Chapter Text
Saturday, November 12, 1983, 9:48 a.m.
When the half-flayed men milling about the lab woke up, it took about 8 hours for a high-ranking officer briefed on Project Rainbow to helicopter in. Steve was separated from his friends and left alone in an interrogation room until General Dr. Kay walked in with coffee.
Steve isn’t handcuffed or anything, but it’s like he is. He wishes he were anywhere else—like the hospital, with Carol, Jon, and Will. He doesn’t say anything as Dr. Kay sits down across from him.
She watches him for a beat, swirling her cup calmly, before asking, “Time travel?”
Eyebrows raised, because he knows it sounds insane, Steve nods and confirms, “Yep.”
“I want to know everything you think you know,” Dr. Kay says, relaxing into her seat. She brushes back her short white hair and takes a sip of her paper cup coffee.
Steve leans forward. He says, “Then I want a few things first.”
She smiles. “More than your own freedom?”
Steve laughs. He’s been around the block before. You can never assume that the U.S. government is going to do the right thing—you always need insurance. “My freedom,” he repeats. “And the same for Will, Carol, everyone else who was flayed, and Eleven. I also want Dr. Owens to run the lab.”
“Dr. Owens… Okay. But I don’t know what you mean by flayed,” she says. “How can I agree to something I don’t understand?”
“You’ll understand in a minute,” Steve says, refusing to budge. “But I want your word. And a piece of paper that says the same.”
“How do I know that you know anything worthwhile?” She asks, plain and simple. She shrugs, taking another sip like this is casual. Like they met at a restaurant downtown. “You could say anything. Do you see how my hands are tied?”
“No,” Steve says. “I don’t. I’m not really smart, you know. I’m a C+ student.”
She stares at him, quietly holding the lip of the cup to her mouth.
When you play the game, sometimes you have to tip your hand. Steve says, “Okay. Here’s your appetizer: Victor Creel didn’t kill his family.”
Dr. Kay’s eyebrows fly up, unblinking eyes tracking Steve. She appraises him for a minute. “That’s the past. Not the future.”
“Sometimes they’re one and the same,” Steve says with a shrug, because he’s lived it. “The Raiders win the Super Bowl this year. Reagan’s elected again. I didn’t get into college the first time around. You want the future? I want guaranteed freedom for my friends and me.”
“Okay, Mr. Harrington,” she says, putting her cup down. She looks past him to the mirror, giving a short nod. “Dr. Owens. Your freedom. The freedom of the… flayed as you call them. William Byers, Carol Perkins, but…”
“But?”
“...But I can’t let Eleven run free. She’s the property of the U.S. government.”
“Then no deal,” Steve says, leaning back. “I want all or nothing.”
“You’re in no position,” she says, leaning forward. “To play hardball.”
“And you are?” Steve asks, looking around himself.
She’s visibly annoyed by his question, rolling her eyes and clenching her jaw shut. After a moment, she looks back. “Define ‘freedom’.”
Steve smiles.
.
.
.
Friday, March 22, 1985, 2:25 p.m.
The final bell rings, and Steve is up and out of his seat before it finishes, handing in his pathetic in-class English assignment.
Admissions letters are coming. Indiana University should have mailed his by now—Steve doesn’t remember the exact date his rejection came in pre-McFly 1985, but he knows it was around spring break, and spring-motherfucking-break starts today.
He’s been heading home as soon as he can every day this week in the hopes that it’s there, waiting for him. So far, nothing.
Robin does not share his anxiety on this matter. Steve is impatiently leaning against his car when she finally meanders out of the school, talking to one of her band friends. She clearly sees Steve pointing at his watch and decides to ignore him.
“Five minutes won’t make or break your acceptance letter,” Robin says, finally trudging up to the car five and a half minutes later, not that Steve is counting. “The content of the letter doesn’t change if you open it right away or hours later. That big fat congratulations will be waiting for you at 2:30 or 10.”
He silently points at his BMW, waiting until they’re inside to ask, “Is it? Is it going to say congratulations? I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, I do,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “If you don’t have any faith in yourself, believe in me. I edited that essay as if I were Michelangelo, painting babies, clouds, and men with rippling muscles onto the Sistine Chapel. It’s a winner. They’ll talk about it for years to come.”
Steve mumbles, “Then it should have been here by now.”
“You’re so impatient lately. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing’s up with me,” Steve says, turning the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. As he passes Eddie’s van, his eyes linger, but he doesn’t see the metalhead nearby. He continues, clearing his throat, “I’m just… worried.”
“About getting into school?”
“I guess. I’m not sure,” Steve says. “It’s senior year, you know? This was pretty crappy the first time around.”
“Is it crap again?”
“No,” Steve says. “Kind of the opposite. Maybe I’m subconsciously wondering when the other shoe is gonna drop.”
“Do you know…” Robin starts to ask, leaning back in her seat. “...The origin of that phrase?”
Steve sighs, but he’s amused. “You’re going to tell me, I guess.”
“Way back in the day,” she says, tapping a finger against her chin. “In, like, shoddy buildings, the walls and floors were so thin that people could hear when their neighbor took off their shoes before bed.”
“Thank you, Dr. Buckley,” Steve says.
“Because when you hear the first one, the second one is inevitable,” she finishes.
“Does this fun fact have a purpose?”
“I’m just wondering what the first shoe is,” she says. “What feels inevitable to you?”
Steve heaves a sigh, thinking. Can his entire first pass at 1984-1986 count as a first shoe? Probably not. He glances at her. “Whatever. I just need to know if I got in. Then maybe I can relax.”
“I know you’ve known me longer than I’ve known you,” Robin says. “But I’ve known you a while now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fully relaxed.”
Steve isn’t being completely honest with Robin. The past year and a half has been the longest period of radio silence from the Upside Down. No disappearances, no possessions, no flickering lights or faceless men in the woods. It feels too good to be true—like Steve’s been suspended in time for months, waiting—worrying—running in place.
Most of Steve just wants it all to be over—for El, for Will, for everyone he cares about. But there’s also a part of him… a part he will never show the light of day… that never wants it to end. He wants to hit pause forever, stay right here, because he’s not sure he’ll know how to live unless he’s fighting Vecna. He barely knows how to relax anymore.
Who even is Steve Harrington, as a college man?
Steve runs a hand through his hair. It’s back to his favored length, almost brushing his shoulders. He changes the subject. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Don’t act like you care,” Robin says, jokingly. “Isn’t Hellfire tonight?”
“Yeah, so?” Steve responds, a touch defensive.
She smiles coyly. “So, you have to pick up Dustin. Duh.”
“Oh. Maybe,” Steve agrees. She snickers. “Shut up. What are you up to? Working?”
