journeys end at lovers meeting

Which is why you find yourself alone, as a storm rages outside, in a dark house, with a bowl of popcorn on your lap. The buzz from the speakers and fuzzy light comforting. You’re relaxed and on edge at the same time, socked toes digging into the carpet in anticipation and a fluffy blanket draped around your shoulders for protection. Your eyes blink, wide and captivated at the action on screen as the girl shakes with a knife in her hand, creeping around the corner and looking over her shoulder. You know that the killer is right on the other side, and you want to tell her that she needs to stop breathing so harshly, he can hear her, get out, run while you have the chance! 

A loud thunk from outside has your gaze drawing to the window. The oak’s branches out front sway, the navy sky swirling with dark clouds you get a glimpse of each time lightning flashes across it. You hold your breath as you turn back to the movie, waiting for the inevitable to happen. 

Your shoulders hunch and popcorn spills from the bowl as the shrill scream on the screen harmonizes with your doorbell ringing. Hand over your chest as you squeeze your eyes closed, a loud and booming clap of thunder overhead practically shakes your house. The thudding on your door from a fist hitting it only adds to the cacophony surrounding you. 

Quickly moving to answer it, you peer through the peephole and frown, swinging the door open. 

“Steve?”

Your best friend stands on your doorstep drenched. His light gray jacket darker from the storm he has to have run through since there’s no sign of his car. His hair clings to his forehead and cheeks as he blinks. His skin pale, lips almost blue as you usher him inside, noticing how his hands shake as he steps over the threshold.  

Before you can ask him what’s wrong, before you can offer him something warm he’s gripping your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he questions, “Where are the tapes?”

Your brows furrow, mouth parting as you blink up at him. “Wha-Steve! Hold on!”

He’s already running past you, through the foyer. Mud leaves his shoes, dripping onto the cherry hardwoods until they’re staining the cream carpeted steps he’s running up. He’s yelling about cassette tapes over his shoulder, calling out to you if you know if anyone’s favorite songs have changed in the last year. 

Your hand freezes on the railing as you stare up to the top of the steps where he’s now disappeared from. Your heart beats rapidly, stomach churning as you push your own fear and anxiety away. 

This must be a bad one. 

Each step up the stairs is lead you’re lifting, like your body is physically protesting having to have this conversation with him. Like it knows he’s going to cry and yell and you have to go over everything again and how much it’ll break your heart to do so. 

As you round the corner to your childhood bedroom, you watch as Steve goes straight to your bed, he reaches under and finds the shoebox. 

“Steve?”

“Can you call Robin? And Henderson? I tried calling Hop and Joyce and they didn’t-”

“Steve.” 

Your best friend ignores you, his large fingers flip through the tapes, counting and recounting, whispers of names leaving his lips. His frantic energy radiates off of him. It pulses and throbs, it constricts around your throat and squeezes till there are tears falling over your lashes. 

“Steve. Look at me.”

He finally turns, wild eyes and their gaze bouncing over your face. He stands, rushing over to you. His hands cup your jaw, cold against your warm and the rough skin of his thumbs brush over your cheeks. Steve nods, licking his lips once before he keeps going, “I know, I know it’s scary, but we’re gonna be fine. We have the tapes and we’ll call everyone and we’ll make a plan and-”

Your fingers circle around his wrists and you shake your head no. “Steve. It’s over, this isn’t happening. You’re-you’re remembering things, because of the storm. Remember? What year is it?”

His hands drop and he squeezes his eyes closed. His tone is pained, his denial adamant, “No.”

“Steve, please-”

“No!” Shouting the word before he drops to his knees and looks through the tapes again, muttering to himself, “I’m not crazy. He was in my head. I saw him. I felt it. He showed me Eddie and Max and…and…” A sob cracks out of his chest as you kneel next to him. 

“I know, it’s okay,” you soothe, hand on his back as Steve curls into your side. His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, his nose pressing to your skin as his fingers cling and tug on your shirt hem.

“I’m not crazy,” his voice thick, tears soaking into the collar of your shirt, “I know I’m not. It’s real, he-he’s back.”

You keep your eyes on the box of tapes, blinking away tears as your hand moves up and down his spine, cheek resting against his damp hair. 

The storm gets worse outside, and eventually your gaze moves to your window. The trails the rain paints on the panes match the ones your tears silently create on your cheeks. You’re not sure how long you sit holding him. Eventually his body grows heavier against yours, his chest moves slower with each rise and fall as his breathing becomes more even. 

Slowly, you ease him backwards, gently laying him on his side and you join him, laying on your back. Your hand reaches up, pushing a strand of now dry hair from his forehead that’s smooth - free of worry as he sleeps. He hums as your lips press to his forehead and you worry you woke him. But his arm only curls around your side stronger, leg tangling with yours as he lays over your chest and thigh, clinging to you. 

You blink up at the ceiling, letting your fingers scratch at his scalp and drift lazily through his hair as you wonder what the next step is. He needs medicine, he needs doctors. What happens if he gets stuck in this sort of state and he doesn’t relax and calm down? You’re certainly not equipped to help him through these sorts of symptoms that professionals are still learning about. 

There’s hope though, you tell yourself - people cope and get help and they survive, they live. It’s not like Steve is alone. It’s not like you yourself haven’t had flare ups of what you’re in denial is PTSD. Flashes of a gray face that opens up coming to you in your dreams, days that feel like they’re not real, where you walk around your house and wonder if you’re even alive. 

You’re going to be fine. Steve and you are going to be okay. 

It’s the last thing you remember thinking before your eyelids grew too heavy. The last thing you remember before you reached up and pulled the comforter from your bed and wrapped it around the two of you. The last thing you remember before waking to the shrill ring of a telephone. 

Eyes blink open as the sound comes to an abrupt halt. Peach and gold filter in through your curtains, a small square of warm sunlight just out of reach behind Steve’s shoulder. His face is stressed again, mouth turned down in a frown, forehead furrowed, but his eyes remain closed. His cheek red and splotchy from the carpet pressed to it that his fingers twitch against.

Your limbs stretch, stiff and sore from a night on the ground as your eyes start to flutter closed once more. The relaxation brief however, as the shrill scream of the phone starts again. Sitting up, the red blinking numbers on your alarm clock tell you it’s just after six A.M and you look over at Steve, your lips forming their own frown. Who’s calling you so early if not him? 

Quickly removing yourself from under the heavy weight of his arm that still rests on your waist, you head down the stairs, skipping over the last two as you reach the phone just in time. Answering a little breathless as the last ring is cut off, “Hello?”

“Is Steve there?”

“Nancy?” Your stomach twists from her tone, but relief washes over you nonetheless, “Yeah he’s here, the storm last night set him off I think. How are you? How’s everyone else?”

“Stay where you are. He’s back.”

The click and then dial tone echo in your ear as your fingers go numb. 

“Honey?” 

Your eyes blink at Steve who stands in the kitchen doorway, forehead furrowed, cheeks pink and eyes sleepy. 

The phone leaves your fingers, dangling from its curled cord and swaying against the wall. The last thing you see is Steve rushing over to you, and then nothing, only the chime of a clock and your name called through the darkness. 

Eddie's Story:

"I call you when I need you, my heart's on fire."

Your foot kicks a pebble and it goes skidding across the dark path into the perfect gap between two twigs. You lift your fists with a smile, a forced lighthearted and amused tone, but it just comes out flat, sad, and awkward in the stilted silence.

“Two points.”

Eddie stares blankly ahead, glassy eyes and his lips twitch subtly, and for a brief wonderful second you think he may actually smile, but he’s back to shaking his head. “You,” his voice cracks as he keeps going, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What, do I smell or something?” Your hand falls over your chest, sarcasm laced around your words and fake worry forming your features, “Because honestly Edward, you need to tell me these things. If my best friend can’t tell me I’m walking around and stinking up some sort of creepy dimension of Hawkins, who can?”

He stops abruptly, hands on your shoulders. He’s shaking and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re both still drenched from the lake you dove into after Steve The Hair Harrington, or the wind or what, but it can’t be from actual real fear. 

It can’t be. 

Eddie’s eyes blink at you and he laughs, a little watery and you’re sure that’s wrong too. He’s got something in his eye, he swallowed some of this shit that’s floating around. 

“I don’t deserve you and I never, ever should have called you. I should have known better than to drag you into my shit again. And I’m so, so, so, sorry sweetheart.”

You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt the kind of fear you did when he called. Fear doesn’t even feel like the right word - dread, impending doom, real and awful heartbreak as he choked out words into the phone. 

“I-I, think she’s, ohmygodholyshit, I swear, she was just like, ohmygod she jus-just di-die-”

“Eddie, woah, woah, slow down. Where are you?” You were already pulling on sneakers, cradling the phone between your shoulder and ear, pulling the cord around the corner till it couldn’t go any further. Your heartbeat hammering, stomach churning. Did he just say what you think he said?”

“I, I’m shit I don’t know I just took off and this payphone is uh…” he cuts off, mumbling a string of cuss words. 

“Okay, what’s around you, tell me what you see.” Your jacket now on one arm as you grab your wallet, checking it and sighing at the empty contents. As Eddie describes a motel, a convenience store, you nod into the phone, cutting him off, “Yeah, I know where that is. Just, um, go down the road and pull your van off into the woods, can you do that? And-and Eddie, is she, um, you’re sure she’s…”

“Yeah,” his voice is so quiet, you press the phone harder to your ear to hear the confirmation and your throat constricts. 

“Right,” you lick your lips and close your eyes, “So, um, don’t hang out in your van, okay? I’ll be there in like twenty minutes. Just, it’s gonna be okay, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” he sounds like he’s crying again and you hang up before your heart can break more. 

You peer around the corner, your father’s head still lolled against the back of the sofa, mouth open as he snores softly. Your cheek pulls in as you bite it and make the quick decision you need to, creeping up the stairs as quietly as you can. You’ll ask for forgiveness later. Your fingers search his sock drawer, pulling out the small roll of bills you know is kept there for emergencies and you’re pretty sure you’re in one, so it’s okay, right?

You debate waking him, coming up with some lie about grabbing a burger and shake with friends, but he looks so peaceful and you decide it’s for the best - whatever he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. 

Grabbing your bike, you glide down the driveway, past the stop sign, under the lamp post that’s flickering, and pedal towards your best friend. 

You can still feel the gravel biting your knees as you skidded to a stop and hit the ground when you saw him. Huddled under a giant pine tree, leather arms wrapped around himself, fingers picking at the threads of where the fabric split and ripped over pale knees. Silver rings shining in the moonlight as he spoke slowly, staring at the ground, telling you what happened. 

