⋆｡𖦹° are you lucid? ⭒˚｡⋆

But then you got the call from Robin in the middle of the night, panicked and crying and breathless as she says, “Steve’s dad died a couple of days ago, and I know you guys haven’t talked in forever, but he’s really falling apart and I don’t know what to do and he won’t talk to me and Mr. Harrington’s funeral is today and—”

That’s all you needed to let her know that you would make the hour and a half drive up from Indy, kicking out your date that slept over the night prior and packing a bag in a massive rush, only remembering at the last minute that you’re about to attend a funeral, that you need to be dressed for a funeral, and—

And you make it back to Hawkins by ten, a black dress on and pearl earrings that Steve once gifted you hanging from your ears.

The town is the same as you left it. Still small, still aging, still quiet. Everything that you thought you hadn’t wanted in life, and everything that you found yourself yearning for once you got your apartment above a restaurant on Mass. Ave and a shiny new job at a bank downtown.

For a moment, you almost let your muscle memory take over, to guide you towards the northeast end of town to the white, two-story cottage with a fenced in backyard and hydrangea bushes spilling out everywhere in the summer. The kind of house, the realtor had said, that was perfect for raising a family, with its tall ceilings and big windows and creaky stairs, ready to withstand everything from the small pitter-patter of feet across wood floors to the slamming of doors from teenage fueled angst.

The house that you know Steve still lives in, even two years later.

But you don’t let old instinct take over. There’s enough heartbreak being back in Hawkins as it is.

The funeral home sits in the center of town, the one that Will Byers was once memorialized in before he was found alive just days later, and sits opposite of the place the MAC-Z used to sit.

(The place where Steve had been released from military custody to you, and the place where he had dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him just minutes later.)

(The place that you had said yes through your confusion and tears, because he disappeared for weeks without a word, and you’d only had a thirty minute warning from the military to come collect him.)

(Steve never told you why he had been held in custody.)

(You never asked.)

You park down the street and make your way through the well-worn sidewalks, carving out the same path that you used to take with Steve in that summer after the two of you graduated high school, hand in hand whenever he had a free moment from Scoops.

(A summer that, as you recall, had been cut short by a mall fire and grief and the three weeks you spent by his side in the hospital, worrying and fretting as you slowly watched the swelling around his eye go down. A summer where too many people died, Steve had to be kept under observation in case of a brain bleed, and in the aftermath, he became more cagey than ever.)

A sea of mourning black surrounds the pristine white funeral home as you make your way closer, the crowd surging towards the ornate double doors, and it’s only then that you spot him.

Steve.

Steve Harrington in all of his glory. His hair is a little shorter than you remember it, a little less styled, and there’s new laugh lines crinkled along his eyes. But despite the differences in the man you once knew and the man in front of you now, he’s still the same Steve he’s always been with a soft look on his face and a steadiness to his broad shoulders despite the occasion.

And like a moth to a flame, he meets your gaze through the mass of people. His brown eyes widening with recognition as his face does something funny, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry or both, and you can’t help but offer him a small smile.

He smiles back.

The moment is cut short when someone calls his name, and with one last, lingering look in your direction, he disappears inside.

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, before slipping into the building after him.

You find a seat in the very back of the hall, away from the congregation of people you once knew, the people you once considered family. There will be time to greet your former mother-in-law later, when she doesn’t have Robin on one side and Steve on the other, and there’s no part of you that has any desire to run into Dustin Henderson who’s lingering near the front.

(Not after the last time you talked to him, two months after you filed and he went from begging you to not go through with it to insulting you when you told him that you unequivocally were not going to stop the proceedings.)

(Two weeks later, Steve had found out what happened and forced Dustin to apologize, but you never quite stopped nursing that wound.)

It’s a beautiful service, really. Not that you’d expect anything less from the Harringtons. Friends of Danny’s give their eulogies, colleagues talk about his business prowess, until finally, Laura and Steve step up to the dias side by side.