“No, I’m off tonight. Carol said she wanted to give me a makeover,” she says, playing with her hair. It’s short again, right above her shoulders.
“A makeover,” Steve repeats. “So, like, with makeup?”
“Steve, I have no idea,” she says. “I think she just wants to get out of her sister’s house.”
Carol’s parents didn’t survive the Great Flaying Incident of 1983. Her older sister took her in, and they don’t really get along. Last Steve heard, Amy was threatening to send Carol to their grandparents because she thought Carol was flirting with her fiancé. Steve says, “Can’t blame her.”
Scratching at her nail polish, Robin sighs. “I’m a little excited. Let me ask you something. What does she see in men?”
Steve looks over at her, deadpan. “What’s wrong with men?”
“They’re meatheaded,” Robin insists. “Loud. Messy. You know who she started dating?”
“Do I have eyes?” Steve asks in response. Billy and Carol have been the talk of the school for the past two weeks. Steve did his best to scare Carol away, but Billy—wily as he is—weaseled his way in. “I told her he’s bad news, and the next day, they’re grinding in the goddamn parking lot.”
“Bad news? He’s a complete neanderthal,” Robin says. “Or, if I may quote Michael Wheeler: a mouthbreather. He scratches his balls, like, every five minutes. I don’t care how perky his ass is in denim, what the hell does she see in him?”
“There’s no reasoning with Carol Perkins,” Steve says, shaking his head. “She’s always been like this. Tell her not to do something, and she’ll do it anyway, even if she doesn’t really want to. In middle school, I told her not to climb a tree. Guess who had to call the fire department when she couldn’t climb down.”
“She’s so fiery,” Robin sighs, wistfully looking out the window. “That’s what I like about her.”
“I’d tell you to do something about it if I hadn’t watched her stick her tongue down Billy’s throat at lunch.” Steve turns down Robin’s street. “Rob, I am sympathetic to your feelings, and I am always your champion… but she might be a lost cause.”
“Thanks for keeping my hopes up, friend,” Robin says, sarcastically. “How could you say that?”
“I’m just calling it like I see it. I’ve known Carol a long time.”
“You just don’t see her the way I do. She’s different now.”
“Different, yes,” Steve agrees. Both Carol and Jonathan are a little… different now. Sometimes they get so quiet that Steve has started keeping a portable radio with him, just in case he needs to play a song. He continues, “But she’s still Carol.”
“She just needs some encouragement. You’re proof that even preps can be bisexual.”
Bisexual, Steve thinks. It’s an open secret between him and Robin—what he’s been doing with Eddie for the better part of a year—but he’s still a little embarrassed. It’s not like he likes other guys—he’s never felt this way with any of his other friends, his teammates. It’s an old argument at this point—whether or not Steve is the legendary bisexual that Robin insists that he is. No use dragging it up. Blushing, he pulls up next to her house and gently demands, “Get out of my car.”
“Yeah, yeah, mom,” she says, unbuckling and pushing her door open. “Pick me up early tomorrow. I want to grab lunch before our shift.”
Steve salutes her. “I’ll try. I have a session at the lab tomorrow.” He pauses, looking over her hair and clothes. “Make good choices with Carol tonight.”
Before she can slide out of her seat, she turns back and whispers, “Do popular girls actually pillow fight at sleepovers, or is that just a rumor?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Steve whispers back. “But if it’s true, Carol’s left-handed.”
A beat. “If I ask her not to kiss me, think she’ll rebel and do it anyway?”
“...I need to check the mail, Robs.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, finally relenting and getting out. “See you tomorrow, Harrington. Ring me if you get the letter.” She shuts the door.
The drive home is simultaneously too short and too long.
Steve can’t decide if he even wants to go to college anymore. When he woke up in 1983, he thought he could have it all. Save the world, get the girl, earn a college degree. But Steve finally knows better; every crossroad requires a toll.
College used to be this amorphous… thing that he and Tommy would talk about. It was freedom, and parties, and girls. A period of pleasurable mistakes, as Steve’s father once said. Just the thought of all the possibilities excited Steve. He and Tommy would joke about taking IU by storm, maybe even dorming together during Freshman year—before they moved into frat housing, of course.
In another life, Tommy got to experience college for about three semesters… before Steve ripped it away from him.
Shaking his head, Steve realizes that he’s been sitting in his car in front of his house, parked and silent, for ten whole minutes. He gets out and examines the mailbox—empty. His mother must have brought the mail inside.
“Steve?” She calls from the kitchen. “That you?”
“It’s me,” Steve calls back, looking around the cabinet they keep in the foyer for the stack of mail. Nothing. Re-checking, he asks, “Did we get any mail today?”
“We did,” his mother says, appearing down the hall, in the kitchen doorway. She lifts an envelope with an eager, open expression.
Even from where Steve’s standing, he can make out the IU logo. He swallows. “For me?” He asks. His father sometimes gets alumni mailers.
“For you,” she confirms, smiling and waving him over. “Come on, I’ve been waiting all day.”
She shoves the envelope into his hands. It’s standard-sized. Not big, like Nancy said it’d be. “It’s small,” he observes disdainfully.
“It can still be an acceptance,” his mother insists, grasping her hands together in anticipation. “C’mon, Mo. Let’s see.”
Steve takes a deep breath, trying to silence the nerves in his chest. The worst thing the letter can say is that he’s been rejected, and Steve’s already read that letter once. He can do it again. A rejection would be the sign that he needs—the sign that proves that Steve is meant to stick around here for a while longer. On the other hand, an acceptance would mean it’s time for him to move on. He takes another breath, running his fingers across the smooth, bone-white paper.
He tries pulling at the lip of the envelope when his mother suddenly presents a letter opener—the fancy silver one that his father keeps in his office. She says, “For luck.”
Looking up at her, Steve takes the opener and slices through the envelope. She takes it back, and with hands he’s struggling to steady, he pulls out the letter. He reads aloud, “Dear Mr. Harrington, I am writing to inform you that the committee of admissions cannot, at this time, make a final decision on your application for the class of 1989. However…” He looks up at his mother.
“Keep reading,” she says.
It looks like a rejection to Steve, so why keep reading? She nudges him. He sighs and obliges. “However…because of your outstanding personal essay, athletic achievements, and family legacy with the university, the committee has voted to place your name on a waiting list for applicants for whom we hope places may become available later.” He pauses, rereading that line silently. He asks, “What?”
His mother takes the letter and keeps reading. “If more spots open up,” she summarizes. “Then you’ll be admitted. This is good, Steve.”
Steve laughs.
“Steve?”
