THE PHOENIX

Excerpts from incomplete fanfiction based on characters from Stranger Things. March 2021 - June 2024. 64k.

CHAPTER ONE

On July 4, 1985, Billy Hargrove dies.

On July 5th, 1985 at 12:04, a John Doe has a pulse again. It’s unstable and wavering, but it’s a pulse. It’s enough to put him into a medically induced coma. It’s enough to save his life.

He didn’t ask for this, god knows his father didn’t, but he’s a living piece of evidence, something that the United States can use to study, use to hopefully get a leg up on the Russians. So they keep him, their own personal lab rat.

The nurses shave his matted curls, stuck together with black blood and other ooze, and even if you supplied a spectator with the John Doe’s real name, they would laugh at you and say “there’s no way that’s him, no way that’s Billy Hargrove.”

He’s not even a shadow of his former self. His golden, treasured skin is pale now, marred with gashes so deep they almost lost him again, all sutured up and barely hanging on. He looks too young now, all the bravado cut off with his hair. Tubes run from his throat, from his arms–a poor mockery of the beast that possessed him before, this time keeping him alive. All the anger, all the walls that he had put up have cracked in the midst of his sleep. He’s serene now, calm in a way no one had seen since he left California, maybe even before then. It seems like Billy Hargrove did in fact die on the Fourth of July, that somehow this boy in the hospital bed is just a shell, possessed again.

No one knows that Billy Hargrove is alive. Legally, he’s not.

On July 4th, 1985, Billy Hargrove dies. And it stays that way.

***

December 25th, 1985, the John Doe wakes.

He wakes with a scream, a blood curdling scream that echoes through the whole corridor. The nurses call it a Christmas miracle as they suppress his thrashing limbs. He sobs, incoherent, the stitches from his most recent procedure ripping open with his efforts. His throat raws, but he still continues, his sobs wracking his body as the pain settles into his bones.

The doctors did as much as they could to salvage his body, but there’s only so much you do after an interdimensional beast possesses you, makes you drink bleach and chlorine, and then punctures you, multiple times, so deep that EMTs could see into his chest cavity.

He screams. Cries. Babbles incoherently. He asks for his mother, even his father. He gurgles, foams at the mouth like a dog. One nurse cries, collapses in the corner and prays over the boy. Prays that sleep claims him quick. Prays that something claims him, that maybe even death would be the best for the boy.

It’s then that the nurses realize he wasn’t admitted from a simple accident.

He finally succumbs to the concoction injected into his IV.

He is put back under.

***

March 26th, 1986. John Doe wakes.

The nurses watch tentatively. They wait for the screams, the terrors that haunted them for weeks. But it doesn’t come. He opens his eyes slowly, his pupils shrinking into the blue of his eyes as the light invades his senses. He frowns, looking around, looking at the nurses, at the doctors.

He doesn’t say a word.

To be honest, they don’t know if he can.

A grimace takes over his face, taking residence in the space of where his sleep soft face used to be. A nurse gives him more morphine.

“Happy Birthday,” A doctor says.

John Doe closes his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek.

***

He stays awake after that. They have to secure his limbs when he sleeps, which is a majority of the time. Nightmares chase him in his subconscious and he thrashes dangerously.

He never protests them, just looks ahead as the nurses tie him down. They let him loose during the day, supposedly to let him stretch and move, but John Doe hasn’t used his limbs on his own since July 4th, 1985. He tried once, the muscles well atrophied. It wasn’t worth the pain, the stretch of his tight scars, the way a slight movement exhausted him wholly.

He still doesn’t speak. The doctors don’t know if it was by choice, or if the monster’s puncture ruined something beyond repair. There was only one way to find out, but the boy couldn’t speak to tell them. Maybe he was afraid of his own voice. Who really knows.

A month after he wakes, the doctors start him on physical therapy. He has to learn how to use his arms again, how to deal with the tightness of his scars across his arms, hands and torso. He has to learn how to walk again, to build up the muscle that had faded. It’s not a pretty picture, having the man who was on the top of the hill falling down on his knees, aborted noises of pain shooting out from somewhere in his chest, bending and breaking around the scar tissue there to climb up and out of his throat.

It’s then that the doctors realize he can’t speak anymore. That it pains him. That he has to learn that again too.

They decide to try speech therapy before they contemplate any more surgery. It’s been months, but the boy’s body is still traumatized. They don’t want the boy to die on the table after all of this effort.

They monitor him all the time, even when he’s using the bathroom. They tell him that it’s for his safety, but he sees the pistols on the larger nurses and knows they’re not there to make sure he doesn’t crash. They’re there to make sure that he is okay again, that he’s truly him.

They don’t use his name. He is only referred to as John Doe. One of the nurses calls him Johnny Boy; he likes that one the best, t he only one who treats him like he’s not a fragile thing, made of cracked glass that’s about to shatter. Perhaps it’s because it’s a man. Perhaps he likes the nurse more because of that fact.

There’s another nurse, a sweeter one, who reminds him of Miss Jane, the mom of one of his closest California friends. She always told him to call her Jane, but he knew better. Was taught better. So Miss Jane it was. And she cooked the best things he could ever taste, took care of his bruises and gashes when Neil laid into him too hard. She was the mother that took the place of his own after she left. She was one of the things he missed the most. He missed her cooking, her gentle care, and most of all, he missed her hugs.

He grabbed this nurse’s hand one night, jittery and quick from the lack of movement he possessed, even after the weeks of therapy. It scared her for a moment, more of a surprise than a terror. She looked at him, and then took in his face, how wide and scared his eyes were. How they were reddening with unshed tears. She smiled at him. Grabbed his hand fully and squeezed.

“You’re not alone, sweetheart,” she told him. And he sobbed at that. Noises and breaths climbing up from deep inside. And she let him hold onto him, wiped away his tears and brushed his now-long hair from his eyes.

“It’s okay, darling. It’s okay. We got you. I got you.”

***

October 8th, 1986, Johnny is able to walk without any help. He’s able to grab things without a grimace. Able to write well enough now that it is legible.

His voice is still bad. He doesn’t speak. Refuses to do so in therapy. The doctors leave him be, though. He guesses it has something to do with his nice psychiatrist. Overheard Dr. Graham tearing them a new one, mentioning PTSD and all of that.

He knows all of the nurses by name now. They all stop by to talk to him, to tell him jokes and to keep him entertained. Jimmy convinces him to call himself Johnny. Tells him that John is too stiff for a man with a smile that big. He blushes at that.

Anita, the sweet nurse, likes to tell him all about her three sons, how they’re doing in school and all of the girl drama that comes along. She’ll go on babbling about Chris and his first girlfriend at the ripe age of 15 as she helps him slather shea butter (“it will help with fading and tightness, darling. Helped me bounce back after all three of my pregnancies.”) all over his scars. He finds himself laughing sometimes, a bubbling thing. It still feels wrong, stuck in his throat like he swallowed it wrong, but it’s better than not laughing at all, like he did before his accident.

She’s the one who he finally tells about his past. They communicate through a white board. Dr. Graham suggested it. Said it would be good to help his hands and his mind. He only uses it with Anita and Dr. Graham , though. Jimmy has tried, so have other nurses and doctors, but Johnny never writes back.

Anita is the only one that calls him by his true name. Only calls him Billy when no one else is around, when he’s really in his head. She doesn’t know the full story that happened to him, but has clued in that some of the nurses aren’t nurses at all, that while he was in his coma, so many people came to him, performing so many tests that she couldn’t keep track.

The first time Anita calls him Billy, he sobs. She holds him close, even sits on the side of his bed so he can curl into her chest. She held him there, so tight it was so suffocating. He clutched at her shirt like he was seven again, watching his mother leave. He wept for himself, for the Billy he used to be. He wept for all that he went through, for his mother, for his father, for the summer of 1985. And she held him through it all.

Still, to everyone else, Billy is Johnny. And he keeps it that way. He likes the idea that the old him is dead, that it died along with the monster. Here, the nurses and doctors are nice; They treat him like he’s not some kind of murderer, that the many graves that popped up in Hawkins after the accident weren’t his doing. His is among the rest, all empty with nothing to fill them, but he somehow survived. And he hates Billy for that.

After a while, Billy finally tells Anita about Max. Tells her how she is still alive, how she thinks her brother—step brother—is dead. How she’s probably glad that he’s dead, how she probably thinks he’s still a monster. Anita tuts at him for that, tells him that he’s not the monster he thinks he is. Tells him that he’s not what his dad says.

He tells her about his crush on Jimmy one day. He holds his breath. He won’t meet her eye. She pauses for a moment, then she leaves her chair to wrap her arms around him like that one night.

“I still love you, sweetheart. I don’t see you any different,” she tells him. He holds her tight and wishes that she was right.

***

A couple weeks later, Anita shows up with an address and a number. Johnny looks at her in confusion.

“Your sister. She’s still in Hawkins. Her mother divorced your asshole-of-a-father and has her own apartment in town.”

Billy grabs the white board at that. Writes one thing. Erases it. Writes another. Erases that. Thinks for a moment, staring at the blank board in his hands. Finally, he writes:

“why?”