“You have to believe me,” he spoke softly, big, brown eyes finally daring to look up at you as he said it again, “You have to believe me, you know I would never, I could never…sweetheart please tell me you believe me.” 

And you had, of course you had. 

Your best friend would never do something as cruel as what you’ve witnessed. His brown eyes still glassy as he stares at you now, apologizing for dragging you into it all. Eddie was your best friend, the peanut butter to your jelly, the guy who finished your thoughts and sentences for you. Two halves of one soul, the person you’d call to hide a body no questions asked. You just never thought that last one would be a real possibility. 

Your fingers curl around his biceps, staring him down, “Eddie, would you hate me if the roles were reversed? What would you be telling me if I was the one apologizing to you right now?”

He shakes his head, another watery laugh as he looks down at his feet. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“Sir, you haven’t even seen the tip of the iceberg of my stubbornness. Now. Let’s catch up with the others and kill that creepy monster dude, grab a cheeseburger, get guns from Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom - we still need to talk about that, clear your name, get out of this shit hole, take a shower.” You smile at him as you squeeze his arms again, waiting till he looks up at you to say, “But you know, in a different order that makes more sense.”

Eddie smiles at you genuinely for the first time since you arrived in the upside down, and his thumb now brushes your neck, fingers wrapped around the back of it as he clears his throat, “I-”

Both of you grab each other harder as the ground starts to shake again. This time, the earth directly beneath your feet feels like it’s splitting in two. You cling to Eddie, both of you falling to the ground. You squeeze your eyes closed and press your nose to the hellfire logo on his chest, holding your breath. Eddie’s arms wrap around you tightly, and eventually the ringing in your ears stops, and the earth seems to settle. 

Your body hasn’t though, and you try grounding yourself in all things Eddie to reach a calm state once more. Your hands hold the hem of his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin that somehow makes you shiver from the touch. Your nose still pressed to his chest that you take deep inhales against, smelling old spice and the lake and you try to match each breath with his, his chest moving up and down patiently. Your ears strain to listen to anything, and you turn, pressing your cheek to where your nose had just been, hearing and feeling the steady thump of his heart. 

“You okay?” He whispers, and your fingers curl into his shirt more from the way you feel the rumble of his voice underneath you. 

“Yeah, I’m-”

“Hey! Lovebirds! We kind of got shit to do and places to be, so if you could wrap whatever the hell you’re doing up, that’d be great!”

Eddie sighs and you laugh as he grumbles, “Remind me again why we dove in after him?”

Pushing away from Eddie, you stand, smiling down at your best friend who glares down the path towards Steve Harrington. “Well, I want it publicly stated that I dove in after Robin, not him.”

Eddie watches you from the ground, eyes shimmering as he takes your hand and stands. He doesn’t let your entangled fingers drop as he murmurs, “Yeah, and it was really stupid.”

Your heart thuds in your chest for a very different reason now. Brown eyes you’re able to be swallowed by when they give you undivided attention like this. Voice softer than you want it to be as you clear your throat. “Well, being smart is overrated.”

Eddie’s lips twitch again, and it’s a much more real feeling of hope this time, as he leans in closer, nose bumping yours. His eyes move down to your lips and back up, both of you taking a deep breath. Holy shit are you about to kiss your best friend?

His lips part as you exhale and-

“Seriously?!”

Eddie’s groan and your laugh follow Steve’s annoyed tone. Both of you turn to glare, finding him with hands on his hips, barefoot and in Eddie’s vest. He snaps his fingers and motions for you to follow. 

Eddie grumbles as you spin to do just that, “I know we’ve established I didn’t kill Chrissy and I would never, but I really could kill this dude.”

“I’ll help you hide the body.”

“I heard that!”

Your fingers squeeze Eddie’s with another soft laugh as you drop them, turning to see what the others are stopped on the ridge for. 

Please vote for who will be moving on and revealing more of their story.

Remember: whoever wins this week, faces the winner of The Final Girls

Choose wisely!

You couldn’t be blamed, really. They really did make the best coffee you’d tasted, and the assortment of pastries and cakes that the owner- Joyce, you had learned- made was to die for. The squishy blue armchair by the window nearest the counter had unofficially become your spot to study in, far superior to the hard plastic chairs of the library or being hunched over the desk in the corner of your bedroom.

And there was also Steve.

You would be lying if the barista wasn’t a major factor in how often you had been returning to the coffeeshop- often enough that you were officially deemed a regular by Joyce. He was gorgeous, and funny, and sweet, and-

“He’s late again,” Robin complained as she made you a mocha, “I swear he goes into hibernation mode as soon as the leaves start to fall.”

You shook your head with a chuckle, dropping your change into the tip jar. You were fond of Robin too, her dry wit and clumsiness endlessly endearing- not to mention her extremely obvious crush on Nancy, a journalism student who was another of the regulars.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” you reassured her.

She grinned at you as she set your coffee down on your tray along with a slice of cake that you hadn’t ordered but appreciated nonetheless.

“You mean you hope he’ll be here soon,” she teased, “Don’t act like you weren’t disappointed that it was me frothing your milk.”

“First of all, how did you manage to make that sound dirty?” you asked, making a face and laughing when she stuck out her tongue in response, “And anyway, I’m never disappointed to see you. I just…thought Steve might be here too.”

“Because you love him.”

“Hey, is that Nancy?” you asked suddenly, pointing outside the window to the empty pavement and grinning triumphantly when Robin’s head whipped round to look in the same direction. “Ha!”

You could hear her muttering grumpily to herself as you carried your tray over to your usual table, grinning to yourself at having caught her out. It was as you were reaching under the table to plug in your laptop charger that the bell over the door rang and a familiar voice joined it to make your heart skip a beat.

“Happy first day of Fall!”

You could blame the squeak you let out on the dull pain of hitting your head off the underside of the table, emerging with an embarrassed expression to see Steve looking at you in concern from the counter.

“You okay?” he asked worriedly.

“Fine!” you insisted in a cheerful tone, “Hi!”

“Hey,” he replied with a smile, “I thought you’d be here.”

Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest at the idea of him thinking about you at all.

“Did you think about me being here?” Robin asked, crossing her arms, “Dealing with the evening rush all alone?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, gesturing to the coffee shop that was empty except for you.

“Making one mocha is not a rush, Robs.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself smiling at the idea that he knew your order.

A comfortable silence fell once more as Steve rounded the counter to join Robin, swapping his denim jacket for his dark green apron. It was only Robin’s exclamation that had you looking up from your notes again.

“Gee, it really is the first day of Fall. Basic white girl Steve has emerged in a flurry of plaid!” she announced dramatically, dodging the dishtowel that Steve whipped at her and laughing.

The commotion gave you the chance to get a good look at Steve’s outfit. His black skinny jeans fit him perfectly, but you were distracted by the warm brown and orange tones of his plaid shirt peeking out from beneath the oversized cream jumper he was wearing, the sleeves bundled up at his elbows. He was the very picture of autumn cosiness.

“Your entire wardrobe has changed!” Robin was teasing him, before catching your eye, “It has, hasn’t it?”

You wanted to glare at her but Steve was now looking your way too. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to string a sentence together.

“You look nice, Steve,” you said with a shy smile, quickly looking back down at your notes.

Had you been brave enough to look at him for long enough, you would have seen the rosy flush that spread across his cheeks at the compliment from you, and you would have seen Robin rolling her eyes at how obvious your crushes on each other were to everyone but yourselves.

📼 The Tropes:

Science Fiction, Double Feature

The Final Girls

This Is A True Story

Creatures Of The Night

🎵 The Music

Week #1:

Tuesday, October 3rd - Simply The Best

you'll vote for Steve or Eddie's story to continue

Thursday, October 5th - Body Bag

you'll vote for Robin or Nancy's story to continue

Week #2:

Tuesday, October 10th - Baby It Ain't Over, Till It's Over

you'll vote for Steve or Eddie's story to continue

Thursday, October 12th - I Did Something Bad

you'll vote for Steve or Eddie's story to continue

Week #3:

Tuesday, October 17th - Simply The Best vs Bodybag

you'll vote for the winner from simply the best OR the winner from bodybag after revealing more of each story

Thursday, October 19th - Baby It Ain't Over, Till It's Over vs I Did Something Bad

you'll vote for the winner from baby it ain't over, till it's over OR the winner from i did something bad after revealing more of each story

Week #4:

Tuesday, October 24th - Winners from Week #3 vs each other

you'll vote for the final "treat" after revealing more of the story from each of the week 3 winners.

By the time lunch rolled around, you had given up the shirt, stuffing it in your bag and changing into a lighter weight t-shirt you kept in your locker for emergency situations.You grabbed your lunch and made your way over to the usual table where your club would sit, taking a seat across from Gareth who’s eyes flicked to your shirt and then to your face. There was a smirk on his smug little mouth that made you roll your eyes. 

“Not a word, Emmerson.” you grumbled, picking at your food. Maybe if you stayed at the end of the table away from Eddie, he wouldn’t notice your betrayal of the club. Not that you were afraid of Eddie, but he could admittedly make you, perhaps, just a little nervous at times. And that totally did not have anything to do with the attraction you felt for him. Totally not. 

“I give it three minutes before he notices.” Gareth replied as Zack and Jeff made it to the table. Zack sat next to you, while Jeff took his usual seat next to Gareth. It wouldn’t be long before Eddie showed up now, taking his place at the end of the table. 

“You’re out of uniform.” Jeff said, looking over at you. “And you look like shit.” 

“Shut up, Jeff.” 

You wished you had a jacket or something to throw on, but that would also defeat the point of now wearing your Hellfire shirt. It was too damn hot and you have no idea how the others were able to wear theirs without burning up. You’d felt like shit all day, and even looking at your lunch was making you lose your appetite. 

A thump at the end of the table made you jump as Eddie dropped his lunchbox. You leaned back a little bit to gauge his mood. There was a frown on his face and his brows were furrowed as he opened his lunch. Shit. He looked pissed today, and Gareth had a shit eating grin as he glanced at you. 

“Don’t” you mouthed to him and shook your head. He simply shrugged, already knowing that you were gonna be caught. This was such bullshit, you were getting all worked up and worried about getting in trouble for a club that the school liked to pretend didn’t even exist! 

You felt for the guy, most of his classes were a moot point, and he really only needed to pass three more to graduate in May, and Ms. O’Donnell’s science class was known for being one of the hardest teachers in school. Eddie swore up and down that Principal Higgins put him in her class on purpose to flunk him and make him drop out. You suspected that he was right. 

“You okay, Eddie?” Jeff asked while you angled your body behind Zack so that it was less noticeable what you were wearing.