“Good? This is great!” Steve says, rubbing his face. “Kick the can. Who cares, right? Telling me I failed now would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”
“You didn’t fail, Mo,” she says, grabbing his shoulder. He laughs a little harder. “This isn’t a rejection. We can work with this. Plenty of kids choose to attend other schools; a spot will open up for you. You’re probably at the top of the list.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Let’s just talk to your father at dinner.”
“And what would that accomplish aside from a verbal beating?”
She throws up her hands. “He expects a lot from you, Steve, but he’s seen the effort you’ve put in. You’ve buckled down this year. And maybe he can talk to one of his friends on the committee—one of his fraternity brothers has to be on it—”
“No, thanks,” Steve says, backing away. He pulls out his keys from his pocket. “I don’t want to talk to Dad about this. Not today.”
“This is your future, Steve,” she says. “We can’t keep this from him. He could help.”
My future, Steve thinks. What a foreign idea. Hand on the front door, he tells his mother, “I have a club to get to, okay? Tell Dad whatever you want.”
“What club? Is it where you’ve been making your mystery friends?”
“It’s—you won’t understand. It’s a game club. I’ll probably hang out with a mystery friend after, so don’t wait up for me,” he says, then opens the door.
“We’re talking about this with your father eventually!” She calls out after him. “Steve Harrington!”
Steve hits the road—at first in silence, but with nothing to distract him, the thought of his impending failure echoes louder and louder in his heart. He cranks the radio as loud as he can, letting Duran Duran distract him and tell him all about the reflex.
The road doesn’t take Steve directly to school. He finds himself going down winding streets around the edge of town, just cruising. They started building Starcourt a few months ago, just after Christmas. Steve drives by it and parks at the edge of the lot to smoke a cigarette.
There’s a fence surrounding the construction, plastered with banners and posters promoting the mall and its stores.
Wish upon a star – at Starcourt. Coming April 19, 1985
He looks to the next sign.
Something stellar is on the way… April 1985
He sighs, eyes drifting left.
Everything you love, under one Star…court. Be there when we shine, April 1985
Steve finishes his cigarette and resists the urge to throw the bud at one of the posters. He drops it and crushes it under his heel. He told Hawkins Lab about the Russian base under the mall, and they said they would take care of it. But who knows? Maybe the Russians snuck their way in to concuss Steve again. Or maybe Dr. Key kept her word, and everything’s up to code. Whatever.
Staring at the azure sky, Steve decides that he doesn’t want to think anymore. There’s really only one person who can help Steve forget all of this bullshit, never asking more from him. He checks his watch and gets back into his car.
With the basketball season over and the baseball team fighting an away game tonight, the school parking lot is sparse when Steve finally pulls up around 5. He takes the long way to the theater prop room, but soon enough, he’s at the door.
He pushes it open and finds Eddie counting little dolls in the middle of the table. He looks up, shocked. “Steve!” He greets, pushing up from the table. “My liege! Are you—is this—okay, what are you doing here? Don’t mess with me.”
“I’m just here to watch,” Steve says, closing the door behind him. He knows that Eddie’s hinting at him playing. “Don’t get any weird ideas.”
“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie—you know I can’t focus with you here,” Eddie says, grinning and rounding the table.
“You can,” Steve insists. “When does everyone get here?”
Stalking closer and closer to Steve, Eddie says, “In fifteen minutes. But I can’t just let you sit there. Join the mayhem.”
“What if I’m your assistant instead?” Steve offers, happily letting himself be crowded backward against the door. As Eddie approaches, Steve reaches one hand out to grab the inner edge of Eddie’s open jacket. “Put me to work, Munson.”
Considering Steve’s proposition, Eddie leans in, his chest an inch away from Steve’s. He licks his lips and asks, “And how will Sir Steve assist me this evening?”
“I can bring you snacks,” Steve offers, then sighs as Eddie noses along his cheek. “Laugh at your jokes. Move your dolls.”
“They’re called minis,” Eddie says, pressing his lips to Steve’s neck. “And my jokes speak for themselves, I don’t need to seed the audience.”
“Okay, Munson, you tell me how I can help,” Steve says, tilting his head back. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” Eddie’s lips ghost against Steve’s neck as he looks up, making eye contact. He leans in until their lips are a breath away from each other—Steve’s eyes starting to shut in anticipation—and then he whispers, “Play the game.”
Eddie pulls away with a shit-eating grin. Steve rolls his eyes. “You don’t give up,” he says. He stupidly let Jeff and Frank convince him to play a game with them about a year ago, and Steve remembers that night in total horror. He never knew what dice to roll—who knew they made so many kinds? He couldn’t keep track of all the numbers and abbreviations—HP, AC… HPV, STD, who knows. And, most embarrassingly, everyone else knew all the rules, so it was just dumb ol’ Steve on his own, trying and failing to keep up.
“I admit that the first time you played, I tossed you in the deep end,” Eddie says, pulling Steve away from the door by the hand and dragging him over to the table. “I thought it would help and maybe you’d pick up on things quicker.”
“Um, ouch,” Steve says pointedly.
“I didn’t mean—” Eddie gestures to the chairs lining the table, urging Steve to sit. “Look, I vow to take it slow this time. I got a new campaign that we’re starting today—it’s basically the perfect night for you to play.”
Steve pouts. “Let me watch,” he requests again. He holds out a pinky. “And I vow to consider playing again.”
Rubbing his chin, Eddie pretends to think. “Okay, I concede. Ideally, I’d like a blood vow, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Lowering his arm, Steve finally takes a seat. He’s on the right hand of Eddie’s throne. He asks, “What makes a blood vow special?”
“The blood, obviously,” Eddie says. He adjusts a couple of his little dolls, nervously. “And it looks cooler than a pinky promise.” Then he finally swings out a pinky toward Steve.
Amused, Steve raises an eyebrow, but completes the pinky promise. “I better not regret this,” he says, gripping Eddie’s hand. “I know where you live, Munson.”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty, Stevie,” Eddie says, looking him up and down. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Steve!” Gareth exclaims upon opening the door, making Steve and Eddie drop their hands. Jeff and Frank trail behind him. “Doth mine eyes deceive me, dude? Are you finally giving it another go?”
“Not on your life, Emerson,” Steve says, only to get flicked in the ear by Eddie. Steve yelps, rubbing his ear, and then correcting, “I mean… Not tonight, Emerson. I’m just watching.”
Frank dumps a pile of chip bags at the far edge of the table. “You’re going to get it this time,” he assures. “Your eyes will open to the epic glory that awaits you in D&D.”
Jeff agrees, nodding solemnly. “It’s like learning to ride a bike. It’ll just click eventually.”
“If it were like riding a bike,” Steve says, relaxing into his chair. “I would’ve learned it by now. I’ve got great balance.”
