aw, c’mon, I’m sure there’s plenty of room for more in your relationship–”

The rev of an engine cuts Robin off, its harsh sound loudly announcing Murray’s arrival. He waves excitedly from his giant cargo truck and for once in your life you’re relieved to see the bastard. 

“I thought the next delivery was scheduled for tomorrow?” You tilt your head in confusion. 

Nancy’s eyes draw together. Concern sketches her features. “Me, too.”

Your teeth scrape over your lips. While you’re grateful Murray’s arrival has given you an excuse to turn away from your idiotic boyfriend and best friend, you know that Murray’s early delivery can’t mean anything good. 

Something is about to happen. You’re sure of it. 

Murray waits for you down the hill. He rubs his hands together in anticipation, eager to show what he’s smuggled in this time. 

“Ladies, hello!” He cackles in glee, yellow teeth and all. “Always a pleasure to see your beautiful faces.”

You don’t bother to mask your disgust. “Yeah. Right back at ya.”

“Santa’s brought a full sack today.” Murray ignores your indifference and opens the truck’s backdoor in a flourish. He grabs a large sack of supplies and throws it onto the ground before you. “A fresh telemetry bag. Scarcer than hen’s teeth, these things.”

He hands you the box and you carefully inspect the thing. “This is what Dustin wanted, right?”

“Correct, little miss. His requests are always the most annoying things on God’s green earth to find.” The disdain in Murray’s voice pleases you. He then turns to Nancy and hands her two large metal containers. “As for you, here are enough bullets and shells for Hop to start a small war, if he so chooses.”

Nancy accepts the containers with a small nod. 

“And did someone order a salad?” Murray holds up what you sincerely hope isn’t a grenade, but when he smiles wide with a crazed look in his eyes, you know it can only be a lethal weapon he’s playing with in his hands. “A grenade salad. Ha! Get it? I hid the grenades under the lettuce, and–”

“Is there anything else?” You interject, long fed up with the man’s horrible jokes and monologues. 

Murray glares at you. “You know, I work really hard to provide for your needs. A little respect wouldn’t hurt.”

You shrug. “I think I’ll pass.”

Robin snickers behind you and Nancy covers her mouth, hiding a pleased smile. Knowing he’s outnumbered, Murray purses his mouth and finishes his haul. “I also brought Gatorade for El’s battery, in case anyone was wondering.”

“God, please toss me one,” Steve slides next to you, severely out of breath and apparently alive with Jonathan, who doesn’t look any better. “I’m dying here.”

Murray happily complies, tossing the Gatorade bottle in the air, not anticipating that you’d intercept it and take the drink for yourself. “Thanks, Bauman.” 

“What the hell, Y/N?” Steve exclaims, choking on his own shock and eliciting several dry, overexhausted coughs after you elbow him in the ribs. “Fuck!”

“On a tight leash, Harrington?” Murray clicks his tongue, smug. 

Unscrewing the cap off the bottle, you flick the small piece of metal at the guy’s head. “Aren’t you a grown man?”

Murray steps closer to you, eyes seething and on the brink of losing all composure. “Alright, listen here, you little shit–”

“Is there anything else?” Nancy clears her throat expectantly. While she understands your prolonged annoyance for Murray, she wishes you’d piss him off after he’s delivered everything, rather than during. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”

The man inhales sharply for a moment, clenching his jaw as if to steady himself. You watch the overdramatic show of patience in obvious amusement. “Yeah, anything else, Bauman?”

“No,” Murray spits out venomously. “At least, not for you.” He turns back to his truck and fishes out an old cassette tape and dangles it in Jonathan’s face. “As for you, Mr. Byers, I know you’re allergic to jazz, but just a whirl. You might find it rather engaging.”

He then proceeds to use his entire face to wink at Jonathan, laughing to himself over a joke none of you seem to understand. Jonathan quickly snatches the tape from Murray and shoves it into his pocket, face red in embarrassment. 

