becks ✨ she/her ✨ 21

Avoiding running smack into the middle of the argument, you pulled on your coat, slung your backpack over a shoulder and slipped out of the window. The frame of it groaned at you as though it disapproved of your actions.

Your bike - rarely used nowadays, its pedals stiff from neglect - waited in the yard like a forgotten friend. You swung onto it, the chill of the seat leaching through your jeans, and pushed hard on the pedals. The chain caught, the wheels lurched forward, and soon you were flying down the road.

You let the wind bite at your face as you took the main road toward Hawkins Arcade. Towards Max, the only person who might need cheering up more than you. You would even sit through eight hours of Dig Dug to make that happen.

...............

Your legs were frozen with the cold when you leant your bike against the wall of the arcade, and pushed open the glass door - the familiar hum of machines and neon glow blanketing you with warmth. The place was crowded - kids clustered around games, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and soda syrup. You scanned the rows of machines, the corners where Max usually camped out - but she wasn’t there. No red hair bent over the joystick, no sharp laugh cutting through the din.

Your stomach tightened.

You walked the aisles twice, then a third time, weaving between players, checking every cabinet. Nothing. The absence pressed in, louder than the arcade’s noise.

Worry prickled at the back of your neck. You stepped outside, the door clattering shut behind you, and crossed to the pay phone bolted to the wall. The metal was cold beneath your fingers as you lifted the receiver, the dial tone buzzing faintly in your ear. You reached into your pocket, searching for coins, but came up empty. No money.

For a moment, you just stood there, the receiver heavy in your hand, the problem gnawing at you. Then your eyes caught the battered phone book dangling from its chain. The yellow pages were worn, corners bent, names smudged from years of use. You flipped through quickly, your fingers leaving faint smears of worry on the paper.

And there it was: Wheeler. The address Max had mentioned more than once, the place where the Party always seemed to gather.

Resignation settled over you. You didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to face the boys who had shut her out. But the thought of Max wandering somewhere alone, angry and hurt, was worse. You closed the book, the pages snapping shut like a decision made.

You would double‑check. Just to be sure. Just to know she was safe before you went home.

…

Two things became absolutely clear on the ride over. First, the Wheelers lived in a cul-de-sac far richer than you would ever have been able to afford - neatly trimmed lawns, identical bushes lined up precisely, and the kind of quiet that seemed rehearsed. Second, you were terribly out of practice cycling. By the time you skidded ungracefully to a halt outside the Wheeler residence, your calves burned and your lungs felt raw, every breath sharp in the cold air.

The house itself loomed large - a pristine white facade with shutters that looked more decorative than functional. The mailbox bore the name WHEELER in bold black letters, as though announcing its importance to anyone that passed.

You hadn't even managed to swing a leg off the bike when a figure appeared. A short boy with a mop of curly hair came bounding down the driveway, his energy so intense it nearly knocked you back.

"You're Max's sister, right?" he blurted, words tumbling out faster than his feet could carry him.

You narrowed your eyes, furrowing your brow as recognition clicked.

"Dustin, right?" The name came out edged with a tone of dislike you didn't bother to hide completely.

He stopped in front of you, breathless, his eyes wide with urgency. "Do you know where Max is?"

His question collided with your own, both of you speaking at the same time, words overlapping in the cold air.

You studied, him, suspicion tightening in your chest. "I thought you didn't want Max in your 'Party'."

The accusation hung between you, sharp and unyielding. Dustin’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, his mouth twitching as though he might defend himself. Then, with a frustrated groan, he threw up his hands.

“That doesn’t matter right now—honestly, you don’t understand! Do you know where she could be? Is Sinclair with her?”

You folded your arms tightly across your chest, the gesture more defensive than you wanted to admit. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The absurdity of it hit you then—arguing with a middle schooler in the middle of a manicured cul‑de‑sac, surrounded by houses that looked like they’d been copied from the same glossy catalogue. Before the embarrassment could fully sink in, the low hum of an engine cut through the air.

A maroon BMW pulled up beside you, its tires crunching against the curb. The door swung open, and out stepped Steve Harrington. His hair was perfectly sculpted, his jacket casually thrown over his shoulders, and in his hand he carried a bouquet of bright red roses. He looked like someone rehearsing for a scene, psyching himself up for a conversation that mattered.

School gossip had already filled in the blanks: Nancy Wheeler, his recently ex‑girlfriend, had been skipping classes for two days with Jonathan Byers. The roses made sense. The timing didn’t.

Your stomach dropped at the sight of him. The memory of the Halloween party still burned in the back of your mind, the awkward words you’d exchanged with him replaying like a bad tape. Robin had been merciless when you’d confessed it to her, scathing enough to make you wish you’d never mentioned it. Maybe Steve had forgotten. You hadn’t.

Dustin, however, lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes widened, his whole face breaking into relief, as though every prayer he’d ever muttered had just been answered. Without hesitation, he bolted across the Wheeler lawn toward Steve.

“Hey!” You stormed after him, arms still folded, irritation sharpening your voice. “Dustin, you must know where my sister is-“

But Dustin didn’t even glance back.

“Steve! Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?” he blurted, pointing at the bouquet clutched in Steve’s hand.

Steve blinked, caught mid‑stride, his confusion plain. “…No?” His gaze flicked between the two of you, baffled.

"Good." Dustin unceremoniously grabbed the roses from Steve and began to stride to the older boys car. "Nancy isn't home."

"Hey!" Steve protested.

"We have bigger problems than your love life. Do you still have that bat?"

"What bat?"

"The one with the nails?" Dustin said, as though this was a perfectly reasonable response.

You were starting to regret ever leaving the house. What had begun as mild concern for your sister had now spiraled into something far more unsettling-she was missing, and apparently tangled up with boys who spoke about weapons as casually as if they were talking about homework. For the first time, you almost understood Billy’s paranoia.

“Why?” Steve demanded, his voice sharp with confusion.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Dustin shot back, already clambering into the front seat of Steve’s car with zero hesitation, as though commandeering vehicles was second nature to him.

“Now?” Steve repeated, snapping into motion with a remarkable lack of resistance for someone being ordered around by a middle‑schooler.

“Now!” Dustin barked, his urgency leaving no room for argument.

You had about a second to decide as Steve swung open the driver’s door, bouquet abandoned on the curb.

“Oh, no way,” you muttered under your breath, yanking open the back door before he could pull off. You threw yourself inside, slamming it shut with finality.

Steve turned in his seat, bewildered. “What-”

“My sister is missing,” you snapped, sliding into the middle seat and glaring at both of them with a ferocity that surprised even you. “And if she’s wrapped up in whatever you idiots are up to, then I’m not getting out of this car.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, his expression caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. He hadn’t expected you to yell—truthfully, you hadn’t expected it either. The words had come out sharp, unfiltered, as though you were channeling Max herself.

Dustin groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Fine!” he shouted. “Fine. You can come. Whatever. Harrington, just drive. This is a Code Red.”

You huffed, satisfied, and yanked the seatbelt across your chest with a snap. The click of the buckle felt like victory. Steve, still looking dazed, twisted the keys in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the quiet street.

“Where are we going, man?” Steve asked, his tone resigned, as though being bossed around by middle‑schoolers was now a regular part of his life.

“My house,” Dustin replied quickly, already fidgeting in his seat. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a chunky walkie‑talkie, its plastic casing scuffed from use. He held it like a lifeline, his thumb hovering over the button, his face set with urgency, and then started talking into it, muttering about Code Red's.

You leaned forward, poking your head between the two front seats, the console digging into your ribs. “Can you talk to Lucas on there? Is he with Max?”

Dustin turned to you with a look that could only be described as incredulous, as though you’d just asked him if the sky was blue.

“Of course I can talk to Lucas on here,” he said, dragging out each word slowly, deliberately, the way someone might explain basic math to a toddler. His tone made your jaw tighten.

Then, with a flourish, he shoved the chunky walkie‑talkie practically against your ear. The speaker hissed with static, a harsh, empty sound that filled the car.

“He’s. Not. Answering.” Dustin punctuated each word with exaggerated frustration, his eyes wide, his voice rising as though the silence itself was proof of disaster.