The group set themselves up around the table, pulling out notebooks, papers, and dice bags. They dig into the snacks, presenting Eddie with his own special bag of Twizzlers.
Soon, Jonathan trickles in, looking disheveled as always—hair askew, bags under his eyes, jean jacket splayed open.
“Jon!” Steve greets. “Where are the nerds?”
“This is a horror campaign,” Jonathan says, taking off his jacket and bag.
“Better for a smaller group,” Eddie tacks on, writing something down behind his standing binder.
“Plus, Mom didn’t think it was appropriate for Will. Are you playing?” Jon asks.
“No way,” Steve says. Then he gets another sharp look from Eddie, and he continues, “Not tonight. Uh, maybe some other time. I’m still getting the hang of the… millions of rules.”
Jonathan takes the seat on the other side of the table, setting down a notebook. He smirks. “It’s not for everyone,” he says, poking the competitive beast that lies dormant within Steve. “Don’t feel bad.”
Steve scowls at him. Of course, Jonathan learns how to play the world’s most complicated game and wants to rub it in his face. Zero to a hundred, Steve says, “Kiss my ass, Byers—”
“Whoa!” Jonathan says, laughing and throwing his hands up.
“I am going to get it, and when I do, you can shove one of these little dolls right up your urethra—”
“I’ll do it when I see it, Harrington!”
“Hey!” Gareth interrupts. “Can we just play, please? Jesus Christ?”
Amused, Jonathan smiles at Steve, who settles back into his seat with a final glare. Jon and Nancy are doing a pathetic middle school tango with their mutual crushes, which sickens Steve to watch. Not because he’s jealous—it’s because he stepped aside over a year ago, and neither of them has the gonads to just ask the other out. Steve’s managed to become pretty good friends with both of them. Maybe Jon thinks he’s sparing Steve’s feelings. Maybe Nancy thinks the same. Either way, Steve is starting to get pissed off.
Next to Gareth, Jeff calls out, “I’ve been waiting for this all week! C’mon, Munson.”
“Ask, and you shall receive. Come one, come all,” Eddie says, leaning forward to the edge of his binder. Everyone turns to stare at him expectantly as he slowly looks around the table. “Adventurers of old and new. Protectors, mercenaries, heroes of the Forgotten Realms. Whatever you call yourselves. You all meet in an unassuming tavern at the edge of town. As the front door opens with a ding of a bell, a lick of fog slips in the door along with a mysterious visitor, draped in a patchwork cloak. ‘Hail to thee of might and valor,’ the stranger calls to the patrons with a heavy, unfamiliar accent. He holds up a letter from his homeland, containing a desperate plea for help. ‘Who among you is capable?’”
Each member of the group introduces themselves, and then it’s off to the races as Eddie describes a thick, opaque fog that swallows the adventurers whole and spits them into the dark, dreary land called Barovia.
Staring at Eddie as he weaves a gothic tale surrounding a dreadful vampire lord, Steve allows himself to forget about college, Vecna, and the future. Eddie makes it look so effortless, his laugh full and carefree as the boys do their best to unravel, understand, and derail his game.
As they go, Steve finds himself understanding the rules, which is startling. Shit, he thinks when he gets excited over a critical hit. Now I’m going to have to play.
The party is having their fortune told by an old, wise woman when the clock hits 10. Steve isn’t playing, but even he didn’t notice the time flying by, so he points it out to the room.
“Shit, Will’s at the Wheelers,” Jonathan mutters, shoulders jumping up. “I told him I’d pick him up. Can we pause here?”
Eddie considers and relents. “Fine. We’ll pick back up with Madam Eva next time.” While the group starts to pack up their things, Eddie’s gaze swings over to Steve. “Well?” He asks.
Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
“Okay?” Eddie asks, excited. “Is that code for ‘Steve Harrington’s going to give D&D another try’?”
Steve crosses his arms. He doesn’t want to give Eddie the satisfaction of knowing he actually enjoyed the game tonight, but he can’t help looking over and smiling. “It’s code for ‘Don’t fuck this up, Munson.’”
Eddie stares at him, open-mouthed, for a few excited seconds before scrambling through his dice bag. “We’re rolling up a character now,” he says. “Before you change your mind.”
“Alright if we head out, Ed?” Gareth says. The Corroded boys have finished gathering their things and shoving the remaining snacks into their mouths. “We wanted to hit the movies.”
“Friday the 13th, part infinity,” Frank says.
“Or Porky’s Revenge!” Jeff tries.
Gareth punches Jeff in the shoulder. “No freaking way, man. Veto. You guys want to join?”
“Steve and I are busy,” Eddie says, gesturing to his dice tray. His foot bumps against Steve’s under the table. “This opportunity will not pass me by, boys.”
They leave, but Jonathan hangs back a second, catching Steve’s eyes. He asks, “Lab tomorrow, right?”
Steve nods. “You and Will, too?” He asks. “Are you… Are you doing alright?”
Jonathan shrugs, tightening the strap on his bag. “I had another nightmare,” he admits. “You know. The usual.”
Both he and Carol have been having gnarly dreams ever since around Thanksgiving. It started slowly—like once every few weeks—but the frequency has steadily increased.
Carol doesn’t tell Steve about her dreams, just that they’re bad and that she feels like shit afterward. But Jonathan admitted to Steve one night, while they were waiting outside the arcade, that it’s almost always the same thing for him: Will dying. It happens in different ways, but the outcome is the same. Jonathan is always too late, too far, too weak. His greatest nightmare.
It’s not the same, but it reminds Steve of what Max and Chrissy went through in 1986—a tale he has told over and over. Instead of praying on their deepest shames, Vecna might be toying with their greatest fears. He asks Jonathan, “You keeping that Walkman on you?”
Jon nods, patting his bag. “Always. Man, I think I might be getting sick of The Clash.”
Eddie laughs, murmuring some kind of agreement, but the joke doesn’t land with Steve. Solemn, he says, “Keep another tape with you.”
“I will, Mom,” Jonathan says, rolling his eyes and backing away. “I gotta split. See you tomorrow.”
Steve nods, watching silently as Jonathan leaves. Everyone wants to think that because El closed the gate early, the battle is over. They call Steve paranoid—and Steve wishes that they’re right.
Next to him, Eddie has a character sheet ready, but he eyes Steve warily. He asks, “You alright?”
“No,” Steve says. He wants to stop thinking. Looking down, he nods at the character sheet. “This is all gibberish to me.”
“Good thing I’m here,” Eddie says, clapping. He hands Steve four dice, but not the ones with the high numbers. “First things first, let’s roll for your ability scores.”