You can tell, even from a distance, that Laura isn’t quite holding it together the way you know she wants to. The way she needs to, really, because Laura Harrington has always prided herself in being put together and in charge, a matriarch in a family full of nothing but men for generations. You can tell that Steve notices, too, by the way he squeezes her arm and pulls a paper from his pocket, spreading it along the wooden surface of the podium.

He searches the crowd for a moment, and his eyes settle on you in your seat in the very last row. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he derives from seeing you, it has his shoulders relaxing. And quietly, hesitantly, he glances down at the paper and begins his speech.

His voice is strong and steady as he reads, the same soothing timbre to it that he’d once used to calm you down after nightmares and hard days at work. A reassuring quality to his tone, one that could make anyone relax, as he talks about his earliest memories with his father — little league games, vacations to the Harrington beach house, morning spent snuggled between his parents — to his early twenties and learning how to navigate adulthood with his father’s guidance.

(He skips past the teenage years, the ones where you first entered Steve’s life. The arguments with his father about his future, the worries about his past, the stress that he might never amount to something. The period of time where resentment had swelled up so much between the two that it bubbled over constantly.)

He talks about the last conversation he had with his father, only a week prior, where the two of them had sat in the backyard of Steve’s house. And Danny, never a man with much to say, had clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, I’m proud of you, Steve. Truly.

You don’t miss the way Steve surreptitiously wipes his face.

“Anyone who met him would tell you that he was a complicated man,” Steve says. “But at the end of the day, no matter what other role he filled, he was my father. All I can say to that is thank you, Dad, for loving me even when I didn’t think you were, and—” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I’ll miss you, and I hope you’re resting easy now, wherever you are.”

The funeral ends and everyone is ushered to the graveyard, where Steve serves as one of the pallbearers and stands strong as Laura finally crumples into his side. 

You hang further back once again, away from the prying eyes of anyone who would ask too many questions, and you lose sight of him when the crowd migrates to the reception in a local church.

There’s part of you that wants to seek him out, to offer him your condolences and ask if there’s anything you can do, but—

Your eyes catch on Laura standing in the corner by herself, gazing at a family portrait of her and Danny and Steve from Steve’s childhood, and you cross the room without thinking, falling into place next to her with a quiet, “He was a good man.”

Laura blinks at you, though she doesn’t look surprised to see you there. Happy, maybe, but not surprised.

“Danny loved you, you know,” she says, apropos of an actual greeting, like this isn’t the first conversation you’ve had with her since you filed for divorce. “Never stopped talking about how get togethers weren’t the same without you beating him at cards.”

“I’m sure he’s having a big laugh that this is what got me back in Hawkins,” you say. Her lips twitch up. “He could’ve just asked, honestly. Spared us all the dramatics. I would’ve come for less.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle together the same way Steve’s does, and she draws you into a warm hug with shaking hands, the smell of her floral perfume overwhelming your senses. 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. 

You feel your throat grow tight. “I’ve missed you, too.”

You stay like that for a few moments, letting her rock you back and forth and draw whatever comfort it is that she needs from your bones, until a throat clears and you look up to see the familiar face of Robin Buckley. You pull away from Laura and offer Robin a small smile, one that she easily returns, and you know that the two of you will catch up later when she squeezes your arm. 

“Mrs. Harrington, let’s go get some food,” Robin says.

Laura rolls her eyes, but lets Robin loop their arms together. “Steve’s had her on ‘Mom watch,’” she tells you conspiratorially.

“Well, there’s worse company to be had,” you say. “Robin always has a few jokes on hand, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Robin says, and you let yourself bask in the raspy warmth of her voice for a few moments before stepping out of their way. And just as she’s slipping past you, she stops to whisper in your ear, “He’s in a private room down the hall.”

You stare at her, surprised, but she only leads Laura across the room without further acknowledgement. 

You shouldn’t go. Honestly, really, it’s a bad idea as it is — meeting him surrounded by people was one thing, but a private audience with your ex-husband is—

(Your feet are moving across the floor before you can even finish the thought.)