“Ms. O’Donnell has it out for me, I swear.” Eddie grumbled. “I swear, she’s a drill sergeant with all these damn pop quizzes she keeps springing on us.”

“You should get a tutor.” Zack suggested as Dustin and Mike showed up and dropped their trays on the other side of you. You met Mike’s gaze and his eyes went wide and he immediately looked away. Jesus, these freshmen were so dramatic. No one looked up to Eddie more than Mike and Dustin, the kids loved him. It was cute. Sometimes. 

Dustin had the good sense to just give you a normal greeting, knowing better than to point out what was already known to everyone in Hellfire except for Eddie. Actually, the tension for this was starting to build up as Eddie ranted about how he’s tried tutors but no one would give him the time of day anyway. 

If you were better at science, you’d offer but you already know that you and Eddie would be at each other's throats trying to figure out whatever O’Donnell was teaching. You already butt heads enough during Hellfire. 

You kept quiet as Eddie ranted for a few more minutes. You pulled a book out of your bag, pretending to read as your lunch went untouched. There was the beginning of a headache starting to make itself known, and you were heavily considering skipping gym next period. Normally you’d ask if you could crash in Eddie’s van for an hour in cases like this but you had a feeling that you’d have to either go to the nurse's office or find another place to hide this time. 

If this was a better day, you might have been able to keep your head down and avoid Eddie’s attention, ironically being the opposite of what you would have considered to be a good day. But it was not a good day, because it was a million degrees out, the a/c was busted in all your classes, you felt tired and gross, and Gareth just loved to stir the pot. 

“Hey Zack, can you throw this away for me?” he asked, handing over his empty soda can to the man beside you. If looks could kill, he’d be a pile of ash and dust as Zack got up to toss the garbage into the nearest trash can. 

You wished that you could shrink and disappear into the chair, but no such luck. It was at this time that Eddie finally noticed you, and you watched as his neutral expression of greeting shifted to one of annoyance. Usually, you found his expressiveness funny and endearing, but not this time. The energy of the table immediately shifted as all eyes were on you and Eddie. 

Shit. 

“Where’s your shirt?” Eddie asked, his large brown eyes boring into you. He was already in a pissy mood, and normally you’d stop yourself from pushing his buttons, but the pounding in your head was growing more insistent. 

“In my bag.” you replied in the same short tone as him. The rest of the club didn’t move, except for Zack who went back to his seat, looking around and wondering what happened. 

“You’re supposed to be wearing it. It’s Friday.” Eddie leaned over to look at you and Zack leaned back, not wanting to be the wall between you two. 

“I’ll wear it at Hellfire, Eddie. It’s fine.” you sighed, not wanting to fight about this right now. 

“Everyone else is wearing theirs, why aren’t you?” He wasn’t going to let this go. He flunked a pop quiz and had to feel some form of control. It was written all over him. 

“Because, Edward, it is a million degrees out and I feel like I’m melting.” Your eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah, but the rest of us still managed to wear ours!” Eddie looked super annoyed now, the frown lines on his face accentuated by the comically deep frown he was wearing. He hated being called anything other than ‘Eddie’, ‘Eds’, or ‘oh great and powerful DM’. You liked to use the last one when you were about to do something stupid in the campaign. 

“Eddie’s right, you know. We’re all wearing our shirts.” Gareth smirked and you almost threw your uneaten sandwich at him. 

“Well, you see, I was worried that if I wore mine all day I’d end up at club smelling like you and I didn’t want to suffocate everyone while playing.” you snapped. From beside you, Dustin snorted and Eddie gave you a warning look. 

“You know the rules, you agreed to them when you joined us.” Eddie reminded you. 

“Edwin it’s 90 degrees outside and most of my classes don’t have a/c!” you looked at him, feeling more exhausted by the minute. “If I put my shirt on, I’ll die of heat stroke before 7th period.”

He might have caved, he really might have if you hadn’t called him that. Eddie wasn’t an unreasonable guy, but as the leader of Hellfire he had to maintain some sort of order to keep his “little sheepies” safe. One of the perks of Hellfire was the protection that came with it. It didn’t stop all the bullies, but at least most of them would avoid messing with you all too much because they were convinced Eddie might snap one day. 

But you called him Edwin, and were challenging him, and you were fighting with Gareth again, and he already flunked another pop quiz. 

The two of you locked eyes, holding each other's gaze intently. The pounding in your head only grew worse, but you didn’t feel like backing down. This was so stupid, it was just a shirt! Yeah, this club was important to you, it was important to everyone here. So why did you have to-

“Can you just put your shirt on?” Mike finally said, and you and Eddie looked at the freshman, and he rubbed his face. “The a/c’s working in here, you’ll be fine.”

You honestly started to feel like you could cry from the stress of being ganged up on like this. 

“Yeah, but I’m so hot she might still get pit stains” Gareth jabbed with a smirk and you made a disgusted face. 

“Fine.” you finally grumbled and pulled the crumpled shirt out of your bag. You gave it a shake and threw it over your head like a scarf, not pulling it on all the way and leaving your arms out. “Happy?” you shot at Eddie. 

He wasn’t, you didn’t think anyone was happy with this honestly. But you were still burning up, everyone was staring at you like you were a kid throwing a tantrum, and as much as you loved Eddie, you were pissed that he didn’t even hear you out. 

But he was done arguing and leaned back in his chair. At least now he’d leave you alone about the stupid shirt. You leaned back in your chair as well, grabbing your book and tried to read for the rest of lunch. You couldn’t focus though, finding yourself reading the same lines over and over again while your head ached. If today had been different you’d be able to ask Eddie if he had anything that would help, but no such luck. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” Jeff asked, pointing to your lunch. When you shook your head and pushed your lunch box towards the center of the table, everyone reached out to lay claim to your forgotten lunch. 

You could feel Eddie’s eyes on you, and you angled your body away from him. By now, you were starting to heavily consider finding a sub for the game and going home to just sleep. You found yourself with your forehead resting against the cool wood of the table until the end of lunch when the bell rang, and you decided to just head towards the nurse. You only bothered saying bye to Dustin and Zack, who had been the only ones to mind their own business. 

You missed how Eddie’s expression had softened when you left the cafeteria.

It took the nurse all of three minutes to declare that you were running a high fever and that this wasn’t just a headache caused by the lack of a/c. Well, that explained a lot. Being old enough, the nurse said that you were free to go home and get some rest. Looks like you’d be missing Hellfire after all, and you wouldn’t even be able to tell them why you couldn’t show up. Maybe that would piss Eddie off so much he’d go full sadistic DM. 

Maybe he’d even kill off Gareth the Great. 

No, you’d never actually be that lucky. 

You slumped your way back to your locker, haphazardly grabbing books that you think you might have homework for and shoving them in your bag. The weight of your backpack only added to the exhaustion and fatigue that was quickly gaining up on you. You always got sick like this; perfectly fine until you weren’t. 

As you made your way to the parking lot to your car, the heat of the day was at its peak, beating down on you. You groaned and made your way to the car, throwing your bag in the back seat. 

“Running away?” Came a voice from behind you, and you didn’t even fully register it until there was a shadow behind you. You slowly turned around to see Eddie looking down at you with his head tilted. 

“Eddie?” your voice was quiet and exhausted. You’d already used the last of your energy of the day fighting with him and you didn’t have it in you for another round. 

“Jesus, what happened to you?” he reached out and pressed a hand to your forehead. You couldn’t help but lean forward at the touch, somehow his hands felt like ice in this heat and it felt good. 

“Overheated ‘cause I had to wear a dumb shirt.” you grumbled, and his hand dropped. You looked up at him, and he looked as though he’d been slapped, Guilt washed over his features and it was a little bit satisfying. “Kidding. Nurse said I have the plague and to go home before I infect the school. Says she’s never seen anything like it, and it’s probably a new virus that’ll probably kill me by the end of the weekend.”

Eddie always looked cute when his head tilted in exasperation. “Are you good to get home?” he asked. 

You gave a shrug. “Not like I have a choice. Also, why are you out here? You should be in class, Edmond.”

He ignored the name, knowing that this wasn’t a hill to die on today. “I’m skipping.” he said simply. “It’s just class presentations, and I wasn’t in the mood. I won’t be missed.”

“I’d miss you.”

Oh, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud with your actual mouth. That was supposed to be an inside thought. The two of you stared at each other for a moment, neither of you sure what to say. 

Eddie’s laugh broke the silence, “You’d be the first to care if I was at class or not.” he said.

“Yeah well, at least when you’re around I have someone to talk to.” You relaxed a bit, rubbing your face. 

There was another moment of silence and Eddie reached out towards you. You stared blankly, wondering what the hell he was doing before he pulled the Hellfire shirt off your shoulders. 

“I was a douche.” Eddie finally said, looking at you. “I was pissed and I took it out on you. I should have dropped it. I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t expected an apology from him. At least, you hadn’t expected one so soon. 

“The a/c’s out in the B wing.” you said as Eddie handed you back your shirt. 

“Yeah, I could smell it all the way from the library.” he gave you a half smile. He was fidgeting, moving from one foot to the other. He never could stay still, even if his life depended on it. 

“Smelled like Gareth in second period.” you laughed. 

Eddie’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and grabbed the back of your head, rocking it back and forth for a moment before dropping at your shoulder again. 

“Let’s get you home.” he said. “I’m not letting you drive like this. You’re gonna get yourself killed if you pass out behind the wheel.”

“I think my driving is still marginally safer than yours.” you laughed, leaning against him. “Seriously, how did you even get a license?” 

“Trade secret.” He led you to his van and you hopped in the passenger side and buckled up. You left your books in your own car but at this point you didn’t give a shit. 

“You’ll need to take me to school on Monday if I’m leaving my car.” you slumped into the seat. “Assuming I don’t die to death.”

“You can still talk, so you still have hit points. You’ll live.”

In a nicer fantasy, this would be a pleasant and relaxing drive home. Eddie would effortlessly get you home safe, while you dozed in the passenger seat, and he'd and carry you inside and lay you in bed. But this was not your day dreams, and Eddie will always be Eddie. He drove like a maniac down the street to avoid any teacher or truant officers from telling you to not leave school grounds, even though you two were legally adults. You were jostled around as he took sharp turns and your headache returned with full force at the loud music he was playing. You normally didn’t mind his heavy mental mixes but Jesus, he was not reading the room right now. By the time he pulled up to your place, you assumed it was a miracle that you were still alive. 

“You ran that last stop sign.” you said.

“It’s only illegal if you get caught.” he smiled wide at you. 