“I’m not going to push you to do anything, Billy. But if my brother was still alive, no matter what happened, I would want to know.”

She kisses the crown of his head, leaving him to think.

***

It’s a couple weeks later when Dr. Graham suggests that Johnny learns sign language.

“The whiteboard can’t support you forever,” she tells him.

He knows that she means that they’re trying to make him integratable to society, that one day he’ll leave the corridor he’s come to call his home. He doesn’t like that. He goes cold, closes off. One look and Dr. Graham knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Johnny, I know you don’t want to go back out there, but you’ve been improving fantastically. Your hands are almost back to normal use. You can walk fully. You have been opening up beautifully in therapy. I think it’s time we move onto something else for you. The hospital can’t be the best option for you.”

Billy throws his white board at that. Not at her, oh god no. He’s not his father. But he throws it at the wall, hearing the plastic frame snap. He storms out, breathing heavy and hard. His chest restricts and he feels like he’s choking again.

He sees the flickering of the light in his head, feels the fleshy grab of the monster around his neck, feels himself choking on his black blood and bile. So he collapses, weeping and convulsing. And it goes black.

He wakes up with Anita next to him, Jimmy on his left.

Anita grabs his hand. Grips it tight. “You’re alright, darling.”

“Had a panic attack, Johnny boy,” Jimmy adds. He puts down the clipboard at that. Bends down and gets into Billy’s space. “Perfectly normal. Don’t sweat it, pretty boy.”

And Billy flushes at that. Hearing it ring in his head until it’s no longer Jimmy’s voice but his own. Pretty Boy. Makes him redden from deja vu.

Jimmy laughs and Anita shoos him out. Rolls her eyes.

“Boys,” she tuts, “Gonna make me go grey.”

***

It’s another two months before Billy finally submits and decides to learn sign language. Anita pretends she doesn’t know it’s because of a certain male nurse who started signing whenever he talked with Billy. She ignored the pink that blossomed onto Billy’s face as he watched Jimmy’s fingers fly between signs, watched the confidence of his movements, of how good his hands looked as he signed. He saw then, how easy it was as well, that it wasn’t as scary as Billy had imagined. Jimmy made it seem so normal, a small assist that will benefit Billy greatly.

So he agrees and Jimmy becomes his teacher. Anita and Dr. Graham learn with him, which boosts his morale. He gets annoyed, especially when his fingers stumble over signs, not as fast as Jimmy or the two ladies accompanying him. They reassure him that it gets easier, that he’s doing fantastic despite his body’s trauma. He tries hard, though, obsessing over the signs even when the lessons are over. Anita stops by one night, peeking into his room to see him entranced by his hands as he signs the alphabets over and over, almost as fast as Jimmy.

It takes another two months before Billy can confidently hold a conversation with Jimmy. The nurse is impressed, remarking how fast Johnny was to learn, how he must be really smart. Billy blushes scarlet at that. Anita is slower to learn, but tries as hard as she can, talking with Billy as she signs, like Jimmy does. Billy flourishes with this, his personality seeping through his signs. He starts being sarcastic, allowing sass and other emotions to come through his signs. He’s open now, signing becoming a rope for him to climb out of the hole he fell into over a year ago.

He still doesn’t laugh much, refuses to if he can, says he hates how it gets stuck in his throat, how he sounds like a frog. But he tries. He tries to hum when no one is around him. Tries to work through the croaky sound that comes from his throat. He hates it, hates how his smooth talking ways are over, but part of him loves that. It’s a true testament to the fact that Billy Hargrove truly is dead.

And that fact makes him laugh.

***

March 20th, 1987, John Doe gets glasses.

He’s been doing well enough to stop the intense testing, though the scientists still come every couple of months just to make sure the monster is truly gone. It’s been almost two years since the Mindflayer and Billy is finally able to have basic check ups for once.

That’s when they test his eyes. They had tested his eyes before, but mainly just to check that he could see. No one ever considered the fact that his vision was bad until Anita was taking him on a walk around the hospital and he couldn’t read a far off sign.

Billy Hargrove would not be caught dead with glasses, but Johnny Doe could.

They’re quite bulky, thick frames balancing on his nose. Anita says he looks handsome but it’s Jimmy’s “looking good” that really makes him blush. He can’t decide if he hates them or not at first, that is until he notices how clear everything is, how pristine the trees out the window look. He walks around the hospital, looking at everything like a child in a candy store. Anita laughs at him, fondness heavy in it, and he feels happy for once.

Dr. Graham approves Jimmy to take him out, lets him drive around the nearest city, which Billy learns is Chicago. He sits back into the leather, breaths in the almost-spring air. Lets the wind run through his grown in length of his hair, lets it get whipped and tangled, even though he’ll regret the brush out later. He smiles wide, whoops the best he can, a shadow of what he used to do. He feels the dashboard of the car, feeling the rumble of the engine, reminding him of his beloved Camaro. The sun is high and bright and the sight…oh the sight. Makes tears well up in Billy’s eyes. Makes him cry because it’s so beautiful. And he’s so happy. And he feels like he’s being born with the spring, a new man, stepping out from his old skin.

He can breathe.

Jimmy takes him to his favorite coffee shop. The smell of coffee is almost too strong for Billy’s senses. Jimmy waves over a girl, a small little thing that they both tower over. Her smile is wide and blinding, reminds him of Jimmy’s.

They hug. It’s tight and blinding and Billy shifts in his spot, unsure what to do.

Jimmy turns to him then. Signs to him.

“This is my sister, Jeanne.”

“You must be Billy,” she signs back, speaking as she does so. Her voice is slightly stilted and it’s then that Billy notices the device by her ear. And it makes sense, how good Jimmy is at signing. And Billy flushes, his old, cool demeanor melted away to whatever gooey, sentimental thing he’s become around Jimmy, because Jimmy took him to see his sister, trusts him enough to introduce. Billy feels like he finally has a friend.

When they return later that night with a lukewarm latte for Anita, Billy tells her he wants to contact Max.

***

Anita does all of the coordinating. She doesn’t tell him anything that occurred other than telling him that “Maxine was very emotional.” He doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Hopes she’s happy to hear the news. Assumes so, otherwise she wouldn’t be agreeing to see him.

They plan it for his birthday. Anita calls it his present. He’s twenty one this year. He can’t drink, but oh god he wants one. He sits in the conference room, one they had reserved for the meeting. He pulls at the tie that Anita put on him. She helped him dress up, put on a nice long sleeve button down. Called him handsome and for once, he felt it. The shirt covered almost all of his scars. His hands were still exposed and the one tendril of scarring that went up his neck peeked out from behind his collar. But they were fading, only pink and silver now. His long hair was brushed back and up into a bun. His beard was shaved and styled into something managable.

He felt good, a little bit of a boost to help him get through this.

The clock ticked past noon and his stomach plummeted. What if she didn’t show up? What if Anita lied and Max didn’t want to see him at all.

He stood from his chair pacing as he wrung his hands together. He pulled at his hair, knocking it out of the bun. He pushed it back away from his face, taking deep breaths as Dr. Graham had taught him. He was on his fifth breath when the door behind him clicked.

He paused. His back facing what could be his sister, or perhaps a saddened Anita, waiting there to tell him the bad news. His heart pounded. His hands began to sweat.

“Billy?”

The voice was small, but he couldn’t deny it. It was the voice that rang through all of his nightmares, though calm in comparison to the sob that he heard as he breathed his last breath.

He turned slowly, so slow he felt like time was taking too long. And sure enough, the gangly red head was before him, though not so gangly anymore. She had grown a couple inches, now coming past his shoulder. Some of the roundness of her cheeks had fallen away, the child melting off as she aged. She fit her clothing now too, no longer too baggy, but now more mature. Less tomboy and more Maxine. She eyed him warily, like he was an animal about to spook.

“Max,” he tried. Oh how he wanted to. The first consonant being all that he could muster clearly. Her face fell at that, open and shocked, like she expected something and was given some sort of fucked up instead. And he knew he was. Knew he was so beyond fucked up.

So he fell to his knees and wept. The sobs croaked out from him, a broken and disgusting sound. He took off his glasses, held them in his hands as he pressed his palms to his eyes as if they could stop the onslaught of tears. He felt a hand, small and soft pull at his right hand. It was a gentle tug, barely enough to move him, but he went anyway. He let her pull his hands away and he looked up to her, seeing the tears in her own eyes, making her blue eyes shimmer like the California beaches. She fell down to her knees with him, her eyes flitting between his. He couldn’t read her, couldn’t see what she was looking for, maybe remnants of her Billy, of the man he used to be.

“Billy,” she said again, wounded and full of sorrow. And then he was being tugged into her arms, crushed by her embrace. He grasped at her, weeping loud and heavy as it all settled into place. He felt like he was treading water and his feet finally hit the sand. And he grabbed at her jacket, realizing then that it wasn’t just any jean jacket, but his own.