Jonathan’s reaction unsettles something within your chest. The strings snap together in a brutal crescendo, pricking your skin as the lines break apart inside your ribcage. Jonathan keeps his eyes down, low enough that you can’t look into them. 

You dislike the way Murray presented the cassette tape. The words he used. 

But it all gets forgotten when the man hits Nancy’s head with an envelope of papers. “And for the station manager, the reason for my premature delivery.”

She snatches the envelope and fingers through its contents without hesitation. You all crowd around her, silent. You’ve become familiar with the envelopes and what they bring. 

The crack in your left ribcage seeps open. 

Dread creeps in. 

“A burn? Tonight?” Nancy asks, shaking her head. “But it’s–”

“Too soon. I know.” Murray’s normally overzealous nature falters. Even he can’t mask the worry. “Whatever they’re doing in the Upside Down evidently needs a serious injection of resources.”

Nancy flips through the pages of the leaked document. All crowded with numbers and orders, you’ve lost count of how many correspondences you’ve read through by now. They blur together, yet even as the numbers become harder to decipher due to how quickly Nancy rifles through them, you know why Murray came when he did. 

“They’re requesting more supplies than they normally do,” you peer over Nancy’s shoulder, face twisting in concern. “The supply drop could take hours.” 

Murray shrugs. “Two, at the minimum.”

“Which gives Hopper plenty of time for a crawl.” The rough timbre of Nancy’s voice reveals more than her words do. 

The dread seeps into your lungs. Thick like molasses, you know there isn’t any use trying to escape it. 

“Maybe tonight’s the night we finally find that bastard and end this.” 

Murray’s words hang in the air. 

End this.

But will it ever really end?

You’ve long stopped believing in miracles or that retribution can exist alongside the cruelty that predates it. 

Except Nancy’s hands remain steady, without any tremor, still somehow always firm in her belief that one day Vecna’s blood will finally cease the nightmares. 

You wish you had her faith. 

But for now, all you can do is prepare for yet another crawl. 

–

The beginning is always the same. 

Nancy’s quick eyes skim through the document’s pages as instructs you to write down every piece of information she deems relevant to the crawl. What time it will begin, how many men will be sent, which route they’ll take. 

Once completed, the two of you then pour over the details and try to piece them into a jigsaw code of a puzzle only few will understand. 

Steve adds in pieces of his own humor in an attempt to mask the code even further, while Jonathan selects the music that will play and alert the rest of the party to be ready. 

Then all Robin has to do is go on air as Rockin’ Robin with her script in hand and deliver the code while you and the others sit quietly behind her, bracing for what’s to come. 

The beginning has always been the easiest. 

In the midst of creating ciphers and analyzing complex military documents, you can usually convince yourself that maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time the crawl will amount to anything other than disappointment and frustration. 

But then you’re perpetually reminded that you will never get what you want.

Nancy always insists that she have you, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan go over what you’ve found in the documents together in the radio station’s basement with nothing but a projector to light the room. 

Though you understand why she remains adamant about going over the details and plan, it's become the thing you hate most about the crawls. Being stuck in the dark, rotting basement going over the same gridlines of Hawkins that you memorized well over a year ago as Nancy recites the same plan she always does creates a misery you never thought possible. 

“If Murray’s intel is correct, the supply convoy is set to reach Hawkins at 10:00 sharp. Meaning I want Hopper in the tunnels and en route to MAC-Z no later than 9:00.” Nancy motions to the military base on the gridmap with a pointer Robin jokingly got her months ago that she still hasn’t thrown away. 

Nancy conveys so much confidence as she speaks. It’s a shame it centers around a topic you really, really hate. 

“Barring any delays, I expect that the convoy will reach MAC-Z by about 10:15.”

“And the crawl begins." You finish for Nancy with a sigh.