Steve already has questions—why four dice, why these dice, what are ability scores—but he decides to just roll with it, since Eddie seems happy. Steve drops the dice. 3, 3, 5, 1.
“Okay,” Eddie says, writing something down. “Do that again, five more times.”
Once they’ve figured out Steve’s ability scores—whatever that means—Eddie starts asking him about the type of player he wants to be. Steve lands on a human fighter, since that seems like the most straightforward option. Last time, he remembers being handed a character sheet that listed him as a half-elf paladin, which confused and frightened Steve. Human fighter, on the other hand, makes sense. That’s pretty much what he is in real life.
“Last thing. What’s your character’s story?” Eddie asks after he’s walked Steve through the character sheet. “You don’t need to overthink it if you don’t want to—just like if you have a family or if you’re afraid of spiders. On second thought, maybe just a name is good.”
He’s clearly downplaying the whole ‘backstory’ thing in an attempt not to scare Steve off. It’s funny. Stifling a laugh, Steve asks, “How do you come up with names?”
“Depends. Sometimes, I just say random sounds,” Eddie admits with a shrug. “But most of the time, I steal from books.”
“I don’t read,” Steve whines. “You know, like, for fun.”
“It doesn’t have to be from a book,” Eddie consoles him, his boot pressing into Steve’s sneaker. “Movies, TV. Sports, too, I guess. Hey, you wanna be Magic Johnson?”
“That feels sacriligious,” Steve says. He thinks for a minute. “...I want to be Luke Skywalker.”
Nodding, Eddie smiles—the kind of grin that seems to be holding back a laugh. “That might be too, um, well-known. You gotta mess with it a little. How about… Suke Landstrider?”
“Suke?”
“Steve-Luke.”
“Ah. Okay,” Steve says, accepting it. Eddie scribbles down the name and fills in some details—orphan taken in by a wise monk (who Suke watched die), daddy issues, talented with a sword, etc.
“So,” Eddie says, examining the character sheet for any holes. He clearly decides it's good enough, so he looks over at Steve. “No admissions letter today?”
“...No,” he lies, giving an awkward grin. “It’s whatever.”
“It’s not whatever, that totally sucks,” Eddie says. “Did they take this long last time?”
Steve shrugs. “Don’t remember. Hey, do you want to hang by the quarry?”
“I feel like you should be able to call them up and complain at this point,” Eddie huffs, shuffling his papers together.
“Eddie,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “The quarry?”
“Isn’t that what rich people do?” Eddie asks. “Like, shouldn’t your dad have a cigar buddy from ‘64 with eyes on the inside and a bourbon problem?”
“Eddie,” Steve repeats. He presses his knee to Eddie’s. “You, me. Alone. In your van. At the quarry.”
Eddie’s big brown eyes snap to Steve’s. Hints of a grin pull at his mouth, but he tries to stay stoic. “You’re trying to change the subject by distracting me with your body,” he says. “Not fair, dude.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about college anymore today,” Steve says, pushing up and away from the table to stretch. “So, c’mon. Get your stuff.”
Looking helplessly at the minis, maps, and dice that he has to pack away, Eddie says, “As much as it pains me to say, but why don’t you go first? I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t stand me up,” Steve warns, but it’s heatless. Eddie isn’t his. He can stand Steve up to his heart’s desire.
“Me?” Eddie asks. “Stand you up? Hilarious. I’ll see you in, like, twenty minutes.”
They agree on a spot, and Steve smiles at him before heading out first.
The night air is a cool, welcome distraction. It’s been getting warmer and warmer as the seasons change, but the night stays cold—like the sun was never here. Steve leaves his windows down as he drives down Deer Run, hangs a left at Elm, and finds the dip in the trees where there’s just enough space to park before a cliff's edge gives way to the quarry. There’s a short railing, a suggestion of safety, keeping the bumper of Steve’s car a few yards away from a 250-foot drop.
He shuts his car off and hops out, sitting on the hood of the bimmer and considering the dark world below. That’s where Eddie finds him about ten minutes later. Steve hears the van before he sees it, excitement growing in his stomach as it gets closer.
“Steve,” Eddie greets after hopping out of the front and rounding it to the side facing Steve. He leans against the door in a faux-casual way, tossing his hair back. “Funny seeing you here. Come here often?”
“Eddie,” Steve says, amused. He slides down, approaching the van. “That's the best line you have?”
Eddie smiles playfully, toying with the handle. “Unfortunately,” he says, pretending to give up on thinking. “Yeah.”
“Hm. Not very creative.”
“You saying that didn’t entice you?”
“No, no… the worst part is,” Steve says, now in front of Eddie. He licks his lips. “...It did.”
Pressing the door open on the back of the van, Eddie steps aside and gestures for Steve to enter. Steve rolls his eyes at Eddie’s grin, but complies after a glance toward the road to make sure they are alone.
.
.
The van is warm, the air thick with labored breath. Eddie's fingers, tangled in Steve’s hair, guide Steve up and down his cock in a brutally steady rhythm. “Steve,” he grunts, hips rutting up minutely to meet Steve on the down-swing. “You feel so good…”
Steve’s head is blissfully empty, like it’s full of cotton, listening to Eddie moan and come apart below him. He always liked going down on his girlfriends, liked giving, giving, giving. With Eddie, it’s like the dial is up past wherever Steve thought it could go—with Eddie, he can give everything. Everything until Steve—complicated, confused, scared—is gone.
“Open your eyes,” Eddie demands, releasing the back of Steve’s head to push hair away from his face. Steve obeys, as he always does, eyes flitting open to see Eddie staring down at him. “Good boy,” Eddie says. “Keep going.”
Despite having finished not long ago, Steve feels his own cock stir and moans, sinking down as far as he can. He’s no pro at this, not like Eddie, but he’s getting better—can take the metalhead faster and deeper every time. His cockhead slides to the back of Steve’s throat, making it hard to keep his eyes open. He tries his best.
Eddie’s head thuds back, hitting the wall. “Shit,” he moans, eyes locked on Steve’s like they’re magnets. “I’m gonna…”
Steve tastes his release on the upswing. He hovers around the cockhead, sucking and licking where Eddie always does him. He keeps going until Eddie taps his shoulder, pulling Steve up to sit next to him on the mattress.
“You’re evil,” Eddie gasps, out of breath. His cheeks are flushed red, pink. Pretty. “Or I’m dead, and this is heaven.”
“You’re not dead,” Steve says after clearing his throat. He says it a little defensively. He still hasn’t told Eddie everything that happened in the bygone future, and he’s not going to. Eddie may have roped himself into finding Will last year, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, but never again. Steve won’t let him—not now. Not after they’ve… been together.