He feels the patpatpat of big fat tears fall against his neck, sliding under his collar, and realizes he’s not alone. And he feels regret, feels bad for trying to kill the man he once was. Billy isn’t dead, he’s still alive and that’s okay. Because even though he hates the man he once was and wants that all to be gone and over, the girl in his arms is physical proof that there are people who he left an impact on, people who still love him despite his destruction, his carnage. And as she tightens her hold on him, he feels his chest crack open, feels the last hold of the Mindflayer leave him, knows that he’s completely safe now, that he’s no longer the monster he used to be. He is no longer the Billy Hargrove he once was, but instead is reborn into something new, something able to love and be loved.

So he tries again. And succeeds.

“Max,” he whispers into her soft, red hair. It’s scratchy and unsure, but it’s some semblance of a word. And it’s a dam that's been broken, and he can’t stop. “MaxMaxMaxMax.”

“I’m here,” she replies, “I am so angry with you, but I am here.”

He doesn’t know when they hit the ground, holding each other as they barely sit on the floor. He doesn’t know if it was his legs giving out or hers or a combination of the two. But she’s still holding on. And when she tells him: “I have you back now and I am never letting you go again”, he believes her.

***

Max stops by every weekend after that. The outskirts of Chicago are too far to come every day, but she spends every weekend with him. She curls up in his hospital bed with him, reading him books and updating him on everything that has happened. She tells him about how Starcourt has been totally torn down, how there’s a memorial in its place. Said it helps the small shops again. Lights up when she tells him about how El is now going to high school with them, which Mike loves. Her tone sours at that and Billy nudges her to expound. She explains her distaste for Mike, especially as El’s boyfriend.

“He’s still my friend. It’s just hard because he is SO controlling, Billy. She can’t even walk to her next class without him carrying her books. And I know she doesn’t know any better but she’s not a baby. I just don’t think he’s good enough for her.”

And that peaks Billy’s interest. But he waits to bring it up.

Even though Billy knows now that he can talk, he hates doing it. Hates how harsh his voice sounds on his own ears, hates how it makes his throat feel. He continues with signing, only speaking in small, rare increments. Max learns quickly, tells Billy that she knew some from El because Hopper started El up with ASL to help with her own voice.

“She’s better now, more sure of it, but she started after Starcourt. She was in such shock she couldn’t talk for a month. She’s never been a great talker, but we’re working with her. She talks with me now, and to Hopper of course, but never in public. I think she’s scared, like you are. I wish you could talk to her.”

That’s the other thing—Billy Hargrove died on July 4th, 1985. It has to stay that way. It was a compromise the government was able to scrounge up when Anita suggested the meeting of Max. He doesn’t exactly know why he can’t just tell everyone he survived, but he’d rather go along with what the CIA say than go against them.

They give him a new identity though, let him choose it too. He’s grown attached to the Johnny name, so he keeps it. His unused driver’s license reads “Johnny Phoenix”. It’s cheesy as fuck, but Max thought it was funny.

“Yaknow, cuz you’re like a phoenix. Rising from the ashes and shit, man. A new dude.”

She was so excited that he couldn’t tell her no. Plus, It kind of sounded badass, not that he would ever tell her that.

***

Max shows up after she gets her license for the first time. She’s bought herself a nice car, didn’t let Billy know anything else until she uncovered his eyes in front of it.

It was a fuckin’ 1985 Chevy Corvette. Bought with her hush money.

Susan apparently did not approve, but Max was shy, all boarded up and attempting to be indifferent when she told Billy that “It reminded me of you.”

Billy could have cried then.

He has a love and hate relationship with cars now. Never really dealt with it until Jimmy took him out for a spin in the Windy City. He was fine in Jimmy’s car, basking in the sun shining on him in the open top. Once it got dark and cold, Jimmy had closed the covering and that’s when the panic settled in.

No one would have thought that the two car accidents Billy had been in, on top of everything, would be such a trigger for his PTSD. He didn’t like the closed in space, according to Dr. Graham. He didn’t like how dark it was inside, how he couldn’t see the sky nor the ground. It made him feel like he was floating, not tethered to anything, similar to how he felt inside the Mindflayer.

Accidents aside, it was the sensation of being a passenger that really sent Billy reeling. But yet, he refused to drive. It would transport him to the night that he was possessed or remind him of the night he tried to charge at Nancy and the kids, when he was t-boned. He still remembers the sound. Metal on metal. He remembers the snap of his neck, something that could have killed him, caused major damage if he wasn’t possessed at the time. He remembers the flames licking at his body, how they left scars on his right side. They were barely noticeable underneath the Mindflayer’s marks, but Billy lived with them.

Billy found him breathing in a deep breath of air when he realized Max’s car was a convertible.

He paused before the car, taking it all in. Max had already bounded towards her beauty, hopping in the front seat. A hand slipped into his and he turned to see Anita, looking at him, knowing him. After all of this time, it was like he was completely transparent to her. She could read him like a book, understand him without a single word.

He never wanted to see her go.

Jimmy was next to Max, standing on the driver’s side, whispering god knows what to the girl. And Billy approached. He settled into the leather, letting the smell of New Car acquaint his senses. The engine revved loud, snapping Billy’s eyes open.

“Sorry, Billy, “ Max said, and Billy realized. She was nervous for him. They all were. Jimmy was giving her advice, warning her what Billy is susceptible to. And Billy got angry, only for a moment, livid with the patronizing treatment he’s experiencing, until he looks into Max’s eyes.

And all that is there…

Is love.

They love him, don’t they?

They're all here for him. Anita has held him through countless nights, learned ASL for him, treated him like her own son. Jimmy has spent hours after work teaching him Sign, taking him to his favorite spots in Chicago, helping him walk again. And Max. Maxine. He was horrible to her. He was so angry about their past that he couldn’t help but live with animosity towards her. And she’s here, loving him, doing all of this for him. She learned ASL for him, walks slower for him, tells him about what he has missed. All for him.

And Billy cries.

He settles into the leather of the seats and cries. It’s silent this time, tears running down his face.

No one comments.

Max grabs his hand, holds him tight, and presses down on the ignition.

***

August 17th, 1987, a week after Max’s 16th birthday, Johnny Phoenix gets discharged.

Max picks him up in her bright red car, smiling so wide at her brother while Jimmy, Anita, and others carry out his minimal belongings. He has a couple books to his name, ones that he loved so much that he purchased them, so he didn’t have to keep renting them again from the library. He has the photos of his mother that Max was able to salvage and sneak to him, his three outfits, and his several journals.

Billy had taken up drawing as he recovered. It was suggested by Dr. Graham; something to do with his hands. He had journals upon journals of charcoal sketches. He never showed them to anyone, not even Anita, but everyone would catch him sketching, watching him snap his notebook shut whenever someone entered the room.

Maybe one day, Billy promised himself, he would return the favor and make each of them something. Something to thank them for their time and patience.

It’s been a bit over two years since the accident, and Billy is a free man.

Truthfully, as he looks at the people he has begun to call his family, he has never felt more chained.

Max waited, parked in the driver’s side as Billy said his goodbyes. He said goodbye to the other nurses first. There was Sammy who was supposed to have her third child in 6 months, who promised to name it after Johnny if it was a boy. There was Leanne who was stern but kind to Billy, who told him that “we’ll miss you Johnny” and may have shed a tear or two. Sarah was the bubbly widow, who started being a nurse after her husband died in Vietnam. She was always too kind and left Billy with a large smack on his cheek.

Then it came to Jimmy. The other nurses prattled off, giggling and rushing to give them their space. Billy’s heart pounded. His hands were clammy. Anita walked over to talk with Max, her movements very loud and sure, almost like an invitation. And Billy guessed it was because the moment he raised his hands to sign something to Jimmy, the man pressed his lips to his, just so quick. Blink and you’d miss it. And Billy didn’t even react, just sat there as the soft lips he had been thinking of for months pressed upon his own, his hands gently grabbing at the nurse’s shoulders. Jimmy pulled back quickly, an apology rising on his tongue before he saw Billy’s smile. Billy grabbed him tighter then, pulling him close to allow for another, a better kiss, sighing into the frame of the other man. They both pulled back with smiles, Billy’s a little dazed.

“Go get them tiger,” Jimmy said, “And call me if you need anything.”

And then he blushed. And Billy blushed too, red and hot in the face like it was his first time kissing a boy.

“Or um, if you need anything. I’ll be close by. Just like? Anything you need—“

Billy cut him off with one last kiss, his glasses well past smudged and fogged.

I promise, Billy signs, thank you, Jimmy. Goodbye.

Jimmy grabs his hand softly as he finishes signing. Squeezes it gently. Billy smiles back at him, but he can’t stay here. They always knew that.

Anita is his last goodbye and turning to face her feels like he got punctured in the chest all over again. She realizes it the moment she sees his face too, and from what he can see, she feels the same. She walks to him, slow as if not to spook.

“Tell me why it feels like I’m sending off one of my own boys right now, Billy,” she says. Her voice is teary and it’s an unspoken command for Billy to cry as well.

Because you are, he signs.

She smiles at him then, tight lipped like she’s holding back a sob.

Max watches now, her eyes teary as well. She knows what this all means to her brother, how much this hurts him so.