The hallway is quiet and empty, the conversation from the reception hall only a quiet buzz compared to the pounding in your ears as you slowly and methodically check each room you come across until finally, at the end of the hall, you spot one with the door cracked open.

You press your palm flat against the wood, the hinges creaking in protest as you ease it open just a bit wider, and find Steve sitting on a couch, leaning over his knees with his face pressed into his hands.

He doesn’t move.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You settle on the couch next to him, silent and waiting for something — anything — to tell you what to do. Any cue or sign from Steve or God or anyone who will listen, because your hands are shaking and your throat is dry and Steve—

Steve. Strong, brave, kind Steve, who once held you as a doctor stitched up an ugly gash in your leg, is hiding his face as his shoulders tremble, trying to pretend like his tears aren’t catching in his throat.

“I want to be left alone, Dustin,” he mutters. “Just five minutes. Please.”

You bite down on your lip and, quietly, say, “I’m not Dustin, but I can give you space.”

He jerks up, tears still coursing down his face, and stares at you with wide-eyes, his voice little more than a whisper when he says, “Oh.”

You smile. “Hey.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, full of wonder, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or simply a mirage.

“Yeah,” you say, just as quiet. “I’m here.”

It starts with his brows pressing together, then his jaw clenching. He presses his eyes shut, his nose flares, and you pull him into your arms before the first hiccuping sob has a chance to billow out.

He doesn’t fight you, only wraps himself more firmly around your waist as he buries his face into your chest, his back heaving from unrestrained grief and everything left unsaid between the two of you. He cries and cries and cries, letting everything out until he’s stripped down to his rawest form, the image of a man held strong for far too long finally letting himself fall apart entirely.

You let him.

You smooth your hand down his back and card your fingers through his hair, comforting him in the way you only know how.

(The only way you learned how, back in those first few, fraught hours after the mall fire back in ’85. Back when you’d sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing, waiting for anyone to tell you that he was okay. Waiting for his parents to catch a flight back from their beach house in North Carolina, waiting for a nurse or a doctor to come out, waiting for a sign that your boyfriend was going to make it.)

(And when you’d finally been allowed into his hospital room, he’d grinned, all boyish charm and bloodied teeth, like it was no big deal that he’d been hurt.)

(It was the first time you’d seen him so injured.)

(It was nowhere near the last.)

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you, Steve. I got you.”

The front of your dress is completely soaked through, but you find that you don’t quite care. Not when he lets out a heart shattering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Your entire body freezes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Steve?” You press at his shoulders, suddenly desperate to see his face. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

He pulls back, and for a moment, he’s the eighteen year old boy who smiled at you with a swollen eye and a split lip, tutting affectionately when you sobbed into his shoulder. He’s the boy who pulled you into his strong arms, uncaring of the IV line he was surely at risk of tugging out, and said, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey, I know that I scared you— 

“For everything,” he gasps out. “For keeping things from you, and — fuck, crying on you — and I know you’ve moved on, but I just — god, I’m so sorry for everything, for the divorce and the secrets and—”

(And your heart breaks all over again, because can anyone ever truly move on from Steve Harrington?)

“Steve,” you murmur, brushing a thumb down his cheek. He tilts his head just a little bit more into your palm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he insists. “I mean, fuck, I kept so much from you, and everyone told me not to and I drove you away and—”

“Steve.”

He falls silent.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you say. “You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

(It’s the same thing that he said to you before disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks. The same words that he whispered as he held you close in the doorway of your apartment, his arms trembling as he murmured all of his love and affections into your ears, like he only had one more chance to tell you. Like he wasn’t sure he’d ever see you again.)

(It’s what he said before disappearing for twenty-five days, nine hours, and three minutes, leaving you alone as the earth heaved and shook and groaned, when it felt like the entire planet was once again at risk of falling apart, and you thought that you might die without ever getting to see his face once again.)

(And it’s what he said just minutes after the military released him back to you, seconds before he dropped to his knees and desperately said, I can’t live without you, will you please, please marry me? I’ll do anything to make you happy—)

“Your father just died,” you gently say. “You’re allowed to worry about yourself for once.”