Her pointer now aims at you. “Exactly, meaning Hop will be going a gentle 30 miles per hour while you, Dustin, and Steve do your best to keep up with his telemetry tag’s signal.”

“I’ll blow through any red lights we come across so we stay within range.” Steve nods to himself, satisfied with his own plan that he spoke with no one else about. A terrible plan, at that.

Your foot kicks the edge of his chair fondly, getting his attention. “And that’s why I’ll be the one driving.”

“Oh, in your dreams, angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you childishly, leaning back in his chair so his hair splays across your lap. “My car’s too pretty for you to drive.”

“More importantly,” the slight rise in Nancy’s voice is enough to snap Steve’s chair back to the ground, forcing his attention back to her. “We’ll lose Hopper if you get pulled over,” she then looks pointedly at you, “Regardless of who’s driving.”

Steve waves his hands up in surrender, knowing better than to argue with the girl. You simply place your chin in your hand, bored. Beneath the table you sit at hides your clenched fists. “Carry on, Wheeler.”

She purses her lips and exhales curtly before continuing. “As I was saying, Hop will have two whole hours to search for Vecna, which is ample time. He’s cleared zones faster, meaning all signs point to yet another successful crawl.”

Successful.

“An interesting word choice.” The molten dread within your chest solidifies to bitterness, and you don’t realize you’ve voiced your resentful thoughts until Nancy’s contempt eyes bear into yours. 

“I’m sorry?” She asks defensively, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem, Y/N?”

Awkwardly you clear your throat. “Nothing, it’s just…”

“We’re good.” Jonathan shuffles his feet, anxious to move onto a different conversation. He can feel a shift in the air, the charged static forming between you and Nancy that he desperately wants to avoid. “Promise.”

“We definitely aren’t good. I mean, no offense, but Zone G1 is not that exciting or Vecna-y.” Robin’s bluntness cuts through the room, voicing what you’ve been too afraid to.

Taking the risk, you swallow down your own hesitations as well and bite the bullet that Robin has inexplicably shot. “There’s nothing in the zone, either. Nowhere he could hide in that Hopper wouldn’t be able to find.”

The stiffness in Nancy’s posture sends pins through your body. Her eyes, always cunning and alert, darken into something malicious, almost even protective. She doesn’t say anything, though. She simply sets her cold gaze on the room, studying everyone before her. 

“Or maybe…” Steve’s loose arm around you flicks in the air, indifferent. “He’s already dead.”

Robin shot the gun, you bit its bullet, and Steve echos its finality. 

“Your plan is great, Nance, but this is crawl what? Aren’t we in the thirties now?” He continues, voicing the dread and contempt that has consumed you for months.

“Thrity-three,” you speak slowly, quietly. As if it will hide the pain that the knowledge plagues you with. You’ve written to Max thirty-three times now about the crawls. “This would be crawl thirty-four.”

Steve’s hand rubs up and down your back. Only he knows why you’ve counted each and every crawl. Why their every failure cuts deeper and deeper into your chest, like a landmine waiting to blow. 

“El can’t find him in her bath and that Will and Y/N haven’t felt Vecna since the world basically fell apart,” Steve scratches his face, worried he’s overstepping with the reminder that you’re still marked, still a target. “Don’t you feel like we’re scouring a battlefield that we already won?”

“Have you forgotten what he showed Nancy? Hawkins on fire.” Jonathan stands in for Nancy’s silence, infuriated. “Karen, Holly, everyone dead.”

“And what about what he showed me?” Your anger flings from your throat harsher than you intend for it to. The anger rings throughout the room, forcing everyone to stand in its messy wake, silent. Fingers digging into your palms, your eyes close and exhale slowly. “He showed me my father. He made me relive Will’s disappearance and-and…”

Your voice trails off as Nancy’s eyes avert yours. She shifts ever so slightly, the only indication of her unease, and you choke back your own discomfort at the memory you both share.

Did you really think I’d forget her, Y/N?