His death was brutal the first time, and Steve didn’t even know him that well. Steve just knew what Eddie meant to Dustin and mourned him as he would any friend of a friend. Now? If he lost Eddie now, Steve would be broken, too.
So, it’s not going to happen. Steve turns over, pulling on his shirt. He continues, “And this is definitely not heaven.”
“How do you know?” Eddie asks, gazing at the ceiling. “Heaven’s whatever you want it to be. This could be my heaven.”
“Heaven doesn’t exist.” Steve fixes his hair, smoothing it back.
“Whoa,” Eddie says. “That’s usually my line, sir Steve. You alright?”
“Fine,” Steve says. As always, the perfect bubble Eddie creates slowly dissipates as they return to reality. He tries to pull his shoes on, but the back keeps catching on his heel, increasing his frustration. He curses.
“Hey,” Eddie calls, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Hey, c’mon. What’s wrong?”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not without saying something stupid, or—god forbid—crying. He just looks at Eddie.
Interpreting the silence, Eddie tugs him closer and wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders. He asks, softly, as if expecting nothing in return, “Is it… the acceptance letter?”
How can you see the future, hold it in your hand like a 10-ton photograph, and still find a way to live in the moment? Steve isn’t sure if he can. The life he once led is a memory—a memory that only he and Will carry—but sometimes it’s so heavy Steve can feel it hanging on his shoulders. He looks at Eddie, into his eyes—brown, like molten chocolate, and concerned, like a lover and not a fuck-buddy.
How do you tell someone that you can’t imagine a future for yourself? How do you form the words, wrap your lips around them?
Eddie interrupts Steve’s thought spiral and kisses the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay,” he says, even though there’s no way he knows what Steve’s thinking, how he’s feeling. He says, “It’s going to be okay.”
Part of Steve is pissed—how could he say that? How could he know? But the rest of Steve needed to hear it, and he relaxes, like the rubber band being eased into a wrist. He leans in, chasing after Eddie’s mouth to kiss him back.
Eager to please, Eddie lets him, with one calloused hand coming up to cup the side of Steve’s neck and pull him closer. His lips part, kissing Steve’s bottom lip.
The moment is warm, slow, and just what Steve needed. His tongue grazes Eddie’s, sending an electric zing down his body. He groans.
Eddie strokes the side of his face, running a hand through his hair, then starts to kiss down the side of Steve’s neck.
“We’ve talked about this,” Steve breathes, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Eddie’s head. They both know Steve’s talking about hickies.
“You’ve talked,” Eddie says, gently sucking the skin under Steve’s jaw. “But I know you like it.”
Overwhelmed with how cute Eddie is, Steve laughs, nodding. The laugh is cut short when Eddie bites, teeth sinking in. “I do,” he gasps, gently pulling at Eddie’s hair. “But not as much as I don’t like scarves and turtlenecks.”
“Then don’t wear ‘em,” Eddie murmurs. “Easy solution.”
“Everyone on the team thinks I have a secret lover,” Steve says, amazed by how good Eddie feels, even after all this time.
“Good,” Eddie whispers against Steve’s skin. He doesn’t elaborate, and Steve tries not to wonder what it would be like to call Eddie his, to be Eddie’s.
Steve pulls Eddie up to kiss him again, to taste the salt on his tongue. He presses them together once, twice, then pulls away. “I gotta go,” he says with a sigh, releasing Eddie to finally return to his shoes. “Early session at the lab tomorrow.”
“Can I see you after?” Eddie asks, hand rubbing circles into Steve’s back.
“I have a shift with Robs,” Steve says, tying his laces.
“After that, then,” Eddie says, poking him now. “Sorry. No, after you go home to check the mail. How about after that?”
Steve looks at Eddie, half amused, half anguished. He smiles. “Sure, Munson. I’ll pencil you in.”
The unforgivingly cold night air and the sight of brake lights greet Steve when he climbs out the back and adjusts his jacket. He recognizes that Camaro as it parks. He closes the door casually behind him, hopefully signalling to Eddie to stay inside.
Steve has to walk past Billy’s car to get back to his own, so he walks slowly, eyeing the car in disdain. The driver’s side window is down as Steve walks past, letting Billy lean through and call out, “Am I dreaming? Or…”
“It’s me,” Steve interrupts, continuing to stride to his car and pull out his keys. “See you around, Hargrove.”
“Hold up, princess,” Billy says, kicking the door open and swinging out one thick leg, clad in too-tight denim. “How much is the freak charging tonight?”
“What?” Steve asks, then realizes it’s a great cover. He sticks his key in the car. “Find out for yourself.”
“Don’t be like that,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. “God. I’m over this holier-than-thou bullshit.”
“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, knowing that Billy is purposely trying to poke his buttons. Knowing it doesn’t stop it from happening, like a weather forecast.
“You think you’re better than me, Harrington,” Billy says, stalking forward and swinging the door shut behind him. He’s got that wild, evil glint in his eyes, the one Steve saw the night he came looking for Max in a forgotten 1984. Billy continues, “You’re not. Here you are, just like the rest of us, wanting a joint… Harrington, you know something? I’ve been nice to you.”
“Have you?” Steve asks, bristling. Steve is done with popularity, has been for the past year, and for some reason, it’s made Billy even more curious. Maybe he should just fight the guy and let it pass. “What’s your definition of nice, Hargrove? Pushing someone around a basketball court, calling them names? Harrassing them?”
“Oh, I’ve been very, very nice,” Billy says, crossing the gravel between him and Steve. “You and I could’ve been friends, but what I’m starting to think is that you need to learn a lesson.”
“You going to beat me up, Billy?” Steve asks, leaning back against his car, but bracing internally because, yeah, Billy would want to beat him up. The strange thing is that Steve might want it, and not just to get the guy to leave him alone. “Is that going to make you feel better?”
“Maybe,” Billy says, quick like a python as he grabs the front of Steve’s collar. “Only one way to find out.” Then he pulls Steve forward and bangs him back against the door, knocking the wind out of him. Steve’s keys fall from his grip as he clambers to fight back. “You’re not top dog around here anymore, Harrington,” Billy grunts. “So, either step aside, or show me your stomach.”
Steve pushes him away, or tries to—Billy shoves Steve, using Steve’s own momentum to slam him back again. “I don’t want to be top dog, asshole,” Steve rasps. “Fuck off.”
“You say that, but you strut around like it, like we’re all so below you,” Billy says, his and Steve’s arms locked between them, struggling for control. His fingers dig into Steve’s collar, pressing into fresh bruises Eddie just left behind.
Steve yelps, then tries again to push Billy away. He says, “Just punch me, asshole!”
Eddie swings the van door open. “Hey!” He calls, jumping down. He puts his hands up. “Whatcha doing there, Hargrove? Why don’t you just let him go?”