“Okay, well I’m going to contemplate my own mortality.” you snorted, opening the door, but his hand gently grasped onto your arm. 

“Are we good?” he asked, and you slowly nodded. “Yeah. I- we’re good. I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“Good. Good.” Eddie nodded. “Well, feel better okay? I need to go not-be-missed in seventh period.”

You turned and leaned over, hugging him close. “Give my germs to Mike and Gareth.” you whisper just as he wrapped his arms around you. 

“Jesus Christ. If you get everyone sick I’m taking away every magic item you have.” Eddie groaned and you responded by kissing his face, feeling the faint prickly stubble on his jaw. “Hey!”

You turned back and opened the door again, flipping him off as you walked towards your door. You turned to look at him before you stepped inside, seeing him laugh and shake his head. He flipped you off too before tearing off back down the street to get back to school. 

A week later, you would arrive in the cafeteria again where the boys all had their shirts lazily thrown over their heads, only resting on their shoulders.  

--

“Owens wants us.” She informed you, managing the softest of smiles. 

You swallowed, nodded, and went for your room key on the countertop. Wheeler moved on down the hall, the crowd of Scorchers growing around her. 

You followed, hanging back, still feeling a bit left out. You and Steve had passed your trials, but you’d yet to be sent on an official Scorch mission as partners. You hadn’t seen either of your names on the call sheet. You and Harrington had both found yourselves in Hopper’s office again, arms crossed over your chests in perfect mirror images, while Hopper waved you off to take a phone call, questions left unanswered. 

Maybe this was it.

You reached the far side of the dorm floor, adrenaline pumping with each addition to the group. Wheeler’s knuckles hit a rhythm, and the door opened to reveal your partner, and just over his shoulder, a messy, blonde bob. 

Your heart sunk, panic laced through your veins as you stepped behind Argyle to avoid being seen. Curiosity got the best of you, and you peered around him to watch the exchange of goodbyes. Harrington’s arm slung over Robin’s shoulders, a chaste kiss pressed to her temple that she swatted away with a laugh, and a “be careful”. Her voice was as raspy as you’d remembered it, her eyes just as blue, and all things considered, she looked incredible. She looked like she’d been sleeping, like she hadn’t been wasting away, like she was living.

You saw her wandering gaze, eyes searching the small group, and in a panic, you broke off from the group and scurried down the staircase, down past the War Room, down to the labs.

The long hallway was well-lit this time of day, bustling with men and women in white lab coats. Not a soul acknowledged you, hunched over clipboards or monitoring machines with print-outs that escaped your purview. You heard the shuffle of feet behind you, a sign that the Scorch team had caught up, so you pressed yourself against a double-paned window and waited, arms crossed like you’d been there the whole time. 

Wheeler and Byers blew past you, unseen, the group following.

“Hey,” Harrington sidled up beside you, soft touch to your elbow. You nodded, ignoring his gaze, watching the group meander into a nearby office, Owens voice greeting just beyond the swinging doors. “What’s going on?” 

You shrugged, pushed yourself off the wall, and the two of you filed in. 

Owens spoke your name as you entered, and the entire room fell silent. You felt too many eyes on you, and Harrington’s broad shoulders came into your periphery as he took a stance to shield you. “Mr. Harrington, good. I’m glad you’re both here. Could I have you make your way to the front, please?” 

You didn’t look at your partner, kept your eyes instead on the wall of glass Owens was referring to, and what was just beyond. 

Inside a sterile, white room, between two figures in full-body HazMat suits, was a glass box on a table. The box had holes for access, made of metal, and through the holes, you could make out the charred and puckered flesh of a man. He was restrained, although maybe it wasn’t necessary, because the paler of the man ensured you he was dead. 

Your stomach dropped, the metallic taste of blood and ash filling your mouth. 

“This man went out in our last round of scouts.” Owens explained, voice soft, but loud enough to the group to hear. “He’d been back for about forty-eight hours before we noticed tell-tale signs that he’d been Flayed.” 

You grit your teeth and stared down at the man’s body, lifeless, pale, cold. 

“His partner said he’d encountered a large flower. Said it looked similar to a nest.” Owens then placed a hand to your shoulder to captivate your attention. When you looked his direction, you shuddered under the pity in his gaze. “Does that sound familiar to you, at all?” 

You swallowed the dryness on your tongue, tried to think. Your memories all blurred together, smoke and ash and maroon lightning, vines and demo dogs and moulded groceries. You shook your head. 

“Well, when he was brought in for testing, we noticed these distinct marks on his body,” Owens wrapped his knuckles against the glass, and the two men in suits reached into the box to tip the body. 

Across the man’s back, now exposed to you, were a handful of bumps. They were like mosquito bites, but larger, blackened, a trail of something under the skin. Someone in the back of the room puked into a trash can. 

“We’ve seen these marks before, on other flayed victims.” By the extra squeeze on your shoulder, you knew he meant Vickie. You knew they’d pulled her body, covered in ash and burns, from the pockmarked pavement and examined her, found blackened bumps edging across her narrow shoulder blades. 

Owens continued, releasing your arm to address the group. “Hopper and I felt it was important to share this information with those of you on the front lines.”

You tore your eyes from the black marks on the man’s back, and glanced up at Harrington. He was watching you, jaw-clenched, arms crossed tight over his broad chest. You shirked under his gaze. Did he know? Had Eddie told him? 

“As many of you know, your team leaders, Ms. Wheeler and Mr. Byers will be following a team of scouts to retrieve this flower for further examination. They will be equipped with precautionary measures, but I thought it was good for all of you to know what you’ll be up against in the coming weeks.” 

Harrington’s eyes widened, darting from you to the Scorch team. “Whoa, what? No. Let us go.” 

You nodded, turning your back to the body beyond the glass, a chill settling over your spine. “Yeah, Harrington and I will go. No need to risk the leads on this.” 

“I appreciate your concern,” Owens nodded with a half-smile. “Everyone, if you could please join me down the hall, I have a few other things to show you.” 

The team filed out behind him, but you remained in the sting of rejection, told off like a couple of children who weren’t allowed to use the Big Kid Toys. 

Wheeler finally stepped forward, pushing her way from the back wall. She was staring over your shoulder at the body, a grimace etched across her stern brow. Then, she made eye contact with Harrington, plastered on a smile. “We’ll be alright. Just a quick in-and-out, make sure no one else gets flayed. We’re just the flamethrowers.” 

You felt something kick in your stomach again, this pervasive feeling like you were intruding on a private moment between the two of them. An unease that settled like the eyes on the back of your neck. You stepped away from them, back to the hallway, trying to shake off the itch between your shoulder blades. 

“Nance,” Harrington mumbled under his breath. 

“Steve,” she teased. “I promise. Besides, you know she needs you.” 

You swallowed, closed your eyes, thought of the beautiful girl in her dorm room. Nancy was right. You couldn’t take him from Robin, too. 

A hand at your shoulder startled you, dainty, but firm. And you spun to find Wheeler grasping you, eyes sparkling with something mischievous. “It’s really good to have you back.”

You managed a nod, mouth dry, and you stepped out of her way as she followed the group closely up ahead. You lingered in the doorway, watching the sway of her hips, the bounce of her hair, the curve of her biceps, the strength in her shoulders. If anything got to her, she didn’t let it show.

—-

The migraine came on in the Scorch course. The dull thud radiated in a cluster at your temple and spread to the scab healing on the back of your skull. The brightness of flames were blurred with aura, bright orange rimmed in blues and purples. The smell of jet fuel and burning plastic churned in your stomach.

You didn’t realize you’d missed three targets until Harrington peeled his mask from his face, crease forming around his pointed nose, and gripped your shoulder with a sweaty palm. “Alright, what the Hell?” 

You winced, eyebrows unable to lift, and swallowed. “Sorry, um… headache.” You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes and pressed, the pressure relieving your sinuses ever-so-slightly. 

You expected him to yell, to tell you headaches happen, and it’s time to suck it up. So you were surprised to feel nimble fingers unbuckling your pack and lifting it off aching shoulders. You blinked your eyes open, as far as they’d go, and watched Harrington’s brow crinkle in concern.

“You seeing floaters?”

You shook your head. “More of an aura.” 

His jaw clenched, and he nodded toward the doorway. “C’mon. Think we’ve torched enough decoys for today.” Then he started down the staircase, your pack swinging by its straps from his arm. 

You followed him across the tarmac. The mid-afternoon sun stung, too warm and too bright, a rainbow cast over Harrington’s broad shoulders. You followed him back into the supply room. As he put your packs away, you peeled your mask from your face and slumped onto a nearby bench. 

You heard the shake of a pill bottle and felt a tap against your forearm, and when you peered between your knuckles, Harrington had extended a water bottle and two white pills. 

“Take these. Do you have a cold compress?” 

You nodded, accepting his offer and throwing the pills back. The water was fresh, but lukewarm, and it churned in your stomach a bit more than you wanted. You weren’t sure you could keep them down. 

Harrington nodded. “Put it on your neck and go to bed. If you want, I’ll wake you up before Nance and Jonathan head out.” 

You blinked back at him, wondering if you were hearing the softness in his voice, or if your mind was creating that, a fuzz, glossy, rainbow-filled world. “Okay.” You managed.

Harrington grabbed his gym bag and yours, holding the door open for you to pass into the corridor. The florescents buzzed a steady beat just above your ear, somewhere behind your eye. Harrington fell into step beside you.

“Do you get migraines often?” 

You shook your head, tried to take another drink. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“It was probably the concussion. I get them constantly.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, they suck.” The corner of his lip turned up at you, soft, a familiar smile that had your stomach swooping. 

You’d come to the elevator doors. The button was pressed, and you waited in silence, your heart beat rhythmic in your head. When it reached your floor, you stepped in one after the other, and you closed your eyes to the buzz of lights and the whir of the machine. Harrington settled in beside you, presence warm and quiet, a wall just outside of your periphery. 

—

The War Room was silent save a steady blip of the radar and the occasional fuzzy transmission from the Ops Team as they descended into the Ether and traveled Northward. 

You tiptoed in, happy for the dim lighting quelling the steady pulse in your skull that hadn’t subsided. The aura had slipped from your vision, and you felt a bit groggy from your nap, but Harrington’s advice for the cold compress had seemed to help.

The only seat available was beside him, too close, biceps and thighs touching.

Eddie’s chair spun to face you, massive headphones over one ear, and he offered a two fingered wave, smile sad, tense. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

You nodded back to your friend, and startled when you felt a pair of lips at the shell of your ear, warm breath, the spice of deodorant and shampoo. 

“How’s your head?”