The venom that had laced Steve’s voice will always fester your skin, no matter how many nights you’ve spent trying to forget them. 

I can’t. At least, not as easily as your dad forgot you.

You wonder if Nancy has forgotten the venom, or if it haunts her, too. 

“What I’m trying to say is that Vecna only shows your worst fears,” your fingers scratch the tabletop beneath you, unable to look at anyone. “He’ll do anything to get into your head and scare you.”

“Yeah, well he did a good job because I am scared.” Nancy blurts out, her composure finally gone. “And you should be scared, Y/N. Because if he’s still out there, I can promise you that he’ll finish you off and end our world.”

As soon as she’s said it, the fire in Nancy’s eyes dims. A frail hand covers her mouth, but the damage has been done. She drops her head in shame. “I-I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

So deeply you want to scream at her how exhausted you are of trying to hold onto a hope that refuses to be grasped after every failed crawl. You want to scream at Nancy that every morning you run until you can’t breathe because it’s the only sensation similar enough to the death that took Max from you. You want to scream that you’re sick of pretending you don’t have the same bloodlust for Vecna’s body, a yearning so intense that it terrifies you. 

Above all, you just want to scream at Nancy that all your life all you’ve ever done is fail again and again in what matters the most, in protecting who you love. 

To expect you to want to endure it all over again is a fate much more cruel than Vecna’s curse. 

But rather than scream until your throat becomes a bloodied mess of vocal chords, you just stare back at Nancy’s mournful eyes and force a smile.

“It’s alright,” you tell her, too tired to mask the apathy. You’re sick of pretending. “Let’s just stick to the original plan for tonight.”

The frown line between Nancy’s brows only deepens. “Are you sure? If you really feel strongly about something, you know I’d trust whatever call you make.”

“I want him dead.” The words come out softly, an exhale more than anything. But they’re the only semblance of truth that you can provide Nancy. 

She studies your face, eyes silently caressing the silhouette of your body. The gaze lingers on your chapped lips, your nailbeds that have been picked raw, the way your hair hides more of your face than it used to. 

“Then it’s settled,” she eventually announces, gesturing to the others. “Tonight, kill Vecna.”

The declaration should provoke celebration and inspire awe. But no one stirs. Steve remains lock-jawed by your side, fingers pressed lightly into your skin to calm his own uncertainties. Jonathan keeps his head down, caught between relief and mourning. You’re no better, gnawing at your lip until you taste the familiar metallic consequence while Robin picks at her own nails and shifts in her seat, never one for being in a stuffy room for long. 

She breaks first. 

“Well, this was certainly a pleasant and absolutely not at all uncomfortable conversation,” Robin jumps up from her seat, wringing her hands out as if it will disperse her nausea. “And while I totally long to stay here with you guys, I unfortunately have to go make a rather doomed phone call and cancel a date that I was actually really looking forward to.” 

Hand at her temples, Robin salutes the room and leaves you stranded with the ensemble to your estranged love triangle that you want no part of. 

Lovely. 

“I should go, too.” Desperate for air, you quickly stand and head for the staircase. “Need to call Dustin and make sure he has everything for the crawl tonight.”

Steve jumps to his feet as well. “I’ll help you call him–”

“I’d rather do it alone, actually.” You don’t mean to interrupt him, but it’s obvious how anxious Steve is to go with you and while you adore how tenderly he treats you, you’re terrified that he’ll start yet another argument with Dustin and become the crux of your brewing breakdown. 

Seeing the disappointment on Steve’s face, you kiss the crown of his head, stroking his cheek. “I’ll be right back, honey. Promise.” 

He sighs into the touch, mumbling softly enough so that only you will hear, “Can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with Byers and Nancy.”

“Why do you think I want to leave?” You whisper, laughing under your breath. 

Steve’s eyes shine back, full of the ever present boyish charm that you stood no chance of surviving. 

– 

You radio Dustin a total of fourty-nine times.