“You stay safe out there, young man,” she says, tidying his shirt as if it will give her something to do besides cry, “You better be nice to my cousin and you better keep in touch or I’ll come out there and whoop your ass, you understand?”

Yes Ma’am, he signs.

“And I better see your face around here, okay?” She continues, fussing with him until he has to grab her hands.

“Anita,” he manages, and a sob wracks out of her. She puts her forehead to his chest, her short height making him bend to hold her.

“I…love….you,” he says, slow but sure. He had been practicing with Max. Knew this day was coming. She looks at him with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” he continues. Presses a kiss to her forehead. Hopes it will convey all he means, how she has been the mother he never asked for. The mother he never thought he could have.

She lets him go then. She nods once, quietly. Then walks over to Jimmy, watching as Billy climbs into the car next to Max. They both don’t comment on each other’s tears, but Billy silently grabs her hand, holds it tight.

Max puts the car into drive and they are off, leaving Anita, Jimmy, and the hospital in the dust.

…

CHAPTER THREE:

Steve doesn’t do much after Starcourt.

He spends the rest of July mourning.

When Hopper died, Steve watched how the lights went out in Joyce’s eyes. The woman has mourned two loves, two best friends. He hopes that three times a charm works; she deserves some happiness. He helps the Byers pack up their things, moving away to a regular old town in Ohio with El. Joyce had wanted to go further, wanted to go somewhere warm and busy, nowhere that could remind her of Hawkins. Will and Jonathan swayed that. They have lives here. Friends, a girlfriend. They couldn’t be too far. She compromised with a city within driving distance, and there they went, towing El along with them. Joyce adopted her immediately. Told her that she was already a daughter to her and didn’t need a marriage to Hopper to solidify that.

It will be nice for El. She’ll be able to go to school now, of course under the name Jane Hopper. Having Will there will also be great for her, allowing her a friend and a confidant. She’ll be okay; she’ll have a chance at normalcy for the first time.

Billy Hargrove’s death hits Steve in ways he didn’t expect. They weren’t close, per say, but he thinks that if Hargrove wasn’t so stubborn, they could have been friends. He thinks that’s why it eats him up, because of all of the “what if”s; that’s the conclusion that Steve and his therapist got to.

At least he has Robin to help.

She let him wallow for a bit, until she got bored. And annoyed. She polished up his resume-- which basically was her way of saying she bullshitted half of it-- and dragged him around Hawkins until someone hired them.

From October on, he was a cashier for Family Video.

Max took it all harder than she thought she would. Billy was her brother. Even though they weren’t biologically related, they always had an odd bond. A “Trauma Bond”, she told Steve after he picked her up from therapy one day.

That’s the only thing that really kept him sane after Starcourt. He couldn’t do anything he wanted to: starve himself for pity’s sake, or off himself to stop the guilt. He had a job, a role. He was still the kids’ “Mom” as they lovingly nicknamed him, their adopted guardian ever since the night of the tunnels, the night he took the brunt of Billy’s blow with his face.

That’s why Steve volunteered to drive Max to therapy each week. No other reason at all.

Steve found out all about Neil after Billy’s death.

Not a lot of people showed up to Billy’s funeral. Even though he was beloved in the halls of Hawkins, few actually knew him.

The Party had gone along, more for Max than Billy.

Maxine clung to Steve’s side as she tried not to cry. She looked wrong in a dress, even worse in all black. Steve’s last funeral had been Barb’s and Nancy had shrugged off any touch he tried. Here, he hugs her freely, taking in her consoling words. She even apologizes to Max for shooting at him, choking on the words. Steve feels his throat tighten too, so many things he wishes he could say to Hargrove, so many things he wishes he could change.

Neil Hargrove doesn’t show up.

Steve takes Max for some ice cream before taking her home.

She’s smiling by the time he turns onto Cherry Road. It’s not a full thing, but her eyes are dry. They’re swollen and red, but the tears have stopped and Steve counts that as a win.

He’s singing along horribly to Wham! when Max’s smile fades. On the doorstep to her house sits Neil Hargrove. Angry. Drunk.

Steve thinks it’s granted. Afterall, his son did just die. Steve assumes that’s the reason he didn’t show up today, that it would be too much for the old man.

But Maxine tenses at the sight of him. Her face goes pale. And Steve’s good at reading people. He’s well acquainted with fear.

Maxine is afraid of Neil Hargrove.

It clicks then, why Hargrove is the way that he was, why Neil never came, why Max prefers to spend her time with The Party or at Steve’s, why Billy got so upset over Max’s tardiness.

Steve itches for his bat then. Wants to hear the satisfying noise as it sinks into the side of Neil’s head like it did with all the demodogs he’s killed.

“Maxine, stay in the car.”

“Steve-”

“Maxine,” he growls and her jaw snaps shut. She nods and he feels bad for snapping at her, never wanting her to feel a fraction of the way the man of the house makes her feel.

“It will be okay,” he reassures her and she nods again, this time slow and sure. She sniffles, her eyes reddening with tears again. Poor kid has been through enough.

Steve gets out of his car and walks towards Mr. Hargrove, his hands in his pockets. Non-threatening. Benign.

Neil stands. Sways. Glares at him.

“Hello, Mr. Hargrove,” Steve tries, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The man makes a noise, something between a scoff and a grunt. Like he’s offended.

“He got what he deserved. Always gettin’ into trouble,” he slurs. “I know how he was, what he was. He had it all comin’” Steve grits his teeth. His nails dig into his palm. Has to tell himself not to swing at the man.

Neil looks at Maxine then, lifts his chin at her.

“Get inside, Maxine.”

Steve steps to the side, intercepts his line of sight with her. Neil’s glossy eyes bore into his.

“You got a problem, boy?”

And Steve laughs at that. Chuckles. Looks down to the ground while he does it.

“I don’t think we’ve met before, sir,” Steve says. Takes his left hand out of his pocket to shake his hand, “My name is Steve Harrington. I went to school with Billy.”

And just as Steve suspected, Neil takes the bait. He’s heard about how he was a navy man, heard how decorum was ingrained into Billy. Knew that Neil would never decline shaking a hand.

Neil’s grip is firm. They shake twice and Neil loosens his grip. Steve does not.

Instead, he leans in close. Tells Neil personally.

“Yaknow, they called me King Steve in highschool,” he starts, and continues before Neil can manage a word. “Do you know why?”

Neil goes cross-eyed looking at Steve.

“Because I don’t bow to no one,” he says with a smile, then leans back and swings.

***

Officer Powell isn’t as forgiving as Hopper was. He sees Steve with a black eye and bloody grin and doesn’t turn the other way when Neil is in a much worse state.

He is a good guy, Steve decides, when he takes Neil away in cuffs.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks Max when the cruiser drives off.

“Steve, what the fuck,” she replies.

“Language, Max.”

“He could have killed you!”

“But he didn’t,” Steve smiles, all smug.

He squats before Max then puts a hand on her shoulder.

“He won’t ever hurt you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Billy said that too and look where that ended him,” she says. Can’t meet Steve’s eye.

Steve wants to hug her and never let go.

“Just...never do that again, okay?”

He smiles at her. Stands then. Ruffles her hair and hugs her when she bats his hand away.

“Alright, Mad Max.”

***

Steve was used to being alone.

His relationship with his parents was strained; they were never around enough to really care for their son and make a bond. They put on the act, showed up for events and holidays. Steve knew what to say, when to kiss his mother’s cheek, and when it was okay to slink away. He was always close to the nannies he had, but they never lasted. His mother never warmed up to the idea of seeing Steve attached to a woman that wasn’t her.

Then Steve had met Tommy Hagan when he moved in two doors down. They were inseparable, always scheming and having a blast. Steve tried to not be hurt when Carol was added to the mix, but eventually he warmed up to her.

When Nancy came along, they left too.

But he didn’t care at first. His entire world suddenly became Nancy. She made him feel alive, made him feel a way no one ever had. He understood why Tommy loved Carol, understood why his mother stayed with his father. He understood what it was like to love and be loved.

Or so he thought.

When Nancy left him, he didn’t know who he was anymore. His parents had become increasingly absent, Tommy only ever spoke to him when he was the butt of his joke, and suddenly everything he knew about the world was turned upside down, literally. Demogorgons crawled into his world and he no longer cared about anything else. He had to find out who Steve Harrington was. Alone. Scared. Afraid.

He was standing in a crowded room and shouting and just hoping someone would hear him, notice him, care for a fucking second.

The only one who ever did was Hargrove. And Steve hated him for it. For seeing him when he was at his lowest. But Steve supposes that maybe that’s why Billy could hear him, see him. They were both at the bottom, just hoping for some solace.

He called out, Hargrove answered, and Steve ignored it.

And soon he was alone again.

Somehow, Dustin made it into the mix. A leech that latched on and wouldn’t let go no matter how hard Steve tried. But he sucked out the bad, bloodletting the terror that had become Steve’s friend. With that came the rest of The Party.

And suddenly, Steve wasn’t alone anymore.