You swallowed and shrugged, offering Harrington a half-hearted smile, shivers erupted down your spine.

“Scorch to Base. We’re approaching our destination now.” Byers’s voice came in, crackled.

The room sat upright. You glanced from Eddie to Hopper, Joyce wrapped in a cable knit sweater, Murray, Owens, a dozen others in front of screens and buttons, making sure the AV system stayed up-and-running. 

One such familiar man flicked on a series of switches until you heard the buzz of static. The room illuminated in pale grey light, and you peered between shoulders at a television screen, now huddled around. 

The Scout Team, with Wheeler and Byers on backup, were slowly approaching a covered bridge. The camerawork was shoddy, a bit all over the place, like one of the horror films Eddie delighted in forcing you to watch, but the setting was unmistakable. Thick, black vines looped themselves along the sides of the road, sprouting up from the empty river bank below and climbing into the cavern, or maybe out of it. The steps slowed, camera panning the site to give a full view of the area.

 A handful of crew members stood in full hazmats. Wheeler and Byers were the smallest of them all, weighed down by massive packs. You couldn’t hear the crunch of gravel, the heavy breathing through masks, but you felt it. You could taste the ash in the air, could feel the frigid damp. 

You recognized the bridge, having biked over it too many times to count. It resided over Sinner’s Creek, an off-shoot of the Roane River. Thanks to its name, there was a rumor that the Devil himself lived inside that bridge, asking residents if they’d like to make a deal. The memory sent chills down your spine.

The crew took measured steps forward, scaling the wooden ramp that would bring them up and over the creek. Torchlight was shined through the opening, and you realized it was so overgrown, blackness enveloped through to the other side. Vines tightened their grip on the siding, paint crackling and fading away. 

“We have visual. Are you guys seeing this?” Byers sounded disgusted, like he was barely containing the bile that crept up alongside your own.

The camera shifted slightly to the left, and you all saw it. Gaping maw, riddled with teeth, red and blue stripes, dangling from the wall at the height of a demogorgon. Everyone jumped. You stretched impossibly closer, nearly in Harrington’s lap to get a better view. 

From the looks of it, it was a demogorgon, stuck to the wall with vines, the same way your fallen comrades would be taken over by the terrain, only more was growing from this one. The hole in which you’d seen dozens of things be consumed, there grew a sack. Large, black, shimmering with puss, and at the shine of the flashlight, it dispersed a puff of spores in the air. The camera shook as the camera man fumbled backwards, out of the spray.

Your entire body went cold. You had seen this before, on the bank of the Roane River, probably two miles north of the covered bridge at Sinner’s Creek. You’d been walking alongside Vickie, packs running low, stumbling back from a particularly long Scorch, back to the meet-up coordinates. 

You’d been reminiscing, laughing about something silly Robin had done, or maybe Eddie. Vickie hadn’t been watching, hadn’t been careful, nearly twisted her ankle. You caught her mid-fall, scolded her to watch where she was going.

There, in the river bed, was a dead demogorgon. It’s skin had been blackened with char, body taken over with demonic foliage. And it had something in its mouth, a pulsating black sack. 

You’d scorched it again for safety and scurried home. 

You leapt from your seat and rushed into the hallway, pulse matching the thing beat for beat. Your head throbbed, your stomach flipped, and you felt feverish, too warm, too claustrophobic under the buzzing static of the television, the sound of Jonathan’s voice over the walkies.

You thought of Vickie, of the look of panic on her face, of her tightening her mask, rolling her ankle back into place. You thought of her clawed grip on your arm, of the look of terror at your discovery. 

Something wet and warm hit your upper lip, and you reached to wipe a nostril. Your fingertips were stained red. You wiped frantically, ignoring the near debilitating ache at the base of your skull. 

“Are you okay?” Harrington’s voice was too close, towering above you while you painted the leg of your black cargo pants with the blood on your hands. 

You licked iron from your upper lip, wondered what to do, what action to take. Eddie stared you down from inside the War Room, jaw clenched in worry. You blinked from him to Harrington’s pitying gaze. 

“I’m fine. Thought I was going to throw up. I think I might go back to bed.” You croaked. You could taste the iron at the back of your throat, hoped it didn’t show. 

Harrington nodded, clenched his fists at his side. “Okay. Do you…” He sighed. “Do you need anything?” 

You shook your head, managed to grimace, and hid your nose behind your hand. 

He gave one more curt nod in understanding before letting himself back into the little room.

You caught Eddie’s gaze again on the other side of the window, but his eyes weren’t the only ones you felt on you. There was someone else too, someone far away, over your left shoulder, a stare too deep, too menacing, too real.

—

You stumbled through the woods, that shock of orange just out of reach, on the horizon. You scampered after it, legs aching, calling for her to slow down, to wait up, telling her it wasn’t funny. A game of hide-and-seek, after all these years. You knew all of her hiding spots, in treehouses and behind cars in the junkyard, tucked into abandoned beaver dams. You couldn’t catch up. 

You slipped, plummeting downward, too far a fall, couldn’t catch yourself on twigs or branches, can’t touch the vines, Hive mind. Your back scratched and scraped. You hit the basin. 

A swimming pool lay before you, lit in soft blues, plastered, empty. You helped yourself upright, depth taller than you. You spun in circles, not recognizing your surroundings, missing the flash of orange. You cupped your hands to your mouth and called out for her, told her to come out. This wasn’t funny.

Your name was called over your left shoulder, muffled, deep. You spun.

They were caught up in vines, pinned to the walls of the pool, their charred remains. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, the shock of red hair. You screamed, tried to release them, hacked at vines with the hatchet in your hands, scrambled, begged them to come back, this wasn’t funny. 

Vickie opened her eyes, jet black, and then she opened her mouth, and you inhaled the spores. Black particles that flew from her and infected you, and there was no stopping it as they entered every orifice, as you succumbed to them, as they dug into your spine, laying eggs beneath shoulder blades.

—

You sat upright, panting, tangled in sheets. Your body convulsed in shivers, clothes and hair slick to you with sweat. Your room was dim, not dark, the lamplight pooling yellow in your periphery, dousing everything in the blur of reality. It was a dream, just a dream.

You pawed at your eyes, scrubbed your face with your hands, tried to shrug off the pervasive itch at the small of your neck. You reached under your sleep shirt to scratch and paused when you felt a bump, a ridge beneath your skin that hadn’t been there before. 

You leapt from your bed and threw your shirt up, trying to look in the mirror, but the glass was a too stained, and the light was too dim, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe and your hands were shaking. 

You threw open the door, linoleum freezing beneath bare feet. The hallway was too cold, too dark, the glow of moonlight cascading in from the common area, while the Exit sign cast a red glow on the far end. You had no choice. You needed help.

You raced down the hall as stealthily as you could, balls of your feet slapping against the floor. You tried to shut out the horrors that crawled behind you, the vines that erupted from closed doors just beyond your line of sight. You tried to stop them from crawling up your esophagus, tried to rid your mouth of the taste of ash. 

Your knuckles wrapped before your brain could process it, frantic, clinging to some humanity, to memories of your past you hoped he’d cling to, to promises he’d made. “Steve,” you called, voice hoarse, hands shaking.

The heavy door opened in a split second, Harrington looking bewildered behind wire-rimmed glasses. “What’s wrong?” 

You shoved him inside, two palms to the flat of his broad chest, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind you that the words spilled out. “She knew in April. She was infected in April, and she knew, and she didn’t tell me. A whole month.

“I’m getting migraines and nosebleeds, and I’m having nightmares. So many nightmares, and I can feel him, Steve. I can feel him. He’s always there, always behind me. And I see her too, sometimes, and I’m so scared. I don’t want to die, please don’t let me die.” You couldn’t focus, head gone fuzzy from hyperventilation. 

You felt a strong pair of arms around you before you even realized you were pacing. Large hands at your ribcage, broad shoulders in the path your bare feet were burning into the tile. 

“Stop, slow down,” he ordered.

You smacked his hands away, threw yours into your hair, turned heel to pace the opposite direction. “You don’t get it. I saw him at the pool, when I hit my head. Eddie found security footage. Someone came into the pool room. The camera didn’t catch who it was.”

“Wh - ” You could tell he was struggling to grasp what you were saying, lost in his own world.

His bedding was crumpled in the shape of him, a book lay upside down on the nightstand, lamp illuminating the room in a honeyed glow.

Steve reached beneath his glasses to rub at tired eyes. “You think he was here? Like, here here? Rightside up?”

You shrugged and scrubbed at your own face with your hands. Your body ached, and that chill that resided between your shoulder blades hadn’t left for weeks. You swallowed, peered between your knuckles at the man frowning across the room from you.

His spectacles fell back into place, hands dropped to his hips like a confused soccer dad. 

“I,” your voice quaked against your will, “I think I have marks on my back.”

The way his eyes trailed your frame had you painfully aware of your state of undress, sleep shirt falling at the tops of your thighs. You shifted bare feet against the linoleum, air conditioning pebbling exposed skin. You swallowed when his eyes met yours, dark, jaw clenched. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he took a measured step closer. “Can I - ” He cleared his throat. “Want me to…?”

“Sure um…” You swallowed. “Y-yeah. Would you?”

He took another belabored step forward, nodding slowly, mouth falling open as his eyes trailed your middle. 

You closed your eyes and turned your back to him. With a deep breath, you pulled the thin fabric over your head, gathering it at your chest with crossed arms for modesty. 

Too long a moment, breaths held, static building like the clouds of an incoming storm. You failed to steady your heart rate, flames that licked at your skin, pooled at your core, a heat that coursed through you.

 His hands found you, fingertips spread the expanse of your mid-back, making purchase with every bump, every groove. His touch trailed your ribcage, lithe, and you itched under it, too hot. He inched up your spine, brushing hair from the base of your neck. His thumbs massaged circles into a knot between your shoulder blades. 

You released a sigh, easing into his safe hands, letting your head lull to one side.

His nimble touch trailed either side of your spine and outwards again, pushing at the plump skin under your arms, and you lifted them without thinking. He muttered a quick apology, breath warm against your neck, minty. 

You hummed, allowing him to mold and model you as he needed to get a better look.

He spread his hands once more down your back, massaging circles into the dimples at the base of your spine, and before you could arch into them, they were gone, the heat of him replaced with cold air. He cleared his throat. 

Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the soft lamplight, the view of yourself in the mirror above his countertop. You looked at flustered as you felt, shoulders and clavicle exposed, eyes dark.

You could just make him out over your shoulder, eyes on you, heavy as your belabored breaths. 

“Well…?” Your heart pittered behind your sternum again.

“Heat rash, I think.”