Not once does he answer. 

Steve finds you in a spare closet, screaming into a walkie over and over again demanding that your brother respond. 

“Dustin Henderson, I swear to God if you don’t answer me I will shove Tew’s litter down your pillowcase and make sure you get pinkeye for the rest of your life!”

“What did the kid do now?” Your boyfriend comes up behind you, wrapping a loose arm over your shoulders. 

You brush him off, too worried and overwhelmed to stand still. “He’s not answering.”

Steve snorts. “Shocking.”

“I’m serious, Steve.” You spin around, facing him with anxious eyes. “I’m starting to worry. He’s never been radio silent like this.”

“Are you forgetting what happened this morning? The little shit totally shut you out. Again, might I add. Like he does every time. I’m not surprised he’s decided to go full AWOL.”

“He always answers eventually.” You argue weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds. “Dustin’s never just gone completely silent without warning.”

“The kid also never used to spit profanities at you until one day he thought it’d be a brilliant idea,” Steve shrugs. “Now it’s all he does.”

Your eyes sting in frustration, though you have nothing left to say. Not to Steve, anyways. He used to be the only other person in your life who truly understood your brother, but lately you wonder if Steve ever knew Dustin at all. 

“Y/N? Steve?” A hesitant knock sounds against the closet door. “You guys in there? And, uh, are you… decent?”

Will’s shy voice accompanies the knock, and you swing the door open without second thought, startling both him and Steve. 

“Where’s my brother?” You demand immediately, not bothering to acknowledge Will’s previous implications. 

He stumbles back, slightly alarmed. “Dustin isn’t here yet?”

It’s the absolute worst thing Will could’ve ever said. 

You barrel out of the doorway, ignoring Steve’s small yelp of pain when you accidentally elbow his chest trying to get out of the closet. Instead you start scouring the radio station, slamming every door open and shouting Dustin’s name until your tongue goes numb. 

On your rampage you run into Mike and Lucas in the field, both attempting to radio your brother as well. Seeing them prompts bile to rise in your throat. 

They don’t know where he is, either. 

“When was the last time you saw Dustin?” You demand the minute you’re close enough to the boys, Will and Steve struggling to keep up behind you. “Why didn’t you guys bike here with him? Where did he go?”

“Woah, slow down.” Mike throws his hands up in defense. “We just got here and I can guarantee that we know shit else like you.”

Lucas rubs the back of his neck. “We gotta tell her about Andy, man.”

“Who the fuck is Andy?” Heart rate spiking, you almost pass out from how fast you turn to face Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”

“I just got off the phone with Mrs. Henderson.” Robin joins the group, unaware of the argument unfolding. “She hasn’t heard from Dustin all day.”

“No way we’re telling Y/N about Andy.” Mike scoffs at Lucas, ignoring what Robin has said. “You know that Dustin would kill us.”

Lucas slaps the kid’s shoulder childishly. “We have to! He almost gave Dustin a black eye today for wearing that stupid Hellfire shirt–”

“Where’s my brother?” 

Your shout echoes off the woodline. Its reverberation cascades down your spine. 

Yet no one can expel the remnants of the outburst with any semblance of what you want to hear. 

“We don’t know, Y/N.” Mike murmurs, his careful hand grazing yours. He doesn’t want to give you unnecessary false hope. He understands better than anyone how painful it can be. “He didn’t meet us after school. That’s all I can tell you.”

“But he’ll be here soon.” Will offers, trying to comfort you as best as he can. “Dustin always shows up for a crawl.”

The tall grass beneath your feet tempts you to lay amongst them. You’re so exhausted from it all. “He should be here by now.”

“Yet he’s an hour late.” Robin not so gently reminds you. 

“So we go and look for him.” It’s the only answer you’ll accept. You’re not going on a goddamn crawl without knowing whether or not your little brother is okay. 

But a look gets passed between the boys. An underlying understanding seems to connect the three of them together, unifying against you before you can even come up with a defense. 