The static buzzed on, loud and insistent, and you sat back, unsettled. Max wasn’t at the arcade. Lucas wasn’t answering. And now you were trapped in a car with two boys who seemed to think this was normal.

You sighed, staring ahead at the darkening road. "You better hope that walkie-talkie starts working soon, Henderson."

The car hummed along the street, headlights carving pale ghosts through the dusk. You were just beginning to settle into the rhythm of the drive when a familiar shape appeared up ahead - a dark blue Camaro, parked recklessly against the curb. Your stomach dropped. Billy's car. Probably on some stupid date.

Instinct took over - you ducked down hard, pressing yourself against the seat, heart hammering in your chest. "Oh no,"

In a rather terrible driving move, Steve turned around and looked down at you in a look of confusion. "Um, what are you doing?"

"Billy," you hissed, as though the name itself might summon him. "If he sees me in your car, I'm dead."

Steve blinked, then let out a short laugh. "And? Come on, it's not like I kidnapped you."

You shot him a glare from your curled up position. "You don't get it - he'll kill me for even breathing near you Harrington."

Steve raised his brows, clearly amused despite himself. "Wow. Nice to know I have that type of reputation."

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered, still ducked low. "It's not you. It's Billy. He hates everyone."

Steve smirked, eyes flickering back to the road. "Well, lucky for you, I'm an excellent driver. We'll be past him before he even notices."

You risked a glance out of the window, the Camaro looming closer as Steve's Beamer rolled by. You held your breath, every muscle tense, until the streetlights swallowed it behind you. Only then did you sit back up, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"You know, you're kind of dramatic." Steve's lips were twitching.

"And you're kind of reckless," you retorted to him. You wondered if he had realised how serious Billy would be about beating the shit out of him if he caught the two of you together.

Steve's head tilted in an expression of mock-offense. "Reckless? You climbed into my car without hesitation. Sounds like you trust me more than you want to admit.”

You leaned forward. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm only here because Max might be in trouble."

Steve opened his mouth to retort, but Dustin suddenly slammed the walkie-talkie against the dashboard with a sharp crack.

"Guys!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the bickering. "This is an emergency. Code Red means Code Red. Mike and Lucas aren't answering, and if we don't get to my place right now, we're screwed."

The static buzzed on, loud and insistent, filling the car with an urgency. You and Steve exchanged a look—your glare still sharp, his smirk fading into something more serious. For once, neither of you had a comeback.

.......................

"What the actual fuck," you said, almost politely, as though commenting on the weather.

Your eyes lingered on the bat in Steve’s trunk, its surface bristling with nails so long they looked more suited to combat than construction - though you supposed that was indeed the point. The weapon sat there without explanation, as if it belonged in the same category as jumper cables or a spare tire. You found yourself staring at it longer than you meant to, trying to decide whether the nails had been hammered in with care or simply shoved through the wood in a rush. Either way, the result was the same: a bat that looked like it had been designed by someone with not enough time or sense.

Dustin had filled the rest of the ride with his story. He spoke quickly, as if speed alone could make the details more convincing. A lizard in the trash. A cat that had disappeared. The implication that one had consumed the other. You listened, but only enough to form two possible explanations. Either he had been watching horror movies until his imagination blurred with reality, or he was living in a world entirely separate from yours, one where trash-dwelling reptiles ate household pets and no one questioned it.

What unsettled you more was not Dustin’s certainty but Steve Harrington’s willingness to play along. Steve, who was supposed to be the most popular senior at Hawkins High, the kind of person who didn’t need to entertain delusions to fill his evenings. Yet here he was, nodding, asking questions, as if Dustin’s account deserved the same weight as a police report. You were utterly baffled.

You had decided not to intervene. Until Lucas Sinclair’s voice came through the walkie-talkie and you could confirm your sister was with him, you had no reason to leave. The static-filled bursts of communication were the only tether to something resembling reality, and until they gave you clarity, you stayed where you were. The car, the trunk, the nails, the lizard story - they were all temporary, background noise until you heard Lucas’s voice and knew for certain what was happening. In the meantime, you had sat back and let the ride continue, the absurdity pressing in but not quite breaking through your composure.

Steve and Dustin had already given up on trying to keep you in the car. Their attempts had been half-hearted to begin with, more suggestion than command, and once Dustin decided the situation qualified as an emergency, the matter was closed. He didn’t seem to care that you were practically a stranger, someone with no stake in whatever crisis he believed was unfolding. To him, the urgency outweighed the inconvenience. You were simply another body in the car, another witness to whatever came next.

.......................

And now, here you were, stood in Dustin's pitch-dark garden staring down at the bulkhead doors for the basement - wondering what exactly he wanted you and Steve Harrington to do about his imaginary lizard pet.

After you had gotten over the initial shock of seeing Steve's improvised bat-with-nails situation, the whole scenario had become ten times weirder when he decided to press a crowbar into your hands as if you, too, needed a weapon. You wondered if this was one big prank, and had looked at him with an expression of dude, really? - but something in his eyes had actually made you take it.

At least if Dustin went full-crazy you had something to defend yourself with, you thought. The crowbar felt awkward in your hand, more like a prop than a weapon, but you held onto it anyway.

"I don’t hear shit, man," you said flatly, tapping the top of the basement doors with the crowbar. The hollow clang echoed across the yard, sharp against the quiet night. Nothing answered. No hiss, no scrape, no movement. Just silence.

Steve stepped forward, expression unreadable, and swung the bat against the metal. The nails scraped and clattered, the sound louder, harsher, but still - nothing. The three of you stood there, waiting as if the noise might conjure something out of the dark. When it didn’t, you exhaled, dropped the crowbar onto the damp grass, and rubbed your hands together as if to rid yourself of the weight.

"Alright, kid," Steve said, his voice edged with irritation. He lifted the flashlight and aimed it directly at Dustin’s face, the beam cutting across his features. "I swear, if this is some Halloween prank, you’re dead."

Dustin shook his head, exasperated, his voice rising with the kind of certainty only he seemed to believe in.

"It’s not a prank," he insisted, fumbling with the keys that held the basement doors shut. The metal jingled in his hand, too loud, too eager.

You groaned, the sound low and tired, and snatched the keys from him before he could drop them. "I swear, if we unlock this and there’s nothing down there…" You didn’t finish the sentence, just shoved the key into the lock and twisted hard. The mechanism gave with a reluctant click.

You turned to Steve, gesturing toward the doors with a sweep of your hand. "Hey, Harrington - big reveal’s yours." The words came out flat, almost bored, as though you were assigning him a chore rather than inviting him to open a gateway to whatever Dustin thought was waiting below.

Steve crouched down, the flashlight beam stretching across the metal as he wrapped his fingers under the edge of the basement doors. The hinges groaned as he pulled, the sound sharp and unpleasant. You stood back, arms crossed, watching him with the sort of detached curiosity that one reserves for bad television.

The three of you peered down into the darkness as he shone his torch down the steps.

"He must be further down there," Dustin said half-heartedly. "I'll stay up here in case he tries to - escape."

Steve turned his head slowly, giving him a look of pure exasperation. He tightened his grip on the bat, then shifted his weight as if preparing to climb through the doors.

"You stay up here too," he said, directing the words at you. You were already bending to pick the crowbar back off the grass, brushing dirt from the handle.

You straightened, meeting his gaze. "No way," you said, tone flat. "I want to see Dustin’s freaky lizard."

................................

Read the next part here ⭐️

A/N: Ahhhh I'm loving writing this series!!! Hopefully will post the next part by the end of the weekend my lovelies.

As always, comment to be added to the taglist!

And that was the hardest part - not the exhaustion (though that was pretty bad), not the endless rounds of paperwork or the incessant dealing of kids in the ER who had stuck a variety of objects up their noses - but the way the job carved hours out of your life that you couldn't get back. You had sworn last year, when Vecna had opened the gates and Chrissy, Eddie, and all the other kids had died, that you were going to spend as much time as possible with your loved ones. Just in case anything happened.

But listening to Robin's sarcastic commentary over milkshakes at the diner, Steve's easy grin when you swung by the radio station after work - all of it had become rare, stolen moments instead of everyday comforts. You told yourself it was worth it, that helping people and being prepared if Vecna came back was worth it - that it mattered more than anything else. But sometimes, walking out of Hawkins General in the dead of night with your uniform wrinkled and eyes burning, you wondered how much longer you could keep choosing the hospital over everyone else in your life.