You startled forward a few paces, quick to place your t-shirt back over your head. You tugged at the hem in a vain attempt to lower it, and chewed on the inside of your cheek. You spun to look at him, your own hands diving up your back to feel the gentle bumps of your skin. They were all in a line where your sports bra would have glued itself to your skin. 

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, the tension washed away with the tide.

He inched around you and busied himself at the sink, pouring a large glass of water, the red plastic cup stolen from the Mess Hall. “Did you get any sleep?”

You sighed, shrugged, accepted the cup in trembling hands. “A little. Had a nightmare.”

Steve nodded, tight-lipped, stared at the cup in your hand until you rolled your eyes, brought it to your lips. 

The water was tepid, but not unwelcome, soothing your nerves.

Satisfied, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. “Jonathan and Nance made it back okay.”

The news served more relief, a loosening of your shoulders, slowing of your heart rate. 

“You’ve seen that thing before?” His brows were furrowed in concern, and the way he looked at you, you knew there was no point in lying, not anymore.

You swallowed more water, nodded, mopped at the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Steve reached to take the cup from you, refilling it while you explained what happened with Vickie, with the demogorgon flower, the spores, the infection. He didn’t say anything until you took a deep breath, took another drink.

He sighed, ran thick, warm fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll go down to the office and pull all of Vickie’s logs from April, and I’ll help you go through them. We can go downstairs and see what they’ve learned that thing. And I want you to show me that video. I’ll talk to Eddie.”

You frowned and wrapped your fingernails against the textured plastic cup, a new nervous energy settling behind your sternum. 

“What?” He scoffed, pushing off the counter to pull the cup from your hands once more. “You want to fight about this too?”

You laughed at that, a wet sound that ached somewhere unfamiliar, and you watched his lips dip shyly in return as he ducked his head in a snort. “Okay.” 

“Okay, you want to fight? Or okay to the rest of it?”

“Both.” You delighted in the roll of his eyes, the sound of irritation that rumbled low in his chest. 

He turned to fill the cup again, and you watched the curve of his spine as he hunched over the sink. In his reflection, you caught that faint, lingering smile, barely visible beneath the etched concern, the worry that had been laced across his beautiful features since the moment you met him. You wondered if his shoulders ached carrying the burdens of the world. You knew yours did.

“Steve,” you rasped.

He looked up at you first, in the reflection, before spinning to look at you properly, hands outstretched as if he was ready to catch you, always waiting. 

You blinked back the emotion that blurred your vision, tightened your throat. Guilt clawed at your ribcage, echoed the spaces between your joints where his fingers had been, sunk into the marrow of your bones, filled your mouth with ash. You wanted to apologize, for abandoning him, for ruining his life, Robin’s. 

With slow movements, timid, he crossed the room to meet you. His hand found your hip first, fist clinging to the gossamer fabric of your shirt to tug you centimeters closer. His other hand was hesitant, and you watched his chest rise and fall before he reached out to cup your face. 

You folded, all cards shown, eyes closed, breathing in his warmth. You clung to his forearms, trying to stay glued together, to not fall apart in your need for this, for him, for safety and warmth and home again.

Your mind echoed with memories of his lips pressed to yours, bodies tangled under sheets, heavy breathing. From celebrations after serious wins, tongues painted whisky sweet, to comfort after serious losses, tear-stained cheeks and tight grips. To his arms around your waist, hauling you away from the charred remains of your best friend, laughter fading from a flash of orange, a spark in a wasteland.

Your eyes flew open, fearing you’d find a mangled mess, too many teeth, an outstretched claw cupping your face. 

Seeing the anguish in your eyes, Steve released you, his features laced with worry, mouth agape. 

The guilt returned, settled into every part of you save the section between your shoulder blades where He resigned, ever-present, ever-watching. You swallowed, managed a few steps back, stumbled over the leg of a chair, caught yourself on the table. 

Steve reached out to catch you, a white knight. 

“I should,” words felt odd in your mouth. “I should go to bed.”

He nodded, scratched at the back of his neck. “Okay, sure.”

“Yeah, thanks for the…” You gestured to his room, to the sink, to the reflection staring back at you. “Thanks.” 

“Sure, yeah.”

You flung open the door, and he met you there. Your hands met on the handle. You recoiled, and squeaked a whispered goodnight. He reciprocated. You couldn’t look at him again as you made your return to your dorm room. 

The red sign at the end of the hall glowed like firelight. A shadow stood beneath it, grinning back at you.

—

The steam from your post-gym shower was refreshing, rejuvenating, muscles finally looser than they’d been in months.

Vickie used to yell at you for walling things up, for winding your opinions so tight within yourself until you snapped. She used to coax emotions out of you with French toast sticks and movie nights, well-timed games of truth or dare.

There had only been two screaming matches: one when she hadn’t told you her family was moving to Hawkins until a week before they moved, and another when she thought you wouldn’t accept her sexuality. Both ended in tears and snacks and sticky maple syrup splattered against kitchen walls. 

You squeegeed the moisture from your hair with a towel, and glanced at your reflection in the pockmarked mirror above your countertop.

You wondered what Vickie would say now, what screaming match would ensue about your persistent arguments with Steve, about her hiding the truth for a full month before she died, of her making Steve promise to take care of you. 

Tears prickled in your eyes, and you blinked back at your blurry reflection, muscles taut, more fit than you had ever been. You were working yourself to the bone, teeth grit, fighting to avenge her death, when you could have been fighting to save her. 

“Fuck, Vickie,” you coughed, the letters of her name foreign against your tongue after all this time.

You hung your towel on the back of a chair and let yourself out of your room. You halted in the doorway, a piece of paper fluttering in your periphery, folded and cell-o taped to your door. 

You’d received two similar notices: one when you’d been given your final mission, and another the day after, informing you you needed to report to Quarantine. 

You wiped clammy hands on the thighs of your cargos before checking either side of the hall and ripping the flyer down, unfolding it to scan, reading and rereading in case you’d missed important information in your haste. 

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

It was signed by all of the important people. 

Betrayal tasted of ash, felt like a swift punch to the gut, blurred your vision like heat waves. The same heat that licked at exposed shoulders stung in your chest. You slammed the door behind you, paper crumpled in one hand, and stomped down the hall.

You hadn’t gotten far, slipping just past an open stairwell, when you saw a dark head of hair scurrying downwards and out of sight. You followed two floors down, calling his name just as he was a about to slip out near the Mess Hall.

Harrington stopped, looked up at you with knit brows as you finished your descent and shoved two fists directly into his chest. He stumbled backward, back pinned to a concrete wall. 

“What the fuck?” You seethed, slapping your notice into his chest. 

He didn’t even look at it, jaw clenched, eyes stoic. He knew. He knew because he’s the one who ratted you out, who spilled all of your secrets to the wrong people. He’d been waiting for you to slip up, and you’d been dumb enough to fall into his trap. 

“What is your problem with me, huh?” You shoved at his shoulders again.

No response. 

You shook your head, laughed dryly. “You can’t even use her as an excuse because you hated me for months before she died.” 

His nostrils flared, but he just stared down at you, crossed his arms over his chest as a shield.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this,” you shook the creased notice in one hand. “I trusted you. You know that? I felt safe with you. For the first time in months, I felt safe, and you went and called Hopper on me?”

The scurry of sneakers and chatter down the hallway startled you, and you pulled back, breath heavy, face warmed in embarrassment and anger, betrayal. A few kids snuck past, muttering apologies before they giggled up the staircase. When you were sure they were out of earshot, you rounded on Harrington again. 

“I thought you were supposed to ‘protect me’.” You put the words in air quotes, digging deep, throwing his words back in his face.

“Are you done?” His voice sent chills down your spine, measured, snapped, venomous.

Your jaw clenched, fists too, at your side.

He snatched the paper out of your hand and trailed his fingertips across the page as he read. Then, he pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it, passing it to you. 

You scoffed, but felt the nausea settle the moment your eyes found the words.

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

“Hopper told us we’d have one more psych eval before they put us back on the field. He wants a medical professional to reassure him we aren’t going to kill each other.” Harrington’s voice was nothing short of catty, the bite of a mean girl you knew he’d harbored in his past. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged before emitting a growl that startled you a few steps backwards.

“God, you’re so fucking frustrating, you know that?” He tossed his arms in the air, voice finally cracking the soft, stoic barrier you were used to.

You read the words on the page again and again, pushing through the embarrassment to undying panic, the root of your problems, the girl with red hair that lingered at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, taking great delight in your pain. You took a deep breath, folded the paper carefully back up to hand it to Harrington, who snatched it quickly from your grasp.

You swallowed. “I haven’t told Linda about any of it.” 

“What?” His jaw was clenched now, fists too, and you were burning under his gaze.

You shrugged. “I lied to her about all of it. She knows about the nightmares, but she thinks they went away. She thinks I’m going through the normal stages of grief. That’s why she told Hopper I was fit to go back on the field.” 

You expected him to yell, to throw something, to abandon you here in this hallway. 

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed, shrugged. “Fucking, whatever.” Then, he gestured for you to turn and head back up the stairwell. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

—

Linda’s office was musty, poor ventilation and heat wave combing with the misters she used for her plants. You were suffocated, heart racing, warm under buzzing fluorescents. Harrington’s seat was too close to yours, his bouncing knee shaking your thigh, making you seasick. Linda paced and hummed that stupid tune. 

“How are you two doing?”

You glanced sideways at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and slumped further into his chair. “Fine.” You both managed in various tones of annoyance. 

Linda peered at you from over her glasses, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Excellent. Then you’re definitely both up for some team building exercises.”

An alarming, but gruff sound escaped your partner, and he played it off as a cough into his fist. 

“Yes, Steve, you’ve always done well with these,” Linda smiled, tone every bit patronizing as she wheeled her finger in a circle your direction. “Go ahead, face each other.” 

“What?” You glanced sideways at Harrington and watched in horror as he turned his chair to face yours, feet scraping along linoleum. You’d nearly fallen off your own seat when a large hand met your thigh, encouraging you to do the same. “Is this really - “ 

You weren’t sure how to finish the question, stumbling under Harrington’s grasp as he manhandled you into an about-face.

“I can do it,” you snapped, standing with a huff to turn your chair around, and slumping back into it, knees knocking with his own. You crossed your arms over your chest and sat up straight, as to avoid any further physical contact. Your toes curled back around the chair legs while his leg continued to bounce incessantly millimeters from your own. 

“Perfect,” Linda chimed, just out of periphery. “I’m sensing a bit of tension this morning, so why don’t we start with frustrations?” 