He had to learn how to deal with that, had to learn that he now had people who noticed if he wasn’t sleeping, who noticed his horrible eating habits and noted his shaky hands. He was abruptly and suddenly a friend, a son, and no longer alone.

It was hard at first, to learn how to deal with people in the way, but he soon learned that they weren’t there to change him, but there to help him. To hold his hand. To carry him when he couldn’t do it himself. To be the shoulder to cry on. To care.

And now, several months after Starcourt, he stands at the stove in his kitchen, heating up some mac and cheese after his shift at Family Video and listens as Maxine prattles on about her newest comic. Robin ignores her in favor of editing her AP Lit essay that’s due next week. He can hear Dustin and Lucas in the living room, arguing over the Atari his parents got him for Christmas.

It’s nice. Domestic in a way he never thought he could have.

He has a purpose now. It took him a long time. A lot of tears and breakdowns. But he was patient with himself, as everyone else was. Therapy helped. His job helped. But this family? They made him want to get better, to stop sleeping with the lights on and the bat next to him, to be able to stop the trembling, to be able to laugh and forgive himself.

He even was getting his GED.

His grades in High School were horrible, he won’t deny that. He did enough to pass, barely graduating. He didn’t think it mattered, knew that he was known as the idiot and went with it. But he wasn’t. He’s good at reading people, good at caring for people, and apparently just has really bad dyslexia.

The government was able to pull some strings as an addendum to his hush money and Steve was given another chance.

He’s excelling now, doing homework and sleeping full nights.

And last week, he applied to college.

Robin is finishing highschool this year and then she’s headed to Loyola. Going into fine arts or something. And Steve wants to follow her there.

It’s a good plan, he thinks. It’s time for him to get out of Hawkins. He’ll be able to see the kids when he wants to. He needs a fresh start, to be able to have a life outside of the Upside Down.

Joyce is the one that got him thinking about it. They’re doing well for themselves out there. Nancy got into college in New York and Jonathan followed her there. Journalism and Photography. A good duo.

He hears from them once a week. He updates them about Hawkins and she’ll tell him volumes about the new shops she’s gone to and all she’s learning in her classes.

Hawkins was always too small for her.

Steve can only pray that he has the same luck.

***

It’s almost Christmas when Hopper returns.

The Byers are back in town for Christmas when Joyce hears a knock on her hotel door and opens it to find the rugged and dreary face of Jim Hopper staring back at her.

He’s bald now, sporting a beard that Steve can’t help but be jealous of. He tells them all about how he survived, how he was stuck in Russia for months until he was rescued.

Joyce won’t leave his side and Steve can’t blame her. El doesn’t leave him either. They’ve all shed enough tears over the reunion to water all the crops in Hawkins for a month, but no one is sad.

Looks like there was some good to come out of Starcourt afterall.

Joyce announces on New Years that the Byers are moving back to Hawkins. Steve notices the ring on her left hand, but doesn’t comment. Lets her have her moment.

Robin kisses him on the cheek when the ball drops and they all happily say goodbye to 1985.

Dustin complains as Lucas and Max kiss and Mike sucks El’s face, much to Hopper’s dismay.

Steve finds Max alone outside after all has quieted. She doesn’t notice him, trying desperately to suck down a Marbolo red. He didn’t know she smoked, and from the looks of it, neither did she.

Her breath mingles with the smoke, creating a cloud in front of her. She tucks herself deeper into her jacket. Billy’s jacket. No figure she’s cold. Hargrove was always shit at keeping warm. Always claimed he ran hot.

Will once told him the Mindflayer likes it cold. Wonder why it chose Billy then.

“Hey,” he says from across the way, trying not to spook her. He can see her eyes widen, though, and watches as she tries to put out the cig as quickly as she can.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell,” he laughs. He leans against the wall of the house next to her. They’re not touching, but he’s close enough to offer some warmth, some companionship.

He lets her sit, knowing not to ask anything. Knows she wouldn’t be able to answer.

“Reds? Really?” he jokes after a while, and from the punched out laugh that he hears, it’s what she needed.

“Billy really did have bad taste, didn’t he?”

“He did have questionable interests, that’s for sure.”

She looks out at the snow at that, something on her mind.

“Did he--,” she starts. He waits. “Did he ever talk to you about anything?”

Steve pulls out a cigarette at that. He doesn’t smoke often, keeps up the habit enough for it to stay a habit, but Robin hates the smell. Makes faces at him when he takes smoke breaks at work, when he comes back reeking of nicotine. He’s developed a sweet tooth instead, sucking on twizzlers instead when he needs something to do with his hands, something to occupy his mouth.

“Camels,” he tells her, “They’re better than those sticks of crap.”

She struggles through the cigarette, but he sees her calm. It’s more than just an offering of smokes. They both know that.

“We weren’t close, Max.”

“I know,” she says, blowing the smoke to the sky. It reminds him painfully of her older brother. Beer, water, smoke. It all shot up to the sky, raining down on him. A party trick, an attention grabber, who knew.

She turns to look at him for the first time since he left the warmth of the house.

“He always liked you, you know,” she said. Her face was closed off, like whatever his reaction was would dictate the rest of the conversation.

So Steve tread lightly.

“I doubt that,” he said, searching her eyes, “I have the scars to prove it.”

Her eyes squint a fraction. Calculating.

“He didn’t love you,” she settles on. She kicks the snow. Puts out the cigarette and grinds it into the ground, the cherry sizzling out.

“He didn’t really love anyone. But he…he respected you. I think.”

“You think?” Steve asks, finding himself actually intrigued. He breathes in the smoke, ignoring the skip of his heart.

“He flocked to you, even when you weren’t around. He always seemed to be seeking you out.”

“I think he just wanted to take my throne, Max,” Steve manages. Doesn’t like how tight his chest is. Doesn’t like how there’s no conviction in his words, “And he did.”

“Only ‘cause you let him.”

And ain’t that the truth.

Steve sits with that, letting it hang in the air like his smoke, like his breath. Hot and heavy in the winter cold.

“We weren’t friends, Max.”

“Yeah.”

“But I think we could have been,” Steve admits. He’s only ever talked to Robin about this, about Billy Hargrove. It feels wrong, feels like he shouldn’t be worrying about the dead boy when his sister stands besides him.

“I think so too.”

Joyce calls them in shortly after that and the thought of him, the thought of Billy Hargrove sits in his stomach with the spiked eggnog. Makes him feel topheavy, off-kilter.

That night he passes out hard on his bed, not even bothering to get under the covers.

He dreams of sea blue eyes and sun tanned skin.

***

Robin’s 18th birthday is next week, which she won’t stop reminding him of.

She’s dropping hints, like he’s supposed to do a surprise party for her or something. Or maybe she thinks he’ll forget.

He hasn’t.

He got a gift for her months ago. He wrote out a certificate for her, crumpling up about fifty versions until he was satisfied. It detailed a trip, one that Steve had covertly worked so hard to put together. Joyce helped a lot, but the idea was his.

He was taking her to Chicago. They were going to house-hunt for her, and he was paying for the weekend expenses.

She needed a break. They both did. He figures this was a good way to help her settle into her new life and to allow him some quality time with just Robin before she goes.

He plans to go with her, but he hasn’t exactly brought that up with her. Well, they’ve talked about it. Joked about it. But he hopes that when the apartment showings he’s lined up are only for two room apartments, she’ll be on board. Then it will be official.

He decided, along with Max’s help, to create a newspaper for the day and put the vacation in the horoscope column. She reads Steve’s to him every day at work, so he figured it would be cute. He can’t wait to see her scan for Aquarius and then have it all click. Hopes it works.

And it does.

On January 28th, she reads their horoscopes. Steve watches, waits. Swivels on the chair behind the counter as she leans next to the register and reads. And it takes a second for it to process. Until she pauses. Until she looks at Steve, who is beaming at her.

“What did you do, shithead,” she says.

“Happy birthday!” he shouts, turning all of the customers’ heads.

Steve makes a trumpet with his hands, making a poor imitation of the instrument as he rounds the counter. He grabs her then, swinging her around in his arms as he sings her happy birthday.

She pretends to be annoyed, like the spectacle is too much, but he knows she loves it.

Customers wish her good luck on her birthday and it makes her blush. Steve puts a mental tally on his “you rule” column on Robin’s old board.

On their way to Steve’s car after work, she tells him quietly:

“Thank you. It means the world to me.”

He drives her to his house instead of her own. The rest of their found family is there, ready with balloons and streamers to continue the festivities. Joyce even made a cake, yellow cake with chocolate icing, just like Robin likes.

El proudly tells her that she was the one to write happy birthday and Robin ruffles her hair at that.

It makes Steve’s heart full, to see everyone so happy, so at home with each other. He likes it this way. Likes having a full house. A warm house. A loving house.

Doesn’t want them to leave, but eventually they have to.

Robin spends the night, smokes with him until everything is fuzzy.

She snacks on the remnants of the cake as The Breakfast Club-- Robin’s latest obsession-- plays in the background. He doesn’t pay it any attention; he’s seen it enough times to practically quote it.

Steve finds himself smiling, not sure at what, really. Robin pokes at his thigh with her toe. He realizes she’s been talking. He has no clue what she’s been saying.