Inside Hawkins General, there were two faces you saw more than anyone else these days.

Max, still lying motionless in her hospital bed, machines humming in a steady rhythm around her. And Lucas, who, as faithful as ever, never seemed to leave her side. He was there in the mornings when you started your shift, and still there at night when you dragged yourself around the ward for one last check.

Sometimes you caught yourself thinking that you saw Lucas more than you saw Robin or Steve - more than anyone else from the little gang of hoodlums you had adopted, really. His quiet presence had become part of the rhythm of the ward, a constant reminder of how much had changed, and how much was still hanging in the balance.

...

You were taking a rare break. The hospital had settled into a quiet calm in the last hour, and you were sure that nothing too catastrophic would happen if you took ten minutes off your feet. You were almost surprised as how dark the sky was out of the window as you walked into the break room, and then surprised even more when you saw it was 8pm. You had been here for twelve hours, yet it felt like seconds.

The smell of stale coffee and tea wafted familiarly into your nose as you turned up the cranky old radio in the corner of the room and flopped into a hard plastic chair. You rubbed your eyes tiredly, trying to suppress a loud yawn - and failing. You were missing Steve more than ever today. The two of you had been missing one another for days - making you think more than ever that you should just fuck it and move in together.

The faint crackle of WSQK's radio station - the one that every radio in Hawkins was tuned into, now, soothed you. You could imagine Steve and Robin arguing miles away on the other side over which record to play next. Robin, as usual, would probably win.

The slow song - something Bruce Springsteen - ground to a natural halt, and you waited half-heartedly for the next song to appear, when a crackle sounded over the air waves, and a smooth voice you knew all too well spoke out of the radio.

"Uh, hey - is this thing working?' Steve's voice spoke, a few decibels too loud, followed by another crackling. "Oh - it's working now."

Steve cleared his throat, and you pressed your fingers over your mouth to suppress a giggle. This was why Robin never, never, let Steve on the airways.

"This one's for a very specific nurse," Steve said, quieter now, and it felt as though he was across the table speaking to you. "She's probably listening right now because I know she keeps the radio on as much as possible - she says it feels like I'm in the room with her, which - honestly, adorable."

One of the older nurses sat next to you elbowed you with a teasing smirk.

Steve continued, "She's been working double shifts again, and someone should tell her she's doing too much. Preferably someone handsome. Luckily, I'm more than happy to fill that role. So, hey, you - stop skipping lunch. Drink actual water... And come home in one piece, okay?"

A laugh escaped him, a type of carefree one that only existed nowadays when he was talking to you. You buried your face in your hands, a smile plastered across your face.

"Also - I love you. That's all - hey! -"

There was a pause, then another voice broke in, dry and amused.

"Harrington, you're not supposed to hijack the mic. This is Robin, by the way, your delightful and actual radio host. Harrington thinks he's running his own talk show now, but don't worry - I'll keep him in check. Here's your next song!"

You laughed softly to yourself, shaking your head at their antics. The break room was still the same - too bright fluorescent lights, the strong smell of bleach, exhaustion pressing down - but for a moment, as you thought of Steve, it felt lighter.

.........................

They never locked the WSQK headquarters, which, if they asked you, you would say was a massive lapse in security-related-judgement. However, it did mean it was remarkably easy to sneak in after-hours without terrifying Robin by banging on the metal front door.

Robin and Steve were mid-broadcast when you pushed the door of the studio open quietly with a little wave. They were both wearing the battered, oversized headphones that made them look like adorable, small-headed dinguses. Steve glanced over, did a double take, and immediately lit up.

Robin hit the mic button.

"Okay, Hawkins, you're getting five minutes of blissful, uninterrupted music because our sound effects guy here needs to ... check something in the booth," Robin winked at you and you blew and air kiss in response.

Steve pulled off his headphones and darted off his spin chair so fast that he sent it careening into the far wall, like a child who had just learnt that wheels exist.

"You came," he whispered with a grin, taking you by the hand and pulling you out the booth to the little office beyond.

"You called me out on live radio," you countered with a sly smile.

"Yeah, well, whenever I ask you to take care of yourself in private, you pretend you don't hear me."

He wasn't exactly wrong.

You stepped into the narrow office behind and him and tugged the door close behind you. Robin had said last week that if she saw one more round of 'unfortunate PDA' from the both of you she would 'projectile vomit'.

"You look tired," he murmured, brushing his thumb over the dark circles.

"And you look smug," you replied with a grin.

"Sue me for missing you," he held up his hands.

You snorted. "You literally saw me last night."

"Tragic. I suffered terribly."

He pressed a kiss to your neck where your scrubs met skin, another to your forehead, then finally leant back against the desk so he could look you in the face.

"Did you eat?" He asked suspiciously.

"Yes," you lied - poorly.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "You suck at that. I'm going to start sending Sinclair in with a packed lunch for you."

You laughed, then let out a tired yawn. "Your shoutout helped today. More than you think."

"I meant every word," he said quietly. "You're doing so much, and I can't do a damn thing to help except say stupid things on the radio and hope you're listening."

You cupped his jaw, tracing your fingers over the stubble that he kept insisting was "intentional".

"It wasn't stupid," you replied. "Got me here, didn't it?"

He grinned then, bright and boyish, the way he had when you two had first met in high school, and you felt the age-old swoop of your stomach as you looked at him.

"Come here," he said, pulling you towards him needily.

The kiss was slow, tired, grateful - the type of kiss you shared more often than not recently, the way two people kiss when they're surviving something together, even if it wasn't monsters and the Upside Down anymore.

Outside the office, the soft melody of music continued to play. Inside, it was just the two of you, for the first time in days. After a moment, Steve pulled back, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

"Stay till my shift ends?" he asked.

"Only if you let me nap on the couch."

"Wow," he deadpanned. "Our romance is alive and well, I see."

You kissed him again, quick and certain.

"Thanks for the shoutout, babe," you murmured again.

He wrapped his around you, chin settling on your shoulder as your breathing synced up.

"Always," his voice rumbled into your neck. "If you're listening, I'm talking to you. That's the deal."

........................

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! <3

Find my Masterlist for Stranger Things here! xoxo

As soon as you all piled through the front door of your house - Billy brushing past Susan, slamming his bedroom door with enough velocity to shake the foundations of the house - Max grabbed your sleeve and marched toward your shared room.

"Move," she muttered, dragging you behind her like a dog on a leash.

You barely had time to shut the bedroom door before Max had flung herself onto her stomach and was rooting under her bed with the kind of manic determination she usually reserved for arcade games or arguments with your brother.

"What are you doing?" You asked suspiciously, flinging your backpack onto your bed and flopping onto the soft quilt.

Max didn't answer until she emerged victorious with a crumpled navy-blue bundle in her hands. The moment you recognised it, you started to giggle.

"No way," you laughed, poking the faded fabric. "You're bringing him back?"

Max held up the faded navy overalls as though they were holy relics. The rubber mask that accompanied them fell onto the floor with a limp thud, which only made you laugh even more.

"Yes way. Why not?"

"Max," you said, still laughing, "you wore that when you were eleven."

"So? It still fits." She shrugged as though you were being ridiculous. "Also, it was either this or going as a Ghostbuster knockoff. And you know I'm not doing a group costume with those nerds."

You remembered that Halloween two years ago as clear as day - the two of you in matching slasher costumes, you as Freddy Krueger and Max as the world's cutest, smallest and angriest Michael Myers. You had taken the rubber mask off her at some point because she'd insisted she couldn't breathe, and then promptly chased Billy around the house with a fake knife anyway.

The overalls did not quite fit the same now - she had grown taller and lankier. But the fact she still had the costume at all was weirdly endearing.

Max shoved the bundle into your hands.

"Help," she demanded. "Before I lose the last bit of enthusiasm I have."

"Thought you didn't care about costumes."

"I don't," she said, already climbing out of her jeans. "I care about not looking like an idiot in front of ... people."

You raised an eyebrow. "People like Dustin and Lucas?"

She scowled. "Shut up."