You blinked at her from over your shoulder, feeling suddenly warm under Harrington’s gaze. Your entire body tensed in the proximity, confusion radiating into anger that clenched your fists tighter under your arms. “What does that even mean?” 

“Steven, why don’t you start? You’ve done this before. Let’s get it out. What about this partnership is frustrating you the most in this moment?” 

Harrington barked a laugh, and when you snapped your head to face him, he was grinding a wry smile back between his molars. He avoided eye contact, choosing instead to stare at your knees while his head shook, hand scrubbed against the stubble on his jaw. 

You dipped your head to catch his eye, and you were torn between whether to silently plea for him to keep your secret or dare him to speak his truth.

He took one more sideways glance at your proctor before releasing an exasperated sigh, hands in the air as if throwing all caution to the wind. “I’m frustrated,” he emphasized, as though he was a good little boy who had spent hours learning I-statements in this very room, “in this moment,” he punctuated with a fingertip to his knee, “with how competitive she is.” 

You fought the urge to argue, to allow the words of protest to slip from your open mouth. 

Linda was thrilled. “Speak on that. In what ways does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?” 

“What is this?” You stepped in, waving your arms to stop the flow of their teamed attack.

Harrington held his hand out as if you stay you were providing fine examples. 

“It’s important that we foster an environment where we can all get our grievances out. Let’s listen to what he has to say, and then I promise it’ll be your turn.” Linda scolded like an elementary school teacher, scribbling unmentionables on her Godforsaken legal pad. 

You recrossed your arms and glared at Harrington’s returning scowl. 

“Go ahead, Steve,” she offered for him to continue. “How does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?” 

He scooted upright in his chair again, halting the bob of his knee in favor of picking at a loose thread on his inseam. “I feel like we can’t get anything done. There’s always push-back, always an argument.”

“I feel the same way,” you interjected, slumped further in your own chair in defiance. “I feel like I can’t do anything without you scrutinizing it, and if I do ask for your feedback, I’m met with the silent treatment.”

“I don’t feel like I can get a word in edge-wise.” He leaned forward still, a challenge. “You won’t let me say anything without beating me to the punch.” 

“Because I know what you’re going to say!” You sat upright again, tossing your hands in the air. 

“Okay, alright,” Linda cut you both off with the click of her pen against her notepad. 

You both shuffled back to relaxed seating positions, and she walked back to her spritzer to continue over-watering her plants. Maybe it was a nervous habit. You suddenly found yourself wishing you had a watering can handle to wring. 

“Answer me this. When did you both start viewing your relationship as a competition?”

You swallowed, glanced back across the span of your knees to where they met his. His began to bob again, and you withheld that ever-present need to halt his movement. You closed your eyes, tried to shut out the gentle waver of the floor beneath your feet. There, in the darkness, humidity clinging your clothes to your chest, you felt her, just between your shoulder blades, that smiling face, mischievous. 

“Last year,” your voice came before you opened your eyes. 

Harrington stared back at you, crease folded between his brows. 

“We were competing for Scorch Leads: him and Robin, Vickie and me.”

“That makes sense,” Linda spoke from somewhere behind you, too far away. “You were in separate teams, going after a set objective.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, swallowed back the lump forming in your throat as you dared to look him in the eye. “If I had known what would happen, I wouldn’t have tried so hard.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Linda asked. 

Harrington eyed you, head tilted downward, a shadow cast down the bridge of his nose. 

You shrugged, your response heavy on your tongue, but part of you figured this session had to facilitate a conversation that wouldn’t be allowed outside those doors, wouldn’t be tolerated. You felt a spectral hand on your shoulder, warmth guiding you to speak. You chewed on the words before they fell from your throat a little wrong. “I mean, he’s better at this than I am. He’s strong. He’s capable. He knows what he’s doing. If he and Robin had become leads, we probably wouldn’t be in this… predicament.” You let out a shaky breath, swirling your hand around your own head to indicate what you meant. “Vickie would still be alive.” 

“Or Robin or myself would be dead,” he snapped back. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he tossed his hand your direction again. “There’s always a competition. One of us always has to come out on top. One of us has to be better.” 

“I’m conceding to you!” You scoffed. “What more do you want from me?” 

“I don’t know, for you to listen to me, for once?”

Your molars slammed together at the tightness of your jaw, and the room fell to silence. Not even Linda’s spritzing continued. 

Steve grit his teeth, cracked the knuckles on his right hand, still a bit scabbed over. Then, he pieced his fingers through his hair. “I feel… so much guilt… every single day.” His eyes were dark, shoulders slumped. 

That feeling restrained you, asked you to hear him out. 

“Because I couldn’t save her, for Robin.” He licked his lips, met your gaze. “For you. Because I couldn’t protect you.”

The loom of something darker lingered in your periphery, an ice-cold chill down your spine. 

“And I feel so guilty because of how,” he shuffled in his seat, broke eye-contact, “relieved I feel that it wasn’t me and Robin.”

It struck like he’d doused a full glass of water in your face, a gasped breath, the wash away of any comforting warmth that had been replaced with a cold chill. You shifted in your seat, knocked your knees across his as you turned away from him. 

“You get everything you need, doc?” You snapped.

Linda reached for her notes, scribbling a few more things down with a pinched expression, but you had already stood to leave, taking the handful of strides to the doorway to release yourself back into a less-stuffy hallway.

“No, shit, that’s not -” Harrington’s words were cut-off as the door slammed behind you. 

He was relieved. He said he was relieved that you had been the one to murder Vickie. He was relieved that it hadn’t been him, hadn’t been Robin, a sentiment you’re sure you would have understood from his position, but from where you sat, in an endless swirl of chaos and panic and agony, it felt like a stab to the back, to the gut, like char and ash and smoke. 

You made it halfway up the next flight of stairs before he caught up with you, a sturdy hand catching your wrist and wheeling you to face him. 

You yanked yourself out of his grasp and shoved at his chest hard enough to have him tumbling downward. “Go fuck yourself, Harrington.” 

—

Eddie’s room smelled of stale weed and peanut butter. His government issue bed was far squishier than yours, but it didn’t matter because you weren’t going to sleep anyway. 

“After that shitshow, she still told Hopper you were good to go out on the field? As a team?” He guffawed, lips stuck together with peanut butter from the spoon in his hand. 

You shrugged, squeezing two Saltine crackers around a chocolate bar, the spread squishing out on either side, and you licked around it before crunching into the sandwich.

“She needs a fucking psych evaluation.” Eddie’s joke had the corners of your lips turning up, and he elbowed at your side until you swatted him away. 

He laughed, mouth full and hearty, before you sank back into the comfort of each other’s shoulders again, a closeness you’d missed with everyone else, thankful for his surrogacy. 

“Really though, how are you feeling?” He asked after a moment, breath evening, sticky midnight snacks swallowed. 

You shrugged, licked melted chocolate from your hand. “Well, I’m in your room at quarter to one in the morning. How’re you feeling, Eds?” 

“Terrified,” he answered, and you expected more humor in his tone. 

You felt his eyes boring holes into your skull as you respun the lid to the jar and tightened it, wiping any residue on your pant leg. “Don’t be. Everything’ll be fine.” 

“She says with Evil Incarnate looming over her.”

Eddie’s words sent an increasingly familiar chill down your spine, the reason you’d been evading sleep, a presence you hardly wanted to stir mere hours from setting foot in the Ether. 

“Could we change the subject?” You pushed off from the bed, crumbs rolling off your chest and onto the floor beneath your socks. 

“Have you seen him again?”

Your temple began to twitch, the first sign of a headache, and you squeezed your eyes to dull the throb. “Eddie,” you warned. 

“I’m not kidding. If this is serious, I’ll call Hopper right now.” Despite his words, you didn’t sense truth in his tone, and when you met his gaze, there was a softness to his dark eyes, a fear that radiated through you both. 

“I haven’t seen him,” you shook your head, began rinsing his spoon in the sink. As the particulars of food and suds circled the drain, your vision blurred from exhaustion, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. 

In two hours, you’d be wrestling gravity downward. You’d be strapped to Harrington, oxygen mask on, carrying a heavy pack of jet fuel. You’d be back in that cold, dark, damp place that held nothing but agony. And somehow, this is what you wanted? What you’d been working toward? 

“What’s it like?” You asked, blinking your eyes open to stare at your own reflection in the smoke-stained mirror. Your features looked gaunt, unrecognizable. The muscles of your right eye began to twitch. 

Eddie spoke your name, soft, uncertain. 

You turned to face him. “What’s it like to be Flayed? For real. Don’t give me any of the ‘I didn’t feel a thing’ bullshit. I know you lied to me when she died. I don’t need to feel better, I need to know.” Your hands were trembling, and you clenched your fists at your side to steady them. 

Your friend, your only real friend, emitted a sound of distress, pulling spindling fingers through his curls. Seeing your stance hadn’t changed from between his knuckles, he sighed and patted the spot next to him for you to return to your place. 

With careful steps, you crawled back onto his mattress, choosing a spot near the foot to face him. When you were finally seated, and he’d torn the rest of his thumb cuticle off with his teeth, he spoke, that Midwestern drawl so specific to Eddie Munson. 

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever experience before. It’s cold. Like teeth-chattering cold, and your muscles want to react, but it’s like something else is calming them. It’s a bit like dreaming, like that weird in-between when you’re laying in bed but your leg’s asleep so you can’t get up and go to the bathroom.

“You know that pit in your stomach when something horrible is about to happen?”

You swallowed, nodded, shifted in your spot to quell the chill growing at the base of your spine. 

“I felt it the day my Mom died. The whole day. I just knew it was going to happen. With Chrissy, too, when I found her standing there, I got it.” 

He grimaced, ran his hands down his face again. “Well, when he’s got you, it’s like that all of the time. Like you’re aware of how wrong it is, how unnatural. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

You closed your eyes, pushing back the ache that had spread into your jaw, settled behind your eye socket. “How do you know?” 

“I don’t really know. For me, I was attacked. Bats got me. I lost most of my blood, my leg was dangling by a fucking thread. When I woke up, he’d already had ahold of me. I hate that I feel like I owe him my life.”

You reached across the sheets to tangle your knuckles in his. His were bonier, long, spindly. He’d been through so much, and although you didn’t know him before all of this, you were sure he’d been a healthy young man, prime of his life. You all were. Now, alongside the world, the Ether was sucking you dry. 

“Just promise me something, okay?” Eddie squeezed your hand until your knuckles whitened with his, and you looked up into those big, sad brown eyes. “The minute you feel him, the very microsecond, I need you to tell Steve, and I need you two to get the Hell out of there.” 