“Earth to King Steve,” she croons. He shoves her foot away.

“Robin, come on. No one’s called me that since high school,” he whines.

“Exactly! It’s my job to keep you humble.”

He fades away for a moment. He thinks she does too.

From the bit that they’ve talked about it, Robin didn’t have the best time at Hawkins High. It wasn’t horrible, but there’s only so much good that can come out of being closeted. She wasn’t popular either, telling him once about how she envied the way he could turn the room, having everyone swooning.

She told him once that she’s glad he’s no longer that guy. And Steve agrees.

“Can you imagine if we never worked together,” she interrupts, “Like if we never became friends.”

He thinks about it for a moment. Can’t fathom it. Can’t see his life without Robin. Wonders for a fleeting moment what it would be like, where he would be, who he would be if the Upside Down never happened. Wonders if he would have dated Nancy, if they would still be together, or if he would still be friends with Tommy. Wonders if he would have been friends with Hargrove.

Huh.

“Did you ever have classes with him?” He asks out of the blue. Robin’s red rimmed eyes blink slowly at him.

“Who?”

“Hargrove.”

She furrows her brow. Seems like ages pass before she answers.

“We had English 132. And home room. I think,” she says.

And he can’t help himself.

“What was he like?”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“You knew him,” she tries.

“Not really, though.”

Robin hums at that. Thinks for a moment. Rubs at her chin like she’s a cartoon character.

“He was smart. I remember that. He always had something to say in our discussions. Always had some interesting points. Even made me wanna talk to him about them sometimes, but I thought he’d just laugh in my face. Call me a nerd or something.”

She laughs at that, amused by her own joke. Steve frowned.

“He was always so cool, but I never thought anything of it. He was popular but not in the way you were.”

Steve faces her fully.

“He was like...all bark but no bite. He was hot and had the charm, but you were the one who could command. I dunno. It’s hard to explain.”

She looks at him, brow creasing in contemplation.

“I think he hated you for it.”

“Hated me?”

“Nah,” Robin amends, “Think he was jealous. Or something. He looked at you as much as I did. I think we both envied the charm.”

“Yeah, true jealousy. You know I wanted to be you, to be the one to charm all the girls you--”

Robin’s eyes widen.

“Oh.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“It makes sense,” she laughs to herself.

Robin looks at him with her wide, glossy eyes. But then breaks into a grin, the one he hates. The one that means she knows something he doesn’t. Or has a plan that involves him.

“Robin,” he warns.

“Nothing,” she smiles, all cheshire cat-like, “Forget about it.”

So he does. It’s not hard for him to. He watches the movie, bops along as the mismatched group dances through the library. Robin joins in, standing up and doing as good a job as Brian does. He laughs at her, shaking his head, and she grabs at him, pulling him up to join him. The movie continues as they painstakingly try to attempt the shadow-walking step that the boys do on the table. They’re well past the scene when they manage it and Steve’s heels are sore from Robin stepping on them too many times.

They flop back onto the couch once they get it, once they are able to do it without falling all over each other. Steve reaches for the one joint he has left, looking around for a lighter.

He tokes it, lets the sweet smoke fill his lungs and head. Holds it in until he needs to breathe, like when he did breathing contests with Tommy in his pool.

“He’s so beautiful,” Robin says, nodding towards John Bender, “If I was a straight woman, I’d totally do him.”

Steve finds himself humming along in agreement as he takes another pull. Robin reaches over as he holds it all in, grabbing the joint from his fingertips. Gets all in his face and looks into his eyes.

“Do you agree?” she asks, her brow raised.

And Steve starts at the idea. Coughs horrendously on the smoke in his throat. Robin laughs, rolling around on the couch as Steve runs to the kitchen to get water for his burnt throat.

“Do you?” she pries, having followed him. She hops onto the counter, sitting on it and swinging her legs as she smokes.

“I dunno,” he says, wiping the water from his mouth, “Never really thought about it.”

“Well,” she says on an inhale and waits to blow out the smoke to continue, “If you were to choose a man to be into.”

Steve thinks about it. He likes the swagger that Judd Nelson puts into the character, likes the bad boy vibe. It’s all in the bravado. The walk, the flip of the air, the audacity of the kid. And he finds himself liking the idea of the earring. Doesn’t know why.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I see the appeal.”

He meets Robin’s eyes and she’s watching him. Eagle-like. Reminds him of Max on New Years.

A beat passes and then she throws herself off the counter.

“I’m hungry, make me some food, your highness.”

***

Steve didn’t sign up for this.

He’s standing at a hightop table with no seats, trying to listen to Robin as she shouts over the booming bass of the club. A gay club.

He should have said no, but Robin had pouted and begged. And Steve must have become a pushover along the way, because he relents. He agrees to go to the favorited gay club in Chicago, during Spring Break nonetheless, and to be her wingman.

He would be lying if he wasn’t wildly uncomfortable.

No, it’s not like that.

It’s not the community or the atmosphere. It’s the fact that it’s so loud he can’t hear himself think and it’s so crowded that he’s thought about holding Robin’s hand as he trails behind her through the masses. He’s been to house parties in Hawkins, but he’s never actually been to a club. He doesn’t know if other clubs are like this, if other places have swarms of people grinding so hard that Steve blushes. Wonders if other places have people of all different walks lining the walls, kissing each other and anyone they can land.

Robin seems to thrive, seems like she’s finally able to breathe.

He envies her. Envies the rest of the people in this place. They are all so free, unoccupied with what lies on the other side of these four walls. These people don’t know what lingers in the dark, don't know what it's like to have Death herself breathe on you. Don’t know what it sounds like to sink a nail studded bat into the skull of an alien.

God, he needs a drink.

He tells Robin so. Gets her order and walks over to the bar. Waits about twenty minutes before he’s able to wave down one of the bartenders.

The man has a lightning bolt of glitter over his right eye, mirroring the sparkling, bare chest that he sports. He smiles at Steve, something wicked, and eyes him up and down. It makes Steve want to button up his shirt, a silky thing that actually belongs to his mother. He promised Robin he'd keep it unbuttoned. She said that the hair on his toned chest would make people go crazy. He didn’t really think about it before it actually happened.

“What ya want, darling?” He asks, practically singing with charm, acts like any customer has a chance to take the glittery man home. But by the way he looks at Steve, he thinks he may actually have a chance.

He shakes his head and that thought fades away into the music.

“Two gin and tonics. And whatever pale ale you got.”

He hands the man some cash, tells him to keep the change. The man winks at him and Steve can’t help but blush, knows it goes all the way to his navel.

Robin is making out with a girl she’s been hanging with since they got to the place when he returns to their table. She’s cute, definitely Robin’s type. She’s a tad shorter than her, sporting hair that’s poorly dyed pink, but somehow the girl pulls it off.

Steve puts the drinks on the table with more force than needed and Robin breaks from the girl with a laugh and wipes at her mouth. She beams at Steve and he can’t help but smile back at her. She thanks him and takes the moment to pointedly look at the girl, making a face as if to say “holy shit can you believe this?”

For someone who had been bemoaning the fact that she was going to die a virgin only two weeks ago, she seemed to be doing quite well. Steve can’t help but be proud of her. He’s happy for her. He really is. He knows how hard it is for her to sit and wait for her turn. So he waves them off when she tells them they’re going to dance.

Steve sips at his beer and wishes he got something stronger. He watches as Robin throws her head back and laughs, how she dances with the girl like they’re at prom. It’s not as sensual as the others around them, but Steve’s happy for her. Knows that she needs this.

So he lets them be, downs Robin’s mostly full drink, and returns to the bar for another.

This time, he only has to wait a couple minutes before the crowd clears. This time, an empty stool is in his way, calling his name. So he obliges.

The guy from before is at the other end of the bar, so he flags the attention of the other bartender. Throws back the dregs of his beer. Orders a scotch, reciting his father’s old order. Doesn’t know why. Maybe because it’s the only thing that’s in his brain right now.

He takes a sip, lets the ice-cooled liquor wash over his tongue, warm his throat, and burn in his chest. It’s not as good as his father’s, but it gets the job done. He swivels in the chair, resting his elbow on the bar, ignoring the sticky counter from countless spilled drinks, and seeks out Robin. She’s still dancing with her girl, singing along to Tears for Fears and he can see the red in her cheeks, knows it’s from happiness and a bit too much booze.

“Not a dancer, huh?” Someone to his right says, their voice gruff and deep, loud over the music, now switching to Madonna. Steve knows how Robin feels about Madonna. Doesn’t have to look to know she’s losing her shit. Instead, he turns to the man beside him, dragging his gaze slow, no need to give the stranger attention for simple small talk.

He’s met by a smirk, one that seems an equal amount of malicious and mischievous, and blue-blue eyes. They remind him of Robin’s, a little more vibrant than her hurricane eyes, a little more like--

The man sticks out his hand.

“Nick.”

Steve takes his hand. It’s warm, a bit rough. Callused, unlike Steve’s hands.

“Steve.”

The man is turned the same way Steve is, watching the throngs of people as they dance along to the loud music, grinding and swaying with the beat.