You unfolded the overalls and shook them out. The zipper still looked half jammed from the last time she had worn it and the sleeves were still, hopelessly, far too long.

Max was beginning to wrestle one leg into the outfit when you said, "Oh - speaking of Halloween stuff - Robin tried to bully me into going to some party tonight."

Max froze mid-shuffle, one red eyebrow raised. "Robin? Band-geek 'I hate the popular kids' Robin?"

"Yeah," you yanked the leg over her foot for her before Max ripped it. "She cornered me between periods. Said it would be 'pathetically tragic' if I stayed home watching horror movies alone on Halloween."

Max snorted. "That's literally what we do every year."

"Socially still tragic for a Junior to be doing that with her middle-school sibling," you teased, ruffling her hair.

"Oh. Well - she's not wrong."

You flicked the back of her head.

Max planted her hands on her hips - or she tried to; the overalls were far too baggy to make it look intimidating. "So why not go?"

You groaned. "Because I don't know anyone. Whoever's hosting it is the grade above, which means half the school will be there. I don't feel like watching Billy do his whole macho-I'm-fine-even-though-I'm-obliterated routine."

Max gave you an annoyingly perceptive look. "You mean you don't want to see what he gets up to when he's drunk."

"I know enough already," you said dryly, screwing up your nose. "I certainly don't need to see my brother and his latest fling make out across the room from me all night."

Max rolled her eyes. "I'm sure in a party full of people you can avoid Billy."

"Robin only wants to go because Tammy Thompson is going."

"Isn't that the girl you said sounds like a strangled cat when she sings?"

You nodded despondently.

"Well, that makes it even easier. You go, Robin's happy, you socialise for once. You don't even have to talk to anyone you don't want, and you can somehow try to avoid seeing Billy throw his charm on half the girls in the grade above."

You shook your head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "You make it sound so simple."

"That's because it is," Max responded, flinging herself back under the bed and withdrawing wielding your old Freddy Krueger striped sweater like a prize. "Now, quit whining and put this on. You're going."

"Max-"

"You're going. End of discussion. I don't care if you think it's awkward."

Honestly, she was more intimidating than usual when she was wielding a fake knife and wearing a mechanics uniform. That, you thought later, was probably what made you agree.

With a resigned sigh, you bolted towards the house phone, sweater clutched under one arm before you could change your mind.

"Robin!" you practically yelled into the receiver when she answered. "I'll come."

There was a stunned pause on the other end, then Robin's voice erupted: "What! Really?! Yes!"

.....

Three hours later, after a much-needed drink stolen from Robin's family's drinks chest, you found yourself standing in the centre of a random Senior's Halloween Party. Your outfit was… less than ideal. The iconic Freddy Krueger jumper, red and green stripes slightly stretched and worn, clung to you awkwardly; the glove and hat were long gone, and your denim skirt was just a hair too short, finishing somewhere between “casual” and “mall-ready.” Your jeans had been in the wash, leaving you to make do with what you had. You looked more like someone trying to cosplay on a budget than an actual horror icon.

Robin, on the other hand, had gone all in. Fake blood ran in thick streaks across her arms, neck, and face, making her resemble a particularly extreme murder victim. You tried to imagine how the two of you looked together, and it was… mismatched, to say the least.

Tammy better have been the single most catastrophically charming girl in Indiana.

Robin was already vibrating. "Okay, Tammy maybe just arrived," she said, yanking the sleeves of her shirt over her hands. "I need to go - stand in her general vicinity - and - exist. Don't go anywhere weird. Or boring. Or unsafe. Actually - just stay alive, kay?"

Before you could grab onto her and tell her to not leave you alone in a room full of strangers, she disappeared, sucked into the crowd with a speed that felt paranormal. So much for moral support.

You supposed you could go and try find Billy in the backyard. You knew he was here somewhere, had heard a group of Senior boys chanting his name only a few moments ago, but you were not particularly inclined to hang out with your apocalyptically drunk brother.

You exhaled slowly, and moved toward the wall, where the volume of music dropped from "ear drum bleeding" to merely "unsafe for long-term hearing". You surveyed the crowd, trying not to look like someone who knew no one.

"Enjoying the party?" Came a voice from your right.

You turned to look at the speaker - Johnathan Byers, from Robin's pointing out in the school cafeteria. He looked even more out of place than you felt - he hadn't even tried for a costume, and you hated to admit you respected the lack of effort.

You let out an awkward laugh. "Oh, I'm just here for my friend. Not really my usual scene. Can you tell?"

He let out a laugh too. "Not mine either."

"You're Johnathan Byers, right?" You questioned. "I think my sister Max is trick-or-treating with your brother as we speak. Is it bad to admit I think I would enjoy that more?"

Johnathan’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, the kind that looked like it had to fight its way past years of practiced reserve. “Honestly? I’d trade this noise for a bag of candy and a flashlight any day.”

You laughed, relieved at the shared sentiment. “Exactly. I mean, I don’t even know half these people. It feels like… standing in someone else’s dream.”

He nodded, gaze flicking toward the crowd. “Yeah. Like everyone else got the memo, and we’re just… extras who wandered onto the wrong set.”

The thought made you grin. “Extras with no costumes.”

“Extras with no costumes,” he echoed, and for a moment, the chaos of the party blurred into background static.

You were about to say something else when the crowd parted just enough for Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler to stumble past. Steve’s hand was at Nancy’s elbow, steadying her as she tried to blot at the drink that had splashed down her front.

Nancy’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy, and she muttered something sharp under her breath as they hurried toward the bathroom. Steve gave a quick, empty, apologetic grin to no one in particular, then disappeared with her through the door.

The hallway seemed to close back in, the music pulsing again. Johnathan’s gaze lingered on the bathroom door for a moment, unreadable, before he turned back to you.

“Guess some people are having an even worse time than us,” he said quietly.

You let out a short laugh, though the sight of Nancy’s expression stuck with you. “Yeah. At least we’re dry.”

Johnathan’s smile was faint, but it was there - but before he could even respond, a hand clamped around your wrist.

"Emergency," Robin hissed, already tugging you away from the wall.

You barely had time to throw Johnathan - who was still staring at the bathroom door - an apologetic glance before she dragged you through the throng, out the sliding door, and onto the front porch.

The air, thankfully, was cooler out here, though the muffled bass of the party was still audible, vibrating through the walls. Robin released you with a dramatic sigh, pacing in a tight circle.

"Okay. Tammy Thompson. She's here. She's wearing this ridiculous angel costume - wings, halo, the whole shebang - and she just laughed at something I said. Like, actually laughed. Not pity-laughed. Actual laughed." Robin's words tumbled out all at once, her hands flailing for emphasis.

You leaned against the porch railing, trying to keep up. "That sounds - good?"

"And now I don't know what to do! Like what do I say - I'm pretty sure that was the only joke I know and-"

"Robin," you said firmly. "Take a breath. You don't need a script, okay. Just - be yourself. Tammy already laughed at something you said, right?"

Robin froze mid-step, blinking at you as though you had just said something utterly insane. "Be myself? That's your big advice? Do you know myself? Myself is a disaster."

You shook your head, smiling despite her dramatics. "Yourself is funny and smart and way less terrifying than half of those posers in there. If you go back in and just ... exist near her, like you said, she'll notice. And if she doesn't, then she's not worth all this panic."

Robin tugged at her sleeves, chewing her lip. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you insisted. “Go back in. Stand near her. Say something dumb if you have to. Worst case, you’ll survive. Best case, she laughs again.”

For a moment, Robin looked like she might argue. Then she let out a sharp exhale, nodded once, and squared her shoulders. “Okay. Fine. I’m going back in. If I combust, it’s on you.”

She gave you a quick, grateful grin before darting back through the door, swallowed by the crowd once more.

The porch fell quiet again, the cool air brushing against your skin. You barely had time to enjoy the silence before the door banged open, and Steve Harrington stormed out, muttering under his breath, his frustration practically radiating off him.

He didn't notice you at first - slouching onto the porch steps in what looked like a rather depressing acceptance of defeat. His elbows were resting upon his bony knees which poked through the fabric of his trousers, and there was a half empty red Solo cup dangling from his fingers.