“You know we don’t have time, Y/N.” Lucas says delicately, eyes apologetic. 

“But–”

“Dustin would want us to do the crawl without him.” Mike cuts in, not unkindly, though firm. “Look, we’re all worried about him, but this is our shot at Vecna that we can’t miss. And if we don’t have your brother… someone has to step in for him.”

They want you to take your brother’s place.

Steve carefully takes your hand, risking everything when he says, “Dustin isn’t a kid anymore, angel.”

I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.

But what if I always want you there?

The silence that followed had been Dustin’s answer. 

You just have to accept it. 

“Fine,” you spit out, always prone to succumbing to the needs of others. “But the minute we’re done with this, we’re looking for Dustin.”

“No member of the party gets left behind.” Mike interlocks his pinky with yours. “Promise.”

While the gesture warms your skin, you wish you could believe that its sentiment was sacred and untouchable. 

Instead it leaves a hollow pit in your stomach.

– 

Everyone gathers their things in silence. No one needs to ask what to bring or where to go. You all have your designated areas and tasks from dozens of crawls before. 

Nancy and Will help Mike and Lucas ready their gear for the stakeout. While you’ve always hated sending them so close to MAC-Z, you’re at least comforted by the fact that you were able to secure Bookstrordinary as their base, providing them with information about where to hide and how to escape the building quickly if they were to get caught. 

Joyce helps Hopper with his bullet proof vest and readies his gun, Robin readies the radio signal, and Jonathan prepares the telemetry tracker.

You sit in the WSQK van with Steve, going over Dustin’s detailed instructions about how to signal for the tracker.

“Jesus, this kid has awful handwriting.” Steve sighs under his breath, eyes straining at your brother’s messy scrawls. 

“No one in our family has nice handwriting.” You sort through your own papers, making sure you have all the necessary data from last week’s crawl. Dustin insists that you help him track the exact distance of each route for crawls as a way to compile more data that could help in the future. 

You think it’s unnecessary, but arguing with Dustin never ends well. 

The reminder of him tugs at your chest. You wish he was here, you wish you knew where he was and why he always chooses to run away these days. 

Steve playfully tosses a pen at you. “I like your handwriting.”

“You’re easy to please.”

“Watch it, angel.”

You giggle despite the grief in your chest, tossing the pen back at him, and for a moment you’re just two kids in a car, happy and in love. 

“Harrington, Henderson, you guys getting any signal? Tag is active.” Robin’s voice interrupts from the walkie. 

“Yeah, just give us a second.” Steve bites the pen in his mouth and grabs the walkie. He then throws his legs over the driver’s seat and crawls towards the back of the van where the hatch to the antenna resides. He frowns for a moment, unsure what to do next. “Any idea what to do next, Henderson?”

You shake your head. Dustin never taught you. “Maybe twist it?”

Steve spits the pen out and sighs, fixing his hair. “Well, here goes nothing.”

He grabs the handle to the wheel and attempts to turn it. Except it never moves. He tugs at it with more force, but the wheel remains locked. With a frustrated huff he grabs the walkie again. “Anybody know how Henderson’s wheelie thing works?”

Robin takes a moment to respond. “Uh, there should be a safety lock under the wheel.”

“Safety lock, real necessary.” Steve laughs in disbelief, but when he sees your pointed glare, he drops the subject and tries the wheel again. This time, it moves. He turns the antenna towards the station as you hand him a pair of headphones to put on. 

“Okay,” he says into the walkie. “I’m getting a signal. It’s pretty quiet, though.”

Steve slowly turns the wheel’s handle, eyes steady on the decibel meter attached to the van. “Okay, signal’s holding a steady 90 dB… But how am I supposed to monitor this and drive without Henderson?”

“Isn’t Y/N already with you?” Robin’s confusion rings clear through the static. 