“Those your friends?,” Nick asks, pointing with his drink to where Robin waves. Looks. Pauses.

Steve drinks.

“Yeah,” he says once he remembers the question, finds himself looking at the man, at Nick, and forgetting again.

This physical attraction.

Steve watches as the man takes in his face, feels every point the man’s sight drags on. Figures it would be better just to touch, caress his face in the same manner. It makes Steve gulp. And Nick watches. Wets his lip. And Steve finds himself looking.

It’s a chemical reaction.

The man orders Steve another drink, orders himself a gin and tonic to go with it. And Steve notices then, the empty contents of Nick’s drink, how he runs his pointer finger along the lip of the glass.

Steve has never thought of someone’s hands to be pretty, but knows that Nick. Nick has pretty hands. Long fingers. A good combination of rugged and elegant. Reminds him of what his dad would want him to be, what he could have been.

In another life, maybe he would be the one to order from the top shelf, coming to a club in a suit. Slipping off his blazer and rolling up the sleeves when it got too hot. Loosening the collar, like Nick has done. His top button is undone, triangulating a patch of skin, right below the divot of his throat, highlighted by his white shirt and emerald green tie. He can just make out the starting of the hair on his chest and Steve doesn’t know what to do with that information. Shoots the rest of his scotch in one go.

Nick takes the empty glass, immediately replacing it with a full one, fingers brushing, lingering against the inside of Steve’s wrist.

You’re confusing me.

Steve feels the touch long after it’s gone. Glances up to see Nick. Looking. Brow slightly raised, a question posed.

‘Cause I don’t know if you want me.

It’s an out, Steve realizes. Nick is brazen in a way that Steve used to be and experiencing it first hand makes him suddenly feel as weak in the knees as he imagines his old conquests did. Nick sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, leaves it glistening when it pops back out. Steve takes a breath without realizing it. Can’t help the way his own lips part at it.

And Steve.

Steve wants to run his thumb along it, along the plump pink. See how soft it is. Takes a sip of his scotch to occupy himself, his hands, his mouth.

But I know that I want you.

Steve hands itch. Wants to push back the strand of hair that has draped itself over Nick’s forehead. Damp with sweat. Wants to sink his fingers into the cropped, dirty brown curls that he has and feel how different it is from Steve’s own mane.

And Steve. Steve finds himself leaning into the man, taking in the stench of him, of sweat and the smoke and the cologne. God, the cologne. Downright sinful. Should make Steve alarmed at the need, the want to shove his face into the column of his neck and breathe.

And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Steve’s never been good at saying no, to hearing no. Used to calling the shots, running wild until he burns out. Always good at going with his gut before he even can think about it. Knows it’s why he was King Steve, because Steve ran it all with no fear, with such hubris that people flocked to him.

And that Steve has been gone for so long.

“Do you have any smokes?”

It takes a second for his brain to catch up, to realize that the question came from his lips. He watches as Nick’s brow arches higher, how his smile grows into something rakish. It sets something aflame in Steve, like he just scored the last point with a buzzer beater, like he just sunk his bat into the head of a demodog, can hear the squelch, the sick and satisfying crunch that he can feel through the wood.

He can feel his pulse in his neck, feel the beating of his heart in his chest, but it's calming. Roots him. And he runs with it, throws up his chin and looks down his nose at the man. Like he used to. Like King Steve used to. Bares his neck and just asks for someone to bite, to go straight for the jugular. Revels in the fact that he knows they won’t

And like all the bitches before him, Nick eats it up.

Steve stands, throwing back his drink, and walks to the back door. Looks back with a raised brow, knowing that Nick would still be sitting exactly where Steve left him. And Steve, the fucker that he is, tips his head towards the door. Like he’s calling a dog.

Come.

Sit.

Heel.

Steve is outside before he can decide anything else, lets the cool brick against his back calm him down.

His brain is screaming at him, swirling with whatthefuckwhatthefuck and a bunch of liquor, but then the door swings open, cracking against the wall, and Nick stands before him. And Steve. He’s the image of nonchalance. Lets his body do what his brain can’t catch up to.

They stare at each other for a moment. Another out. But Steve never backs down from a fight. He’s stupid like that. Won’t let someone else have a victory that they didn’t rightfully earn. So he looks at the man. Challenges him. Lets his hooded eyes roam up and down his frame. Nick lets him and Steve preens. Feels on fire and like he stretches on forever, anticipation making his breath heavy, sends his blood south before the man has even laid a finger on him.

And that simply cannot do.

So he steps forward. Slow. Keeps Nick’s line of sight. Has an inch or two on the man. Smiles all smug when Nick notices. And Steve. Grabs his tie. Shimmies it up until the knot is centered again. Then wraps it around his palm and pulls.

***

“I cannot believe this,” Robin shouts at him. It makes his head throb. She bought him coffee, which at least helps, but his head is splitting and he is barely awake enough to process anything. Woke up to Robin pulling him out of his cocoon of blankets. Blinked away the comfort and the pain while she prattled on about her wonderful night. And then stops. Shoves her finger into the juncture of his neck. And it hurts.

“What the hell. Is that.”

Oh.

Steve demands his coffee. Can smell it from across the room. Waits until his hands warm up through the disposable cup, waits until he’s had enough sips for him to feel it slip into his veins, feels it start to wake him up.

“I made out with someone.”

Plain. Simple.

He wants to tell Robin about it all, wants to tell him about his dirty alleyway hook up with a man. But he knows she’ll start shrieking the way she does when she gets excited. Know she’ll want all the details and ask him questions he hasn’t even asked himself.

“Literally when. One moment I’m dancing with Sloane” Oh that’s her name, “and you’re at the bar talking to that guy and then next you’re gone and I try to find you for hours only to come home to find you passed out in our shared bed and--”

She pauses. Furrows her brow. Steve winces. Knows it’s coming.

Her eyes widen, “Holy shit.”

“Ding ding,” Steve mutters into his coffee.

“Steve, tell me you did not.”

And Steve decides silence is better than any answer. And apparently all the answers she needs. And true to the Robin fashion, she squeals. Then punches him.

“You made out with a dude and didn’t tell me, your best friend. Your gay best friend?”

Steve hangs his head, hopes it will help with his headache. His throat is dry, the coffee not helping. He needs water pronto.

“I know we talked about some stuff on my birthday, and I had suspicions, but I didn’t expect you to just do it.” Robin sits on her heels, level to Steve’s eyes. “Did he pressure you into anything?”

Nevermind, he needs another drink.

“Jesus, Rob,” He pushes her away, softly. Goes to the bathroom and greedily gulps down two glasses of water.

“I’m just making sure. Because I know how skeevy people can be, especially in bars. So I just want to make sure you’re okay. You’re okay right?”

“Robin,” he pulls at his hair. Wishes he could go back to sleep.

She softens then. Steps closer to him, puts her hand on his shoulder. Makes him look at her.

“This type of thing can be very overwhelming. So I’m going to ask again: are you okay?”

He loves her, he really does. But he really does not want to deal with this right now. Doesn’t like to deal with the consequences of his actions for as long as he can manage. Prefers to help others figure out their own shit and just hope he gets straightened out along the way.

But Robin knows him like the back of her hand now. And she’s just as stubborn as him.

“I’m okay, Rob,” he admits. And he’s shocked that it feels like the correct answer.

She nods at him. She’s not happy with his answer, but satisfied enough. She sits on the closed toilet with a sigh.

“So, how was it?”

And ain’t that the question. Nick was fun. Reminded him of the girls he’d hook up with at the parties Tommy dragged him along to, how they were pliant and open and sometimes it was just to pass the time, just to let off some steam. Part of the festivities. Sometimes, it was to get his dick wet. Nick was the former. A fun thing. The first person who has shown Steve interest in months. Let him press him against the weathered brick and sink his teeth into his bottom lip, let him pull soft noises out of his throat.

Which was.

Different.

Steve is used to soft. Is used to curves. Is used to the plush press of them against his chest, how he towers over them and how their sighs were as sweet as candy. Nick was different. He had large, broad shoulders with a firm chest. It was unfamiliar at first. It was a slight shock when he pressed against him, to feel the flat of his skin, but Steve still liked it, liked feeling the curve of his muscles as he ran his hands across his chest. It was different from the curve of a girl’s waist, the roundness of her breasts gone. But the motions were the same and Steve settled into it quickly, like picking up bike riding after a while. Wobbly at first, but sure by the end.

The stubble was new. Scratched against his chin, his cheek. Felt amazing on his neck, another sensation added to the mix. Steve had reveled in it. He loved doing it back, running his cheek against Nick’s throat, feeling the low rumble from him that went straight to Steve’s dick. It was different than the throaty high pitch of a girl’s, but it spurred him on the same. The smell was different too, the musky stench of sweat was overwhelming and familiar. Reminded him of the locker room, of basketball practice and having a sweat damp body pressed against his, but it wasn’t disgusting, vile in the way the locker rooms always were. This was different, knowing that Steve was the reason for it, that Steve was the one to make him quake.