You knew you should definitely get out of there. Robin was borderline having fun, Billy was doing god-knows-what, and if you left now you might be able to watch a solid chunk of a classic horror movie before you went to bed. Still, looking at Steve right now made you feel almost guilty about leaving him out here so pitiful. Even if he was an arch-enemy of both Robin and Billy.

You coughed awkwardly, and his head snapped up, eyes looking up at you. He looked like he had been crying.

"Oh," he said, half-surprised and embarrassed, swiping at his eyes. "Didn't know anyone else was out here."

"Sorry," you blurted, though why you were apologising for being on the porch before him, you didn't know. "Are you - okay?"

"My girlfriend just broke up with me." He said, very bluntly, and then looked shocked at the words he had just said.

"Oh. The girl dressed as Lana? 'Risky Business'?"

"Nancy, yeah." He took a big gulp of his drink, then shook his head as though physically brushing the subject away. "Anyway - enough about my tragic love life. We've met, right?"

"No."

"Huh," He frowned deeper, as though personally offended by the gap in his mental catalogue. "You go to Hawkins High?"

You nodded, pretending to check a non-existent watch. "Yeah... for all of two days."

“Two days? That’s it?” He leaned back, squinting at you like he was trying to place a face in a crowd. “No wonder I don’t remember. You’re like… a ghost student.”

You gave a half-shrug, lips twitching. “Guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

You uncertainly took a seat next to him on the porch steps.

He shook his head, waving the Solo cup for emphasis. “Nah, don’t say that. I should've noticed. I mean, I notice people. It’s kind of my thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your thing is noticing people?”

Steve grinned, crooked but genuine. “Well, that and hair care. But yeah - I’ve been in Hawkins forever, and I thought I had the whole population memorised. You’re messing with my system.”

You laughed, the tension easing a little. "Sorry to ruin your catalogue."

Steve's eyes narrowed slightly as he seemed to finally take in the stripes on your jumper. He tilted his head, placing his cup on the floor.

"So - what's with the costume?" he asked, gesturing vaguely. "Who are you supposed to be - some kind of ... lumberjack?"

You blinked, incredulous. "Lumberjack? No, it's Freddy Krueger. I mean, I lost the hat, and the glove, and my jeans are in the wash-"

Steve frowned, clearly lost. "Freddy who?"

Your jaw dropped. "You don't know Nightmare on Elm Street?"

He shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Sorry. Horror movies aren't really my thing. I'm more of a ... 'Risky Business' kind of guy."

That was all the invitation you needed. Words spilled out before you could stop them.

“Okay, so Nightmare on Elm Street is this brand‑new horror movie - Wes Craven directed it - and Freddy Krueger is basically this burned‑up guy with knives for fingers who haunts teenagers in their dreams. Like, literally in their dreams. If you fall asleep, he kills you in your sleep, and then you die in real life. It’s terrifying, but also kind of genius, because it plays on that whole universal fear of not being able to control what happens when you’re unconscious. And the effects are insane - there’s this scene where the wall stretches like rubber when Freddy pushes through it, and it looks so creepy but so cool-”

You stopped yourself mid-sentence, realising you had been talking at what Max called your 'ultra-speed'. Steve was staring at you, wide-eyed as though he were trying to comprehend the load of information you had just blurted at him.

"... Sorry," you muttered, cheeks flushing despite the cold.

Steve blinked, then gave a small, tired laugh. “No, it’s fine. You sound like you really like it. Makes me think maybe I should check it out.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “Well, now you know. Freddy Krueger. Knives for fingers. Don’t fall asleep.”

Just then, from the side of the house, you heard a burst of giggling. Two moments later, your brother appeared, a girl with dark hair in a witch costume hanging off his arm. For a brief second you thought - hopefully - he wouldn’t see you and Steve tucked away on the porch.

Then Billy turned. His eyes landed on you, then on Steve.

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath, scrambling to your feet.

Billy’s expression darkened so fast it was almost impressive. The easy swagger he’d worn with the girl evaporated, replaced by something sharp and territorial.

Steve frowned, still clueless. “Friend of yours?”

Your stomach twisted. “Brother,” you corrected flatly.

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "Wait. Billy's your brother?"

Billy was already moving, shaking the witch girl off him without a second glance. She stumbled, confused, calling after him but he didn't even pause. He was wasted, you could tell immediately, and his focus was locked on Steve, jaw tight, shoulders squared, fury radiating off him in waves.

"Get in the car," Billy snapped at you, voice low and dangerous.

You stiffened. "Billy-"

"Now."

Steve raised his hands, standing up slowly beside you, trying to dissolve the tension. "Hey, man, relax. I've only had one drink. If she needs a ride home, I can-"

As much as you appreciated Steve's offer, this was perhaps the worst thing to say. Billy's fury spiked visibly, his laugh sharp and humourless.

"You think I’m gonna let you drive my sister anywhere, Harrington? What, your girlfriend dumps you and now you’re moving on to her? Or is this just payback ‘cause your ego’s still bruised from me wiping the floor with you in basketball the other day?”

Steve blinked, stunned, lowering his hands. "Whoa, man, hold on. That's not what this is. I wasn't - I was just trying to help, alright?"

Billy stepped even closer, eyes blazing. "Help? We don't need your help Harrington."

You planted yourself between the two of them - because Billy would swing first and rationalise later and beating up one of the richest kids in town wouldn't end well for the either of you. Your brother didn't even look at you - that was how you knew he was really angry.

"Car. Now."

You exhaled, sharply, shouldered past him. "Fine. We go. But I'm driving."

Billy barked a humourless laugh. "Like hell you are."

You spun on him, eyes blazing. "You're wasted, Billy. Either I drive, or I don't leave."

For a moment, it looked like he might argue, but the tension in his jaw told you he knew you were right. He slammed the keys into your hand, muttering under his breath as he stalked around to the passenger side.

You slid behind the wheel, pulse hammering, the Camaro rumbling beneath you. Steve was still standing at the bottom of the porch, wide-eyed, finally piecing it all together, before you pulled away in the car with a sharp squeal of tires.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the engine and your pulse in your ears.

"Of all people, you had to be talking to him." Billy's voice was low and venomous.

"You don't get to pick who I talk to," you responded, jaw tight.

“Watch me,” he snapped, turning toward you, his profile lit by the glow of passing streetlights. “He’s a joke. A washed‑up king who thinks he’s still running Hawkins High. And you—” he jabbed a finger toward you, “you don’t get caught in his mess.”

Your knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. “I wasn’t caught in anything. We were just talking.”

Billy scoffed, shaking his head. “Talking. That’s how it starts. Next thing you know, he’s dragging you into his drama. His girlfriend dumps him, and suddenly he’s sniffing around you? No way. Not happening.”

You shot him a glare, the Camaro swerving slightly before you corrected. "You're drunk, Billy. You don't even know what happened."

"Drunk or not, I know Harrington. And I know you. You're too smart to fall for his crap. So stay away from him."

You didn’t answer him. The Camaro purred through the dark streets of Hawkins, the silence between you heavier than the engine’s growl. Billy sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead, while you kept yours on the road.

Whatever this night had started between Billy and Steve, it wasn’t finished - and you knew it would follow you long after the party lights disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Read part three here

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It was the both of your first day at Hawkins High, for which, admittedly, you were as equally unenthusiastic about as he was. He was speeding along the rural roads of Hawkins in his dark Camaro, something which you would usually tell him off, but from the looks of the desolate area around you, he was far more likely to hit a cow than an actual person. Hawkins was the smallest town either of you had ever lived in, and you could tell Billy was already beginning to feel trapped.

You had only been calling Hawkins your new home for a week - ever since you had moved from your place in California, right near the beach - to here. Predictably, as usual with your father, already two months into the school year. Billy had been full of brewing fury about the move for months. Despite only living in California for a few years, it was a place that Billy loved. He had been the happiest there you had ever seen him - at least, since your Mom had left, seven years ago. The beaches reminded you both of her. Hawkins, Indiana, was a far call from soft sandy beaches and sun tanning. The closest the town had to a beach was the local quarry, where, if local hearsay was to be believed, there had been a dead boy found last year. Cheery.

Moving to Hawkins had provided more challenges than simply a lack of beaches. The main issue of the whole move, at least, for Billy, was your father finally deciding he wanted to move in with Susan, whom he had already been dating for several years. Living with Susan was already proving to be a point of tension, and the roaring arguments between your father, Neil, and Billy, were worse than they had ever been.