You crawl over to Steve and take over the walkie. “I have to track the route and time how long it takes us. Dustin uses it to calibrate the telemetry tags.”

The walkie goes quiet. 

“Robin?” You look down to see if the signal somehow has been cut off. “Hello?”

“Guess they didn’t consider who to send beforehand.” Steve yanks the headphones off. “They must’ve thought Dustin would show by now.”

“He still might.” You aren’t sure why vehemently insist on believing the impossible.

Steve spares you pity, choosing to change the subject. “Who do you think they’ll send, anyways? I mean, no one really understands this stuff like Dustin does.”

“Nancy should be able to do it.” You say hopefully. “She’s smart enough to figure it out quickly.”

“As if Byers would let her anywhere near me–”

The van’s backdoors swing open.

You turn, expecting to find Nancy climbing through them, but when you see Jonathan, you freeze. 

“Oh,” the words tumble out on their own as you stare at him. “They sent you.”

He fixes his jacket, eyes avoiding yours. “Don’t sound too excited, bug.”

In the corner of your eye you notice Steve’s fingers clenching the steering wheel at the nickname. You hadn’t even noticed he went back to the driver’s seat. 

Knowing that nothing you can say will alleviate the already choking tension, you force a smile at Jonathan before crawling back to the passenger seat. 

“You comfortable back there, Byers?” Steve asks, innocently enough. For a moment you think he’s playing nice, trying to appease you, but instead he turns to look at Jonathan with cruel, teasing eyes. “Or do you want me to get you a pillow?”

Jonathan forces the headphones on. “Just focus on driving.”

Your head drops to your hands. Running on little sleep and emotionally drained, you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night trapped in a van with the two idiots. 

From the rear window you spot Mike on his bike alongside Lucas, waving his hands in the air to signal that they’re ready to head towards the meeting point.

It’s time. 

Fingers grazing over the knives in your back pocket, you turn to Steve. “Let’s go.”

He nods, starting the engine.

The crawl has begun. 

–

Waiting in the hidden alleyway with Steve and Jonathan quickly becomes a nightmare.

While no one talks, the silence weighs so heavily within the van that it cracks open your chest and steals any oxygen left in it. 

Your fingers trace over the papers for the crawl, scratching at the ink splotches of numbers and miles written within it and trying to busy your mind to prevent yourself from spiraling.

Steve busies himself with a snack he stole from Murray. He eats messily, noisily, and with every grotesque swallow you can feel Jonathan’s patience waning. 

You dread the inevitable explosion. 

“We got action.” The crackle of the walkie coming to life with Mike’s voice startles you. You’d almost forgotten why you were even stuck in the van in the first place. “Four trucks, outer east gate on Main.”

Jonathan’s hand comes up to his headphones, the other to the wheel. He readies himself for a signal. He knows how crucial the timing is. 

You hold your breath as Mike counts down to the burn. If all goes well, you should be driving in minutes. 

“Hopper’s in.”

You allow yourself to exhale. All Hopper has to do now is get through the gate undetected. Your eyes close, silently hoping your luck hasn’t run out just yet as you whisper, “C’mon, Hop.”

Seconds later Mike announces, “He’s flipped.”

Steve fist bumps the air. “We’re in!”

But his celebration is short lived once Joyce takes over the walkie, directing the attention to her son. “Jonathan, signal?”

Jonathan turns the wheel painstakingly slowly, careful not to go over or under. Once he finds Hopper’s signal, he walkies back to his mother, “Snagged it.”

“Should I go?” Steve asks, mouth full of food.

“No… hold.” Jonathan shakes his head. His eyes never leave the monitor as his fingers twist the wheel. You can see he’s holding his breath. “Hold… hold… Go!”

He locks the antenna’s wheel before he can lose Hopper again and Steve speeds off, flinging the van sideways at the abrupt turn. You brace yourself on the dashboard, forcing down the nausea so that you can monitor the car’s speed. You still have a job to do. 