“Stay out of it, freak,” Billy spits, glancing down at Steve’s neck. His eyebrows furrow.
“Leave him alone, man,” Eddie says, changing tack and approaching slowly. “You damage my other customers, and say goodbye to my supply, hothead.”
Body taut like a live wire, Billy sends Eddie an annoyed glance over his shoulder. When he turns back, Steve does his best to shrug, letting go of Billy’s shirt and de-escalating, saying, “I’m just asking you to leave me alone, dude.”
Carnivorous, Billy licks his lips. “Guess I find that hard,” he says. After a tense moment, he pushes Steve back one last time, then leans away, wiping his mouth. He eyes Eddie. “Didn’t think I’d find you. You got anything left?”
“Couple of joints,” Eddie says, glancing at Steve. He nods. “See you around, Harrington.”
“Take it easy, Munson,” Steve responds, nodding back. He leans down and retrieves his keys, idly glancing back at Billy and Eddie, as Eddie brings him to the van. Steve climbs into his car and turns the ignition, some random pop station emerging from the static.
He pulls out to the road and passes a flustered Eddie and pissed Billy. Both boys turn to look at Steve as he drives by, watching him disappear down Elm.
Thank god he got out of the van when he did—who knows what Billy could have seen if he were just a few minutes earlier? Steve rubs his face, not wanting to even imagine it.
Steve’s parents are asleep when he gets home. He knows it because the TV’s off, there’s no light in his dad’s study, and dinner is away in the fridge. His mom must not have told his father about the letter from IU… or the waiting list.
Instead of falling down another spiral, Steve lies in bed and imagines Eddie’s lips, his eyes, his hands. With the night so dark, the moon has never been brighter to Steve, streaming in like a spotlight through his window.
.
.
Saturday, March 23, 1985, 8:45 a.m.
Dr. Owens is busy when Steve stumbles early into the lab, tired out of his gourd, so he waits impatiently outside his office as both Jonathan and Will arrive. He leans his body against the wall and wonders if anyone would care if he were to just sit on the floor.
“Where’s Carol?” Jonathan asks when they get close. “Are we late?”
“No sign of Carol so far,” Steve says, holding out a fist for Will. Will gives him a fist-bump back. “Owens is still finishing up with El.”
“Good,” Jonathan says, dropping his bag. “That means I don’t have to kill you, Will.”
“As if,” Will says, leaning against the wall next to Steve. He glances at him with an excited gleam. “I hear you might be giving D&D another shot, Steve?”
“Carol had a sleepover with Robs,” Steve says, avoiding the question. He continues, “They might’ve had a long night. She might miss today.”
“If it weren’t for Will and my mom nagging me, I’d skip, too. This stuff is boring as hell,” Jonathan says, nodding at Dr. Owen’s door. “He’s nice, but I’m sick of all this. They don’t even need us.”
“How…” Steve starts to ask Jonathan, glancing quickly at Will furtively. “How did you sleep?”
The air turns awkward. Jonathan shrugs. “The usual.”
“Nightmares?” Steve asks, still looking at Will.
Will nods, knowingly, but Jonathan says, “It could’ve been worse, okay?”
“Jonathan—”
“It’s okay, I’m just… I’m going to go get coffee. You guys want anything?” Jonathan turns and scoops up his bag, wandering back down the hallway.
Steve turns back to Will. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?”
Sighing, Will nods. “He thinks it’s normal. Like… like these dreams are something… he deserves. I was like that, you know? The year after I was taken?” He rubs his mouth. “Different dreams, though.”
“This is Chrissy, Fred, and Patrick,” Steve says. “I mean, it’s… It’s not one-to-one, but it’s the same shit, you know? Tormenting a victim before taking them.”
“It’s weird,” Will says, looking down. “Do you…” He stops.
“What?” Steve prompts. He nudges Will, the only kid who can understand what he’s going through. “Do I…?”
“I haven’t mentioned this to Owens,” Will prefaces. He rubs the back of his neck. “But I’ve been having dreams, too. Not like Jon, or Carol, my dreams are… I don’t know. Have you been having…?”
“No,” Steve says, honestly. Most of the time, he doesn’t dream. Not anymore, blissfully. And when he does, Steve’s dreams are a complex mix of Eddie, basketball games, swimming, school, and movies that Robin has forced him to watch. He says, “I don’t dream, really. Nothing special.”
Will looks down at his shoes, then says, “I don’t know how to describe them,” he says. “Guess it’s just me, then.”
“What happens?” Steve asks, curious. Will gears up to answer, but before he can, his brother reappears down the hallway, and the sound of a raised voice pierces through Owen’s door.
This isn’t going to work, is the last thing Steve hears before the door swings open, revealing El and Hopper. Dr. Owens is standing up behind his desk in the room, face scrunched, upset. Hopper mutters, “Fucking useless,” as he goes.
Hopper accidentally shoulder-checks Steve, apologizes, and helps Steve stand upright. “Sorry, kid.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I wanna talk to you,” Hop says to Steve and, at his side, Will. El grabs his shirt, pulling to leave. “Call when you have the chance, okay?”
“Okay,” Steve agrees, looking over at Dr. Owens, who is fixing papers on his desk. What’s all that about? Steve wonders.
Steve comes in every other week these days. When they first made their deal, Dr. Kay required that Steve and Will be tested every week. X-rays, MRIs, scans of all kinds… they wanted to see how things differed, how they changed over time. At this point, after nearly a year of basic, plain test results, they just come to the lab for moral support… sometimes, just to check in with a doctor. They’ll do another round of testing next month, just to check a box.
Today’s just another check-in. In front of Owens’ desk, Steve stands behind Will, as Jonathan takes the other empty seat beside him.
“So,” Dr. Owens says, patting back his hair with one hand. “How are we? We’re missing Ms. Perkins.”
Steve shrugs on her behalf. “She’s doing okay,” he says. “She was with Robin last night. I would bet that they had too much fun.”
“We’ll need her to call if she’s going to miss a session, but I’ll communicate that to her sister. Is everything okay with you all?” Dr. Owens asks. “Jonathan? Have the nightmares been worse?”
“Not worse,” Jonathan says, reluctant, arms crossed. “The usual. But I’m feeling alright.”
Dr. Owens nods, writing something down. For the first few dozen meetings, he had a standardized list of questions—a form he would fill out every time for each patient. It took about ten sessions of the same answers, the same blase answers, for him to abandon the form. Now, he just takes notes when he needs to—simple observations. He asks, “Steve, Will? Anything new?”
Steve looks at Will, who was just talking about his new dreams. Will glances back at him, but shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, same as ever. He continues, “Memories of last time come and go, but nothing… Nothing new.”