However, a distinct benefit to come out of all of this (though Billy most definitely did not agree), was Max. You had known Max for as long as you had known Susan - since she was a gappy toothed 9 year old with fiery ginger hair tamed into plaits - and though there were two years between the both of you, you were fairly close. You shared a room in the new house, which felt strange at first, as you had always had your own space - but you had found yourself enjoying it. The two of you had crammed two mismatched beds into either side of the room and decorated the yellow walls in so many posters that they became a new type of wallpaper - her, posters of The Endless Summer, Kate Bush, Wonder Woman, you, posters of The Children of the Corn, Duran Duran, Cyndi Lauper. The room became a warmly lit sanctuary and it felt, weirdly, full of a strange sort of sisterhood. Billy had scoffed rather loudly when you had told him that.

You would have been less nervous about the start of a new school if Max was beside you. She didn't care at all if no one liked her, or if she was perceived to be uncool. Though you and Billy had regularly moved from school to school as children, you had never really enjoyed the feeling of beginning all over again at a new place. However, Max had just been unceremoniously dropped off at Hawkins Middle (with a special glare directed towards Billy), and now you and your brother were facing Hawkins High alone.

"You nervous?" You asked (yelled at) him over the blaring music of Metallica.

He flicked the volume down a notch and shot you a quick smirk, eyes flicking from the road to you.

"Do I look nervous?"

You huffed, tugging at the hem of your shirt. Billy, like Max, was never fazed by any new situation, least of all the start of another school. You, in comparison, felt a familiar knot in your stomach.

Billy took the corner a little too fast, tires squealing, and there it was: Hawkins High. Bigger than you remembered, from your visit in the summer, looming over the parking lot like it was daring you to challenge it.

As he parked, terribly as usual, he glanced at you again, cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Hey," he said, voice sharpening just enough to make you pause, "anyone gives you hassle, you tell me. Got it?"

Despite there only being 11 months between you, Billy had always filled the role of protective older brother. This only worsened after your Mom left, and the kids at school used to tease you about it. After that, you became more and more introverted, preferring to spend your time in the library reading books, or watching movies - alone - at local theatres. The shyness made you an even bigger target for kids at new schools, and this teasing had become a regular, painful, ritual at each school. Billy had beaten up a kid, last year, so bad that the guy had a black eye and crooked nose for months - purely because he had though it would be funny to spill Gatorade all over your book as a 'joke'. After that Incident, the kids at the high school in California had given you a wide berth, which had left you feeling more alone than ever. Due to this, you had vowed to yourself to keep your mouth firmly closed if anyone bothered you.

"Will do," you mock saluted him with a grin, and he went to ruffle your hair before you dodged with a laugh, diving out of the car.

"Meet back at the car at 4," he said, as the two of you walked up to the looming school.

You straightened your jeans self consciously as you walked past a group of catty-looking girls. You only realised as you looked closer at them that they were simply looking at Billy with the usual look of glee and desire that girls often afforded him and that he loved to bask in. Their eyes were wide, and they were whispering behind their hands, already constructing entire mythologies about the new Cali boy with the Camaro and the curls and the cigarettes.

Billy, of course, was drinking it in like sunshine. He adjust the sleeve of his denim jacket, and flashed that sharp grin that made adults suspicious and teenage girls stupid.

"Fantastic," you muttered under your breath as eyes followed you both to the entrance of the school.

He didn't hear you - or if he did, he didn't care. Billy thrived on being looked at. You'd never understood it - how attention fed him instead of shrinking him down to bone and nerves. You highly suspected it had something to do with your Father: growing up starved of something makes you want to chase it forever.

"See?" Billy murmured, leaning close to you as you reached the front steps. "Told you we'd be fine."

"We?" you echoed with a sarcastic grin.

He shrugged, exhaling smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Guilt by association. You're with me, so they'll either love you or be terrified of you. Both are solid options, I say."

You snorted, despite yourself. "Right - 'cause nothing screams terrifying like a girl who reads Stephen King alone in the cafeteria."

He rolled his eyes, nudging your shoulder. "You're cooler than you think."

The bell rang - shrill, unfamiliar and a pitch too high. Students surged toward the doors like a tide, and the old nerves crawled up your spine with cold fingers. First days were always the worst: the stares, the whispered guesses, the inevitable moment someone decided you were an easy target.

Billy must have noticed the shift in your posture - of course he did. His jaw tightened, as though he already wanted to punch someone - hard.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice he only reserved for you. "We've done this a thousand times. You'll get through today. Then you'll come home and tell Max everything and she'll call everyone here a bunch of Midwestern losers."

You laughed at that.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it into dust with his boot. "What's first period?"

You pulled out your already crumpled schedule the Guidance Counsellor had given you on the school tour. "AP English."

Billy smirked. "Perfect. You'll be fine - teachers love kids who actually know what a book is."

"Unlike you, you mean. What about you?"

"Gym." He sighed dramatically. "Can't wait to see how terrible this shitty schools basketball team is."

he crowd was swallowing students whole now, the school’s brick façade staring down at you like it knew all your weaknesses already. You pulled in a breath. Then another.

Billy saw the hesitation and bumped your shoulder again - gentler this time, almost careful.

“I’ll walk you in,” he said. Not a suggestion. A decision.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already moving, parting the crowd with a broad-shouldered arrogance that made people instinctively make space. You followed him in his wake - small but steady steps. Inside the school, the hallway smelled like floor polish and teenage anxiety. Lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, someone laughed too loudly. It was familiar and unfamiliar at once.

Billy, who always knew where he was going, stopped outside of a classroom and turned to you. His eyes softened - not much, but enough that you could catch it.

“Remember,” he said quietly, “if anyone gives you shit -”

“I know,” you cut in. “Don’t tell you and handle it myself.”

He rolled his eyes. “Wrong. Tell me and then handle it yourself.”

That earned a real smile from you.

He reached out as if to ruffle your hair again, then thought better of it- maybe because you were in public now, maybe because he knew it’d embarrass you. Instead he flicked your shoulder.

“Four o’clock,” he reminded you, stepping back. “Don’t ditch me for Max.”

“No promises,” you shot back.

He grinned - that bright, reckless blaze - and then he was gone, swallowed by the hallway's chaos.

You stood at the doorway for a minute, grounding yourself. New school. New people. New everything. But Max was waiting at home, and Billy would be outside at four, leaning against his Camaro like some delinquent guardian angel.

You squared your shoulders, plastered on a half-scowl which you had learnt usually made people leave you alone, and walked into class.

....................................

English was, mercifully, relatively uneventful. No one really talked to you, but no one mocked you either, which counted as a win for a first day. The teacher did the usual humiliation ritual of making you stand at the front of the class and introduce yourself with an 'interesting fact', which you sidestepped by saying you were "from California", which weirdly, seemed to give you some cool points. You spent the rest of the period pretending to take notes.

Your next class, however, was when things shifted.

You walked into History, scanning for the perfect desk - at the back of the class, near the window, away from the loudest cluster of boys. You found the perfect one - and someone reached for it at the same time - a thin, sharp-featured girl with a mop of short, wavy hair, tucked behind her ears. She froze as though she hadn't expected anyone else to be aiming for the same spot.

"You want it?" she asked, voice quick, but not unfriendly, as though she was bracing for an impact.

"You can take it," you said automatically - it probably was her desk after all.

She shook her head. "No, seriously, I don't care."

You hesitated, then slid into the seat. She dropped into the desk beside you, pulling out a notebook decorated with an explosion of sketches. Beside her bag sat a rather large green hat with a plume of feathers sticking out. You figured it was either a bizarre fashion choice, or she was a part of the High School's band.

"I'm Robin, by the way." She said, already tapping a lead pencil against the metal desk, as though sitting still was a battle she was losing.

You told her your name. She repeated it under her breath once, as if committing it to memory not out of politeness but out of genuine interest.

"You're new," she stated.

"Yeah. Just moved."

"From California, right?" She rolled her eyes at herself immediately. "Sorry. Everyone was talking about it between periods. Hawkins loves a shiny new thing."