He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to push back, but you watch the fight leave his body. He gives you a wobbly smile, you give him one back, and for a moment, you can let yourself pretend that you hadn’t thrown eight years down the drain in the matter of a single night.

(That last argument still haunts your dreams. The way your voice cracked as you begged for him to let you in, to let you understand. How his fists shook when he said, Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? The calm resolve you felt when you realized with an icy clarity that the two of you were too stuck in your ways to change.)

(The moment, nearly a year later, when you realized that you weren’t quite sure if you wanted to change into a new person without him.)

(Looking at him now, you think he might feel the same.)

You let out a sigh and draw him closer, resting your forehead against his the way that you always did, letting the feel of stubble rough up your palm.

His breath catches.

You peek at him through your lashes to find him searching your face with barely disguised desire.

You want to laugh. Truly, you do, because if there was ever a wrong time and place to feel desire, it would be your ex-father-in-law’s funeral, but you can’t help the timeworn flame deep inside of you from flickering to life once more, a fire that’s only ever been maintained by Steve’s careful hands.

“Honey,” he says hoarsely.

You swallow, tilting your chin just a bit closer.

That’s all the encouragement that he needs.

His fingers grip your waist, dragging you across the cushions and into his lap, and it’s need that has you tangling your hands with his hair. Need to be closer, need to be with him, need to be one with him.

(Need to remember what it’s like to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around your skin, whispered promises of nothing ever hurting you, swaddling you as you drifted off.)

“Tell me to stop,” he begs, his hot breath ghosting your skin. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will. I swear, I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you say, and he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own.

It feels like coming home, in a way. Kissing him, feeling him under you. Like stepping into a soft memory, carried along by hands that have long since learned the tune of you, held by a man who had dedicated so much of his life in pursuit of the knowledge of who you were, inside and out. 

Like your body had been held in stasis for two entire years, frozen in time, only able to come back to life with the key he held in his heart.

You giggle into the kiss, suddenly elated, as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, teasing for more.

And you give it. God, you give him more. You’d give him the world, if you could, and suddenly you’re crying, your heart twisting, because you wasted so much time, because you were so, so stupid, because—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp into his mouth. “I should’ve listened to you, I should’ve trusted—”

“Not your fault, honey,” he assures, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. “I kept so much from you — there’s so much I need to tell you, and—”

And— 

There’s a knock at the door.

“Steve?” Robin’s voice, hesitant and unsure, calls through the wood. “Are you in there?”

He drops his head against your shoulder and lets out a world weary sigh.

The doorknob turns, and you don’t even have time to gather yourself or launch yourself across the couch, to pretend like Steve doesn’t still have his body wrapped around yours, before Robin’s peaking inside.

“Oh,” she says dumbly, eyes wide as she takes the two of you in.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Uh, Steve,” Robin begins, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “Your mom is asking for you. What… do you want me to tell her?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” he says. “Just give me a minute, Rob.”

Robin nods, and with a lingering look towards you, shuts the door behind her.

The two of you stay frozen like that, your legs still wrapped around his hips, his forearms still pressed into the small of your back, until—

A shocked laugh escapes him.

“Fuck,” he says, releasing his hold on you to scrub at his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to go check on my mom, but later — can we talk? Later? Are you staying in Hawkins, or were you planning on going back to…?”

“I packed a bag, but I wasn’t sure what my plans were,” you say. “I can stay, though. We can talk. I think—”

I think we need to talk.

“Come over,” he says, an urgent strain to his voice. “Tonight. Please.”

“Of course,” you say, because after everything, there’s no way you can deny his request. “Of course I will, but you should—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, already beginning to shuffle you from his lap, keeping you steady as he settles you onto the cushions once more. “I know, just — you mean it? You’ll—?”

“I’ll be there,” you say. “I promise.”

He smiles, soft and true, and presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, as though he’s leaving the promise of something more for you to chase later.