You’ve driven this route a dozen times. Looking at your notes, you notice that every time prior the military tanks consistently drove slower. Yet tonight the van flies down the route, struggling to keep up with the telemetry tag in the Upside Down. 

At first you think you’ve miscalculated something. Maybe you started the stopwatch too soon, or maybe the speedometer in the van has malfunctioned in some way.

That’s when it all goes wrong. 

“We’re losing him!” Jonathan shouts from the backseat, alarmed. 

“How?” You spin around in your seat, fearful that he’s simply misread the decibels.

“I-I don’t know–” Jonathan’s eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, stop! We need to stop!”

Steve flings an arm over your chest as he slams on the brakes, the force nearly sending you through the windshield. He looks at you in concern. “Christ, are you alright, Y/N?”

Except you don’t hear him. Your head swarms with dread as you stumble to your feet and kneel besides Jonathan. “What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t answer you, too busy forcing the antenna whatever way it will go in a desperate attempt to locate Hopper again. Your teeth dig into your lips. 

You can’t lose him. Not again. 

“We got him.” Jonathan’s relief rivals your own as you both breathe heavily against each other.

You cling to his knee, unsteady as all the dread that built its way to the crevice of your collarbones spikes your blood.

Steve’s gentle voice attempts to coax your heartbeat back down. “Breathe, angel. We got Hop, it’s okay.”

Your nails dig into Jonathan’s skin. “Then why are we stopped?”

Neither Steve nor Jonathan can give you an answer. The three of you sit in silence, all unable to voice what you desperately hope isn’t true. 

Suddenly the lights in the van begin to flicker.

The rapid flash of light elicits a sickening sense of deja-vu. It’s happening again. It always happens again. 

Something has gone wrong. 

“What’s going on?” Steve exclaims, now rushing to join you and Jonathan in the back. “What the hell is this thing doing?”

You lunge for the walkie, shaking as you scream, “Joyce? Joyce?”

No one answers. 

“Answer me!” Your vocal chords strain against your screams. “Someone answer! What happened to Hopper?”

But all contact has been lost. The radio station’s power must have gone out.

Back pressed against Steve’s chest, you sit in complete shock as the terror consumes you. You’re helpless against it. That’s all you ever are.

Helpless. 

Muffled, static filled panic screeches from your bag. 

“Y/N? Do you–copy?” Barely able to decipher the words, you scramble to the bag and find the source of the voice. Dustin left his personal walkie. Robin must’ve remembered.

“Robin?” The panic in your shrill voice nearly deafens you. 

“There’s a–demogorgon–” Whatever Robin is saying is barely audible. The walkie isn’t within its normal range. Static infiltrates every word that comes through.

You bring the walkie closer to your lips. “Robin, I-I can’t understand what you’re saying–”

“The Wheelers!” She screams at you, loud enough that the static doesn’t drown her. “There’s a demogorgon–running towards–Wheelers!” 

A metallic ringing pierces your ear drums. 

The Wheelers are in danger. 

Adrenaline infiltrates your veins. Every one of your senses sharpens. 

You’re not far from their home. A mile, maybe even less. 

You’ve spent all summer running. You could be there within minutes if you left now. 

The only thought running through your head as you fling open the van’s doors is Holly, alone without her siblings in the home. She needs you. 

They need you. 

“Y/N, where are you going?” Steve shouts after you, already stumbling to his feet to follow you into the dark. 

Jonathan isn’t any better as he tears his headphones off and nearly falls out of the van. “What the hell?”

“Nancy and Mike need me!” You’re standing in the middle of the road, torn between staying or leaving. But it was never really a decision. “Stay here, alright?”

“Didn’t you hear Robin?” Steve reaches out for you, tries to pull you back into the van. “There’s a demogorgon out there, no way am I letting you go by yourself!”

“I’m going.”

And before Steve’s hand can land on your wrist, you run. 

All you do is run.

-

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