You almost laughed. "I think the shiny new thing is more my brother than me."

She tilted her head - studying you. "Billy? The guy who is walking around like he owns the building?"

"Indeed," you said, dryly.

Robin laughed - quick and bright, before she clamped it down. "Yeah. Half the girls were talking about him like he is some kind of imported sex god."

You groaned into your hands. "Please do not tell him that."

"Oh, I won't," she said. "But he already knows. He's got a swagger that almost matches Harrington's."

She said the name with a distaste - but before you could ask who exactly Harrington was, the class started. Thankfully, the history teacher seemed utterly oblivious to a new student and didn't make you get up and introduce yourself, which was a blessing. The teacher droned on and on. Robin's notes began to turn into increasingly gory and dramatic doodles of ancient generals stabbing one another. You tried not to laugh and failed at least three times. She whispered comments under her breath that shouldn't have been that funny, but were. You weren't used to meeting people who you felt this comfortable around this quickly.

When the bell rang, Robin slung her backpack over her shoulder and lingered.

"Hey," she said, half a sentence before she committed to the rest, "if you lunch alone, you can sit with me. Or not. Completely optional. Just - if you don't wanna deal with the cafeteria vultures on day one."

There wasn't any pity in her tone.

"That sounds good," you said.

And it was - lunch was an almost fun affair, tucked at the edge of the sprawling cafeteria where you both watched the chaos from a safe distance. Robin talked in spirals - fast, occasionally too honest, pointing out other kids : Johnathan and Nancy and Carol and Tommy, and her mortal enemy (though apparently he didn't know that yet) Steve Harrington. She had sardonic, funny, cutting comments about each person that made you laugh out loud. It was easy - strangely so. You almost didn't want the day to end. But it did, and at four o'clock, after wishing Robin goodbye, you stepped outside, the air thick with the humid Indiana afternoon.

Billy was already leaning against the Camaro, arms crossed, irritation radiating off him like heat off asphalt.

"You're late," he said, though you weren't.

"You're early," you countered.

He rolled his eyes, flicking ash from a half-smoked cigarette. "Whatever. Get in. This place is giving me a headache."

You slid into the passenger seat. He peeled out of the parking lot before you'd even closed the door.

"So," he said, voice low in a way that meant he had been stewing all day. "You're never gonna believe the jackass I ran into in gym."

"Who?"

He shrugged as though names were beneath him.

"He's the guy with the hair," Billy spat, as though hair was now a personal offence. "Thinks he's like, some king of the school. Walking around like he's some hotshot. Coach loved him. Makes me want to puke."

You tried your hardest not to smile. Billy, of course, noticed immediately.

"It's not funny." He snapped, offended on principle. "Guy looks at me like - like I'm stepping on his territory or something."

You lifted a brow. "Territory? What, the gym?"

"The whole damn school," Billy growled. "Hate him already."

That was fast, even for Billy. But you didn't say that - you just watched the fields blur past as he accelerated down the rural roads towards your house. Max's school ended an hour before yours, and she had proclaimed she wanted to skate home and work on her Halloween costume, anyway. The ghosts of California sunny evenings were eclipsed by the deep green of Indiana fields.

“Maybe he’s not that deep,” you offered.

Billy scoffed. “No. Trust me. This one’s the type. The hair, the attitude… you know the type.”

You did, actually. Every school had one. And Billy always hated them instantly.

“You gonna fight him?” you asked lightly, mostly to break the tension.

Billy’s jaw ticked. “No. Not today, anyway.”

You pretended not to notice the today part.

"Meet anyone tolerable?" he asked gruffly, as though bracing himself for the answer.

"Yeah," you replied with a grin, flicking his ear. "Sorry to tell you, but I did."

Billy shot you a sidelong look, anger flickering into something quieter. "Good."

And for the first time since you had arrived in Hawkins, you realised it might - just might - not be entirely terrible.

..............................

Billy had barely slammed the front door behind you both before you heard the familiar noise of wheels skittering across hardwood floors - which, if your Dad was around would have sent him into an apocalyptic fit of rage. Max shot around the corner on her skateboard, stopping so abruptly she almost crashed into you. Her hair was, like usual, a frizzy, windblown halo of red, cheeks flushed from the skate back from Hawkins Middle.

"There you are," she said, as though you had been missing for days instead of an hour. "Jesus, you're so slow."

You snorted.

"Well? How was it? Did anyone throw food at you? Call you a freak? Ask if California is 'the one with earthquakes'?"

You blinked. "No? Besides, I'm pretty sure I should be asking you how your day went."

Max looked almost offended that you had experienced a calm day. "Huh. Hawkins High must have a soft touch."

Billy brushed past the two of you without taking off his shoes, heading for his room with the kind of stomp that meant he wanted to look even more mad than he actually was. Max, as usual, didn't even glance over at him.

"He's in a mood," you murmured to her.

"When is he not?" Max muttered back, then grabbed your wrist and tugged you towards the room you shared at the end of the hallway. "Come on. I want a debrief. A real one. None of that 'it was fine' crap you tried last school."

You let her drag you. The room was exactly as it had been this morning - warm lamplight, posters filling every gap of wall space, two beds that didn’t match but looked like they belonged together anyway. Max flopped onto her stomach across her bed, chin in her palms.

You sat on your own bed, picking at a lose thread in the hand sewn quilt, a final gift from your mother.

"It wasn't terrible," you supplied.

Max narrowed her eyes at you. "That feels like a lie. Try again, weirdo."

You bit back a smile. "I met a girl, she was nice."

Her eyebrows shot up. "A real person?"

"Yes, Max, a real girl."

"Like - a friend sort of person?" she pressed, sounding almost hopeful under the snark.

"Maybe."

She pushed herself up on her elbows. "What's her name?"

"Robin."

Max rolled her eyes at that. "That is the most Hawkins name I've ever heard." Then she paused. "Do you like her?"

You hesitated - not because you didn't like Robin, but because you weren't used to actually liking people at school. Max noticed immediately, and her snark softened a little. "Hey - I wasn't making fun of you."

"I know," You smiled, tugging your knees up, wrapping your arms around them. "She was - nice. Like, actually nice, not the fake-nice."

Max’s expression brightened - not dramatically, but in the small way she let the people she truly liked see. “Well. That’s good. You need someone at that stupid high school who isn’t a mouth-breather.”

You snorted. “And what about you?”

“Oh, please.” Max waved a hand. “Middle school is easy. They’re all idiots.”

You looked at her more closely. “Did you have a good day?”

Max shrugged, the universal sign for yes, but I refuse to make it a big deal. “It was fine.”

You tilted your head.

“…It was good,” she admitted. “I beat this eighth grader in a skate race. Twice. He might cry later.”

You laughed - really laughed - and Max’s face lit up like she’d been waiting for that sound.

Then, with absolutely no warning, she launched a pillow at your head.

You caught it clumsily. “Hey!”

“That was celebratory,” she declared, grabbing another. “Now that you survived day one, I am allowed to initiate violence.”

A second pillow flew. You ducked, barely.

“You’re insane,” you said.

Max grinned, feral and delighted. “And you live with me now. Sucks to be you.”

But she stopped abruptly, expression shifting - still mischievous, but earnest underneath.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “Me too.”

She stared at you for one beat too long, then promptly ruined the moment: “Now put the pillow down unless you want to lose.”

And you did lose (horribly) but it didn’t matter. The room felt warm and safe and full, and for the first time since California, the emptiness in your chest eased just a little.

.........................................

The pillow fight died down around the time that you heard the front door slam again - heavy and final, the sound of your Dad returning from work. Not long after that, Susan yelled "DINNER!" down the hallway in a cheerful voice she used when she was trying to keep the peace in a house full of grumpy men and teenage girls.

The bright yellow kitchen smelled of pork chops and slightly overcooked green beans - Susan trying, slightly too hard. She was always trying, since you had all moved in together, to make everything feel like a family. She smiled as you walked in.

"There you two are! Set the table?"

You both did, because Susan wasn't the enemy, as much as Billy liked to pretend she was. Your Dad was already sat at the table, beer in hand by the time Billy wandered in last, still in his denim jacket, hair windblown from driving like a bat out hell. He looked at the food on the bright blue plates as though it was personally offending him. You were pretty sure that Susan could cook up a Michelin style meal and Billy would still pretend to hate it.