“Eddie,” you muttered. You’d thought about this since before Vickie, since before the screams burned at your lungs, since before Harrington had hoisted you away from her burning corpse. All of you made peace with it, knew what had to happen if any of you were Flayed, for the betterment of the group. 

“I came out on the other side,” he growled. “And so will you. You come back, and you Quarantine, and we figure out how to burn him out of you.”

—

The Gate’s pull made you sick. The topsy-turvy gravitational change that had your stomach churning but never righted. You were hyper-aware of Eddie’s warning, feeling wholly not-right, like everything in your body knew you weren’t meant to be here, that this was unnatural. Although it’d been so long, you couldn’t remember if this was how you always felt. 

Everything was cast in greyscale, a lack of sunlight providing a lack of color, but nothing had changed from when you’d seen it last. Vines blanketed the world in intricate weaves, keeping from areas already charred black. The tear hung skyward, pressed into the roof of a cart port somewhere near downtown, though downtown down here somehow felt more alive. 

Melvald’s denoted an autumn sale. The Hawk was showing All the Right Moves. Times were simpler, and somehow that made everything more sinister.

You walked in step with Harrington, your pack heavy against your shoulders, sweat beading there turned ice-cold. Your breath fanned from your face in a cloud that went nowhere, atmosphere stagnant, wet. 

“Alright, you two,” Wheeler rounded on you at a fork in the road. “Just a routine burn, we’re torching houses surrounding the area. You know the drill. Burn what you can, and meet us back at the Gate at 700.” 

You glanced at the numbers of your watch, the red softened. 4:00. “Copy that.” 

“And guys?” She tucked her fingers into Harrington’s oversized hand. “Be careful?” 

“We will, Nance,” he offered a weak smile, tight-lipped. “You guys, too. Jonathan.” He nodded to the other boy. 

Byers nodded, solemn, and the eyes he made at you were nothing short of worrisome, judgmental. 

“Ready?” You hoisted your pack higher and broke off from them, heading down Indiana toward Elm, Maple, Hemlock. You heard the scuttle of boots as Harrington trudged to keep up.

You didn’t grow up in this town. You had no attachment to the Tigers. Hell, you had no real attachment to your own mascot, the Roane County Ravens. Your only real memories of Hawkins were tied to the Fair, smoking in parked cars, hooking up with boys along the banks of Lovers Lake. 

But you could remember the first few times you’d stepped foot in the Ether, the chill up your spine at the memories consumed by black ichor and vines. That was before the Spread, before it had seeped so deeply into the roots of the real world that bits and pieces of your home had been swallowed, sink holes and pits dured to gaping mouths, full of brambles and teeth and aching, throbbing pain. 

Harrington pulled you by the elbow to the first house. A massive oak sat out front, charred to devastation. Red pockmarked it, a wide crack down the center that had split the wood and caused half to crash to the ground, blocking street access. Vines had grown over it, decaying the underbrush, painting everything slimy and black. 

“Are you good?” He adjusted his pack, pulling the hose and trigger from its holster.

“Fine,” you grit your teeth. Your headache had thrived in the handful of hours since you’d seen Eddie, that piercing ache in your eye socket that blurred everything in an aura of technicolor. You’d taken more pills, closed your eyes on the drive over, thankful for cloudy skies and the darkness of night. 

Harrington muttered something unintelligible over your shoulder, and with a deep breath, you took simultaneous steps inside a half-eaten garage.

Everything was charred beyond recognition. The roof was caved in. A skittering sound had you walking faster, nimble feet to an unlocked doorway, and not until you were inside did you stop to settle your racing heartbeat.

“Kitchen,” Harrington spoke, voice muffled under a plastic mask.

You nodded, took a few steps forward to let him through. You wanted to follow, to crunch your way onto charred linoleum tiles, but something compelled you the opposite direction, around a large brick fireplace. You left Harrington his devices, sidestepping onto polyester shagged carpet, the color and smell of burned plastic long since faded. 

A wide window, smashed and cracked, exposed the ruins of the oak tree. A field of despair lay westward, a place where cattle once grazed, now scorched Earth, scorched Ether. This little sitting room, with replicated antique furniture and copies of classics on broad bookshelves, seemed mostly untouched, unmarred save a few pockmarked walls, peeled paint and wallpaper, a broken window. Just a bit moth-eaten, but otherwise, a safe-haven. 

You closed your eyes and breathed in the damp air inside your mask, felt the relief of an ache dispelled. 

Then you heard her voice, soft, a whisper on the wind. Your neck snapped with the force of your head turn, glancing toward a rickety staircase. Harrington climbed, pack strapped, and your eyes honed in on the heel of his heavy boot, where it met blackened staircase. 

“Steve!” You called out, leaping his direction, but it was too late, the stairs were collapsing, upper floor with them, scorched and broken, a mess of ash and wood, and Steve Harrington was lost in the rubble before your eyes. 

---

A/N: This chapter contains the inception moment of the idea for this entire fic! I love the little moments between them, the push and pull, no matter how exhausting and competitive they are. Please come yell at me about it. Thanks. Love you! Thanks, as always, for reading xo xo xo

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But maybe this is something you're allowed to be extra happy about: you got a raise at work. You'd been expecting it and practiced your pitch for weeks with Steve and had been waiting for the right time to sit down with your manager. Today ended up being that day and it worked. Better than you'd expected, really. You're feeling pleased with yourself, ready to share your news and maybe celebrate once you get him. You want to see the look on Steve's face when you tell him all of the prep paid off and then some.

You hum as you unlock the door and look for him when you toe off your shoes and plunk your keys into the bowl. He doesn't seem to be on the couch or in the kitchen as far as you can tell but you know he's home as his jacket is hanging on the hook. The entryway smells vaguely of his cologne, so he must have arrived not long before you.

"I'm home," you call.

"Bedroom," Steve yells back. "Thank god you're home," he continues. You set about putting away your bag and getting a snack, trying to be quiet so you can hear his hollering. "I had such a shitty day."

Oh. Your excitement shrinks back into a box in your chest, shoved to the side for later. He had a bad day? Bad days for Steve can mean anything from someone being rude to something really bad actually happening. He's not great at specifying.

"What happened?" you ask.

He grunts. "Just...shit." He finally appears, hair a mess from tugging his sweatshirt over his head. He's already in comfortable clothes and looks ready to go to bed. You can see the tension in the line of his shoulders and the twitch of his jaw. 'Not worth hashing out."

Steve steps into your space like he was made to be there. Arms around your shoulders, chin hooked over your shoulder as he slumps into you. "I'm sorry," you say softly. "That you had a bad day."

You're partners. Partners comfort each other when things are tough, and that's what you're going to do. But there's a part of you that's a bit down now, too, that it isn't the time to share your good news with Steve. It can wait but you really did want to tell him.

"Not your fault," he huffs. He presses his lips to your neck, your cheek, your temple, and then pulls back, hands on your shoulders. The tension has seeped out of him somewhat but he's frowning now.

"What?" you ask.

"Hold on," he says. His hands frame your face and tilt your jaw side to side gently. "You look like..."

"Steve, what?"

"You look like you're excited about something."

You laugh out of shock. "How do you know that? I didn't know I could look like that."

Steve shrugs. His thumbs stroke the skin of your cheeks. "I know all of your expressions," he says. "You get a crease here when you're thinking --" he presses between your brows "-- and a line here when you're holding something in." His pointer finger traces a line at the corner of your mouth. "And when you're trying not to laugh at me you get three tiny creases here --" He presses his thumb to the corner of your eye.

You bat his hand away. "Alright, alright, I get it." He looks pleased with himself. "It's not a big deal."

You circle his wrists with your hands and try to pull away. He likes pasta when he's in a bad mood and you know you've got some tomato sauce leftover. But you can't make anything if he's still holding you.

"Hey," he says, softer than before. His eyes are bright and warm. "Tell me. It'll make me feel less shitty."

You're not sure that's true, but you really do want to tell him. "Okay," you give in. "I got a raise today."

Steve's mouth drops open and he smiles at the same time. You can see all of his teeth before he lunges, wrapping his arms around you and twirling you in a circle right there in the kitchen, your toes brushing the ground.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he cries.

"Steve!" He puts you down and laughs. "No, I'm not kidding." You're both breathing quickly.

"You let me talk about my bullshit day when we could have been talking about how you got a raise! You should have screamed it when you got home!"

He starts to press kisses to every inch of you he can reach. Your forehead, your brow, your nose, your cheeks.

Breathless giggles surge out of you, the excitement you felt all day returning full force now that he's sharing it.

"That's amazing," he says between kisses. "Best shit I've ever heard. I'm so glad and I knew it, that pitch was really fucking good."

Steve kisses you properly once, twice, three times in quick pecks before pulling you in for another hug.

"I'm happy about it," you say into his shoulder.

He sways you in his hold just a little. You press closer to him and breathe him in. His sweatshirt smells a little like him, a little like you. "Are you proud of yourself? I'm really proud of you."

"Yeah," you admit. "I am. I...almost didn't tell you because I didn't want to make you feel like we couldn't commiserate about your bad day.

Steve pulls back. He palms your hip with one hand and cradles your jaw with the other. You lean into the touch.

"Okay," he says. "Hey, listen."

"I'm listening," you tease, but he doesn't laugh.

"That's nice of you but your good news is my good news, yeah? This makes me really happy even if my day sucked," he says. "Because I love you and you being happy makes me happy."

"But you being upset means I can be upset with you," you counter. "We can wallow together."

"Yeah, but we can celebrate together, too. Don't keep good things to yourself because I'm carrying bad ones," he says. Steve isn't always the most verbose guy but when he wants you to understand something he always manages to get his point across in a way that makes you feel incredibly tender.

It's a battle you know you won't win. Steve loves you and that means he wants as much of you as you'll give him, good, bad, and ugly. And you love him, so it's the same in reverse. It's a good problem to have, being loved this much.

"Fine," you allow. He beams.

"So how are we celebrating?"

"I didn't think about that," you say. "I just wanted to tell you."

Steve's expression softens. "Okay, now that's just stupid sweet," he says.

You roll your eyes. "We could order food?"

He snaps his fingers and heads for the phone on the wall. "Amazing idea. Genius. That's the kind of thinking that got you that raise," he says. "Go put on your pjs and I'll order. The usual, right?"

You nod. He looks so happy, receiver in hand as he looks for the phone number in your menu drawer, hair still a riot and feet bare. You love him for being so excited for you. You love him for loving you.

"Steve," you say softly. He doesn't look up.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." That gets him to look.

"Don't thank me, baby," he says with a smile. "I'm just a trophy boyfriend." You laugh all the way to the bedroom.