Dr. Owens swings his gaze to Steve, who rips his eyes away from Will. He agrees, nervously tapping the chair in front of him, saying, “Same. Nothing new.”
The doctor looks among them and seems to decide that it’s okay—that everyone’s telling the truth. He says, “Good. I’ll be blunt with you boys. We’re… we’re on our last legs here.”
“Last legs?” Jonathan asks, leaning in. “What do you mean?”
“Unless we’re missing something,” Dr. Owens says, looking to Steve and Will. “Then it’s been quiet. Henry hasn’t made any moves, and we haven’t seen any changes in our data. I’m sure you’ve noticed that El has been getting… antsy.”
Will and Steve nod, having noticed Eleven’s restlessness as of late. She’s allowed out of Hopper’s cabin on the weekends—on the roads, at crowded establishments, at friends’ houses. Lately, it’s been driving her crazy—the jealousy toward her friends, who go to school and bike around town whenever they want. Steve thought she and Mike might start dating earlier than last time, but it’s slow going. There’s very little freedom for the girl, despite Steve’s negotiations with Dr. Kay.
Dr. Owens continues, “We might need to adjust our thinking. This is a game about patience, now. We’ll schedule another round of tests for our quarterly review, but we might hold off on these sessions going forward, okay? Jonathan, I want your mother to call whenever she has the time.”
Jonathan nods. They agree to share the news with Carol that their sessions are finished, and the doctor confirms once more that the rest haven’t experienced any new symptoms.
Leaving, in the parking lot, Steve says to Will, “You don’t need to trust Owens. But if you need anything, tell me. Tell Jonathan, or your mother. Hell, tell Mike. What have you been seeing?”
“It’s nothing,” Will says with a shrug. He flashes Steve a placating smile before following his brother, saying, “Just static. Bye, Steve!”
He trusts Will’s judgement—he’s the only one who gets it, who really understands what Steve’s been through. He just hopes that he’s right to leave it alone.
Angsting about the change in his lab schedule, worried that they’re resting on their laurels, Steve drives to Robin’s house. He gets there a little early, a little too early, so he waits until the clock hits 10:15 before beeping. Carol might still be in there, hoping for a ride, too. Steve mentally prepares himself to grill her about her poor choice in recent make-out partners.
Slowly, looking deflated, Robin emerges from the front door and crosses the lawn. “Hi,” she says, sitting next to Steve.
“You look like you had a good night,” Steve remarks, pulling out onto the road. He heads toward the diner. “Where’s Carol? Aren’t you supposed to be a new-and-improved Buckley today? Oh, Robin. Please tell me you didn’t ask her not to kiss you.”
“I didn’t,” Robin defends, sighing. She leans against the door, pressing her cheek against the glass window. “She didn’t show.”
“What?”
“She didn’t come over,” Robin says, crossing his arms. “I called, and Amy said, and I quote, ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care where she is.’”
“Oh, my god,” Steve says. They must have had a big fight this time. “If she wasn’t with you, where do you think she went? She didn’t show for the session at the lab this morning.”
“She’s probably with Beefcake Billy,” Robin says, mockingly. “Taking a nap on his washboard abs. Can’t imagine that’s comfortable.”
“I doubt it,” Steve says. “I mean, I don’t know about the abs, but I saw Billy last night. It was basically midnight, and he was alone. I can’t imagine Carol wandering around, waiting for him somewhere at one in the morning.“
“What, where? What were you doing out at midnight?”
“Just, you know… hanging out with Eddie.” Steve clears his throat. “We were out by the quarry. Billy pulled up looking for some weed or whatever.”
Robin swings an amused smile his way. “And then you got in a fight,” she says.
“How’d you know?”
“How else did you get these strange bruises?” She asks, poking his neck. "What a weird pattern. Billy's fists must be smaller than I thought."
He slaps her hand away. “Robin. Stay on topic."
“Okay, okay… maybe someone had a party we weren’t invited to, and she crashed at their place.”
“Impossible. I’m invited to all the parties,” Steve boasts casually. He doesn’t care about his image, but he still has many friends. People still want Steve Harrington to show up at their house party.
Robin rolls her eyes. “No, you aren’t. The tuba section is very selective with their invites.”
“Okay, well, I’m invited to all the parties that Carol goes to, okay? The usual spring break bullshit starts next week, when parents head out of town. Yesterday was quiet.”
They pull into the diner parking lot. Robin rubs her chin. “...Then I don’t know where Carol could be. If she’s not home, she’s not with her asshole boy-toy, and she didn’t show for your session at the lab…”
He doesn’t need her to finish the sentence. Heart thudding faster, harder, in his chest, Steve says, “You think…? No. No way, Robs.”
“She probably isn’t,” she says, firmly, blinking up at the neon Open sign. “But I don’t think I can eat until we find her.”
“Carol Perkins is not missing,” Steve says, reversing out of the spot he just pulled into. “She's home, sleeping soundly in her bed, after wandering around all night, post-fight with her sister. Or, she made up with Cindy G and had a sleepover with her.”
“That would greatly hurt my feelings,” Robin says, nodding. “But it’s possible. Let’s check.”
“Carol Perkins is not missing,” Steve repeats, like a mantra.
He says it silently to himself, over and over, as they cross town to park in front of Amy’s ranch house first. She opens the door, sees Steve, then closes it without saying anything.
“Wait!” Steve says, reaching out to jam his foot in the door—which hurts like a bitch. “Shit. Hold on, is Carol here?”
“She’s not allowed back until she apologizes,” Amy says, swinging the door back open. Steve retrieves his foot, gratefully. “Tell her that.”
Steve and Robin look at each other. Steve asks, “She’s definitely not in her room?”
“No,” Amy says, pushing her hair back. “Next time I see her, I’m expecting her to grovel, okay? Pass the message along like a good boy.”
She slams the door shut before Steve can ask any more questions. He looks at Robin. “Cindy?”
She nods, and they climb back into the car. It takes a little while to jog Steve’s memory of where Cindy lives, but eventually, they knock on the right door.
“Carol?” Cindy asks, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms. She laughs. “Yeah, no. No Carol here.”
“You haven’t heard from her at all?” Steve asks, just to confirm. Just to really sink it in.
“Of course not,” Cindy says. She looks Steve up and down. “Will I see you at Family Video today, Steve?”
He doesn't answer because Robin quickly grabs his bicep, pulling him away and calling over her shoulder, “Thanks, Cindy!”
In the car, Steve looks at Robin, unsure where to go next, what to do. “Carol Perkins might be missing,” he says out loud, waiting for Robin to disprove him.
She doesn’t. All she says is, “Shit.”