Your dad's eyes flicked from you, to Max, to Billy, as you all sat down around the worn table. Calculating, as always.

"Good first day?" Susan asked too brightly, trying to diffuse the tension.

Max shrugged, shovelling floppy green beans into her mouth at a rapid pace. "Fine."

You murmured something close to "good."

Billy settled for a non-commital grunt, which was the wrong answer. Your Dad zeroed in immediately.

"What's your problem?" Neil said, voice sharp.

Billy didn't even look up, chewing harshly on a lump of dry pork. You could see him choosing between shutting down and blowing up. Thankfully, he chose the former - barely.

Susan stepped in fast. "Let's just eat, okay?"

Dinner started properly - forks scraping plates, nobody talking, everyone pretending they weren't waiting for the next cross word.

Neil finally broke the silence. “So,” he said, leaning back, “make any friends?”

Billy’s fork froze mid-air.

You braced. Max braced. Susan’s smile wobbled.

Billy slowly stabbed a piece of pork chop, eyes fixed on the plate. “Didn’t go there to make friends.”

Neil scoffed. “Right. Too busy checking yourself out in the rearview mirror.”

Billy’s grip tightened around his fork until his knuckles whitened. “Whatever.”

Your eyes flickered between the two, seeing the same warning signs on the both of them - bright eyes, tense shoulders, white knuckles around forks. It would have been easy to leave the conversation there. But your dad pressed anyway, because pissing off Billy always came naturally to him.

“Probably already pissed someone off.”

Billy didn't deign him with a response. His eyes flicked up, just once, to you, and you recognised the sharpness in them. A flash of something wounded beneath all the anger, something desperate to please your father. Maybe it was about that boy in the gym, the one who didn't look at Billy with respect, or fear, or awe - just dismissal. Billy hated being dismissed. It cut deeper than Billy would ever admit.

You shifted in your chair. “He’s fine,” you said quietly.

Max backed you up with a shrug. “Yeah. He didn’t get in trouble. That’s practically a holiday.”

Neil glared at her. “Watch your mouth.”

Max glared right back.

Susan cleared her throat, eager to redirect before things escalated.

“Did you two talk to any teachers you liked?”

“My history teacher seemed nice.” You lied.

“Mine didn’t,” Max added proudly. You had no doubt she was already terrorising the general population of Hawkins Middle.

Billy said nothing - until Neil’s beer hit the table a little too hard.

“And you?” Neil asked him again. “Anyone give you trouble?”

Billy didn’t look away from his plate. “Guy in gym,” he said so quietly it almost wasn’t audible.

Max and you exchanged a glance.

Neil snorted. “What, already jealous of someone?” His voice was taunting.

Billy’s jaw clenched. “Not jealous.”

“Then what?”

“Just… didn’t like him.” Billy shrugged, but it was stiff. Controlled.

Neil smirked like he’d won something. “Someone stronger than you?”

Billy’s chair scraped back half an inch before he caught himself. His eyes snapped up—bright, furious, wounded. His hand gripped his cutlery even tighter than before.

You spoke before he could. “He didn’t say that.”

Your dad stared at you for two full seconds. Then dismissed you with a scoff. Dinner ended with the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful- something tense and full of exhaustion. Afterward, when the dishes were in the sink and Susan was bustling around trying to pretend nothing had happened, you followed Max down the hall.

Billy was already in his room, door slightly cracked, music low. Not Metallica this time. Something slower. Something that meant he was thinking too much.

Max nudged you with her elbow. “He’ll be worse when he meets that poor guy again.”

You sighed. “Probably.”

Max gave a small, lopsided smirk. “Then again… knowing Billy? He might explode before then.”

“Not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

You laughed under your breath.

And somewhere down the hall, Billy turned the music up more, rebellious, as though he were preparing for a fight.

..........................................

Authors Note: Read Part Two here!

James Potter was an encapsulation of energy. Even after several hours of a rather intense Quidditch match that had you hiding behind your fingers at some points, he was still bouncing around the room with his usual beam upon his face. His fingers ran through his windswept hair, the other hand clutching a bottle of butterbeer as he casually chatted to pretty much everyone in the room.

James was the type of boy who thrived in social situations, and he always tried to talk to every single person in a room at these types of parties - he had a knack for making everyone feel special, and it was one of the reasons that you loved him as much as you did, but Merlin, tonight you wished he would spend some time with you.

You were both emotionally and physically exhausted, and though you had maintained a cheery facade all day, it was starting to show some cracks, and you now wanted nothing more than a cuddle with your boyfriend.

"Y/N? Are you listening?" Lily's voice - slightly irritated - permeated your thoughts.

You shot her a weak smile.

"Sorry, Lils. 'M just tired."

N.E.W.T's were fast approaching, and with them, came a heavy cloud of stress and exhaustion that presented itself on every seventh years face. With preparation for exams came sleepless nights, days spent in the library - and, worst of all, minimal time spent with James who, now both Head Boy and Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor, seemed to never be around at all. And James' presence was one that was sorely missed.

A sympathetic look spread onto Lily's face, clucking her tongue like a mother hen.

"You need some sleep, Y/N. Go to bed for merlins sake."

She chastised gently, nudging you with her knee as you covered a wide yawn with your hands.

"Mmm - will in a bit."

You shot her a lazy smile, leaning back against the worn sofa behind you, where Sirius and Remus were having a hushed conversation, their knees brushing gently against one another.

Sleep was threatening you every time your eyelashes fluttered closed, and so you rationalised closing your eyes for a moment, hardly even noticing Lily getting up and slipping away.

Fingers gently tapping against your cheek brought you back to the world of consciousness mere seconds later, and you grumpily regarded the person interrupting your impromptu nap for a moment before realising who it was.

"Come on love," James whispered in your ear , over the loud din of the party, so close that you could see the shadows under his eyes too. "Let's go to bed."

His calloused fingers wrapped around your hands, pulling you into a standing position, then immediately wrapping one of his stronger arms around you, hand finding place on the small of your back, guiding you to the stairs.

"I can walk you know, Potter." You grumbled halfheartedly, though a smile threatened your face at the warmth of his body pressed into you.

"Really?" He shot you a grin. "Could've fooled me."

The stairs to the seventh year dormitories - at the top of Gryffindor tower- always were a long walk, but when you were tired, it felt as though you were climbing a mountain.

James’ warmth pressed into your side was comforting, though, and the press of his hand on your back guided each step with a strength that made your exhaustion feel lighter, if only for a moment.

When you finally reached the top, the corridors were mercifully quiet. The distant hum of the party below faded into muffled laughter and the occasional clatter of a falling cup. You tugged slightly at James’ hand, letting him know you could handle the rest yourself, but he ignored the gesture with a soft chuckle and a squeeze.

“Almost there,” he whispered. His voice was low, intimate, just for you, and the sound made your heart tilt with relief.

At the door to his dorm, he paused, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You okay?” His hazel eyes searched yours, concerned, and something in his expression made the last of your defenses crumble.

“Mm,” you murmured, leaning into him. “Just… tired.”

He nodded, though you knew he understood more than you said. His arm tightened around you, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. Then let me take care of you for tonight.”

You didn’t argue, didn’t try to protest. Sleep was pressing, and the only thing that mattered was the quiet, solid presence of him beside you. James opened the door, stepping inside first and letting you follow, guiding you gently toward his bed.

Once there, he tugged the blankets back and helped you settle in, his hands lingering just long enough to remind you he was here, awake, and focused only on you.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about the party?” he asked softly, sitting beside you and brushing his fingers along your arm.

You shook your head, nestling into the warmth of his side. “Not tonight. Just… here with you.”

James smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Then that’s all we’ll do.”

And for the first time all day, the weight of homework, exams, and the endless responsibilities of him being Head Boy and Quidditch Captain melted away. All that remained was him—his steady heartbeat against your own, the soft rhythm of his breathing, and the comfort of knowing that for this night, you wouldn’t have to be strong, or smart, or perfect. You could simply be.

James’ arm slung over your shoulders, pulling you close, and you let your eyes drift closed. Sleep, merciful and long-awaited, finally claimed you—safe, warm, and wrapped in his presence.