Girls were sweet. Guys were...something else. Heady. Like the difference between flowers and the woods. Both plants at the end of the day, but so so different.

And Steve tells Robin this. She sits still, enraptured by his details. At the end, she just nods. Just nods. And like, what the fuck.

“What?”

“Nothing, ‘s just” she stands, has a tone to her voice that Steve doesn’t like, makes Steve feel dumb. Like he’s missing something. Or she knows something he doesn’t, knows she’s about to pry.

“Just?”

“Makes sense.”

And that. That’s it?

“That’s it?”

“Yup,” she says and flops onto the bed. Steve leans against the wall. Watches her. Perplexed.

“Did you guys fuck?”

“Jesus, Rob.”

“I’m just asking!” she throws her hands up, “Gotta know if we need to get you tested or something.”

“Tested?”

“Yes, tested. Hopefully you had the right mind to use protection.”

“Robin!” And it's too much for Steve. Too much for his hangover addled brain.

“We didn’t fuck,” he admits. And Robin deflates at that. Bitch.

“Did you and Sloane fuck?”

And Robin looks at him. Has the audacity to guffaw.

“Nuh uh, sir. We are talking about your sexual awakening. No deflecting.”

But he sees the look on her face, the blush in her cheeks. He beams.

“You so did, you fucker.”

And Robin throws a pillow at his head.

***

On June 1st, 1986, Steve packs up his Beemer and follow’s Robin in the moving truck all the way to Chicago.

She graduated a week before. Spent the week after flitting between graduation parties and Joyce’s. Joyce had dinner for them every night, said she wanted to get as much time with them as she could before her babies flew the nest.

Steve reminded her every time that Chicago is not far away at all, but Joyce would shush him. Scolded him for not letting her have this moment, for not basking in the fact that they’re all okay.

Well, except for Billy.

Steve feels bad for Max, apologizes profusely about no longer being able to drive her to her therapy sessions. Reminds her countless times that he’s only a call away, that she’s welcome in Chicago whenever she wants. And she agrees with a frown. Determined not to be sad. Clings to Steve the way that she clung to her brother when Steve leaves. And it hits him. What he means to Max. Realizes what she has become for her too. Promises himself to never let her down. Promises her to never fall out of touch.

She calls him a shitbird, something she picked up from Robin. Or her brother. He can’t tell. It’s been so long. And he knows that it’s her way of telling him. Telling him I love you too.

Steve cries the whole first hour of the drive. Turns off the music and lets himself sit in the silence. Lets it rattle around in his skull and knock everything loose. Lets himself sob until his temples hurt and his throat is raw. Wonders if he should have pulled over. But it’s Indiana. And the roads are sparse with passengers. And Steve is leaving the only home he’s ever known, the one that he created for himself, moving on from the family that pulled him out of his own darkness.

Knows that he needs this. But knows that it still doesn’t make it any easier.

They arrive at their apartment right before five. Robin doesn’t look any better than Steve. Or what he imagines he looks like. Hair a mess. Eyes still red. Throat all scratchy.

They don’t acknowledge it.

It’s well past dinner time when they manage to get all of their things up the three flights of stairs and into their new home. It’s little, but the location is prime and there’s enough sun to turn Robin’s hair into a halo. And it unfurls something in his chest, lets him breathe.

It’ll be okay.

They meet their neighbors the following days. Some of them stop by, like Mrs. Hartman, who is an older lady that brings them brownies and compliments Robin’s pride flag, telling her about her son and his partner. Steve watches with a smile. Watches as Robin opens up, blossoms into the bubbly person he knows and loves. There are the Carsons next door and the Thompsons and their new baby girl across the way. They all seem nice, giving Robin and Steve their information for emergencies. Steve puts them all on their fridge, along with various photos of The Party. One of Joyce and Hopper. One of Jonathan and Nancy’s engagement photos. A photo of all of them that Jonathan took this summer, his figure slightly blurred as he ran to beat the timer. But they’re all laughing. All disheveled in the best way.

It’s Steve’s favorite photo.

He calls Max one a week, on Tuesdays. Calls on the weekends too. By then, he usually calls Joyce, lets her pass along the phone as him and Robin sit with their own wedged between them. Listens to the updates. Returns with their own.

It’s easy for the time to pass. Robin finds a record shop down the street that’s hiring. Manages to finagle Steve into the equation as well. They come as a package deal lately. Or at least, that’s how Robin sold them.

It’s better than Family Video, that’s for sure. He’s able to wear his own clothes, for one. The second is that Steve loves music. Feels more in his element. Likes to recommend things, enjoys being able to listen to the new releases and the old. Able to find new favorites and interests. Robin and his record collection grows exponentially larger. Understandably.

September comes around and classes start. They have different schedules, Robin and Steve, but it works. Steve is up to make Robin breakfast in the morning, often waking her up when she sleeps like the dead, oblivious to her alarms. Steve still doesn’t sleep well, but he’s trying. Often sneaks into Robin’s bed and lets her hold him. Lets her play with his hair when he gets the terrors.

Robin gets them too, though not as bad as Steve. She doesn’t have dreams of faces blossoming into millions of teeth, never had to deal with flesh monsters with petal-like faces. But she has her share of the burden. Likes to wake up and make her tea, prefers not to go back to bed when she’s up. Steve is a light sleeper. Usually joins her. And they play records or watch television. Or both. And eventually, they both fall asleep, curled up on their oversized couch. It’s an old thing, but it’s worn in and you sink into the cushions in the best way.

Steve often takes the morning shifts at work. Gets off in time to go to his classes. Only gen-eds until he decides what he really wants to do. Feels good, though. He’s better now. Knows what works for him, and what doesn’t. Doesn’t feel stupid when he asks for Robin’s assistance. Knows that it’s not a problem to ask for help anymore. No longer a weakness to him.

They’re signing up for the spring semester, all bundled up from the snow storm outside, Nat King Cole crooning about Christmas from their record player. And Robin. She suggests a path for him.

“What about teaching?”

And that’s that. It sits in his head, swirling around. He has always been good with kids. Joked once that he was a better babysitter than a boyfriend to Nancy. He loves to help people, knows how to read them, how to help them. Wants to help them. Decides to look into it.

And just like that, he’s a teaching major.

He expects it to panic him, for him to freak out over the fact that he’s actually doing this, but it never comes. The guilt of not going into business, not going into his father’s business doesn’t cross his mind like he thought it would.

Reminds him of Nick. About that night. That choice. How it didn’t phase him at all.

It takes a minute, but he finds it. The slip of paper. The couple of numbers. And he gives Nick a call.

***

They spend Christmas in Hawkins. It’s a no brainer to them. Have heard too many songs reminding them to be home for Christmas. And as he sits next to Robin at the leafed dining table in Joyce and Hopper’s new house and he knows that this is what that is.

Home.

It’s different, having everyone under the same roof, but in a different home. But it suits them. Joyce tells them all that Hopper and her are getting married in the spring. Warns Steve that she’ll drag their asses back from Chicago if she has to.

Jonathan and Nancy are here as well, happily married, having eloped and shown up to Thanksgiving with matching rings and a very upset Mrs. Wheeler. Joyce had been there; she was one of the witnesses, along with Will. But that was that. Robin bets Max that Nancy will be pregnant by 1988 and Steve expects to feel something at that, expects to feel something at their announcement. Of the engagement. The wedding. But he doesn’t. Not anymore. He loves them and they love him. It’s as simple as that.

Dustin is the happiest to see Steve, Max close behind, no matter how much she tries to hide it. Her face may say one thing, but the way she clutches at his shirt when he hugs her hello says another story.

The Party is doing well, telling Steve and Robin all about highschool, which still baffles Steve. The kids are growing up. His kids. He’s happy for them, though. Proud. Can’t wait to see where they all go.

The snow keeps Robin and Steve there until two days after the New Year, which they don’t mind. They share Joyce’s guest bedroom, since now they have one. She made sure of it, she told him when she gave the grand tour. Wanted to have room for her other babies, she says. To be honest, it’s just a placeholder for where Jonathan’s bedroom would be, but Steve likes her sentiment more.

He spends two of the nights in Hawkins at Max’s. Susan divorced Neil a couple months ago, tired of the abuse, of how he treated Max, of how he treated Billy. She apologized to Max a million times about it, about how she regrets that it took her step-son’s death to give her the push. She thought about leaving Hawkins, unsure if she could stay in a small town with such a large history, but a restraining order-- courtesy of Hopper-- sent Neil packing, unable to do much in the town with the way word traveled. His dirty laundry was aired, along with Billy’s unfortunately. And suddenly, the blond was reveried in a way that made Steve ache, in a way that he knows Billy would have hated. The dead boy with the bad father. What a legacy.

Max was the main reason Susan decided to stay. Starcourt was gone, demolished after the tragedy of the fourth of July, and Neil was nowhere to be seen, but she still was restless. She finally rooted herself when she saw the way that Max closed up, went stiff and angry at the idea. Reminded her too much of her ex-husband. She didn’t want Max to ever have to feel that way. Wanted her to have a place where she was loved and where she could be happy. Didn’t want to make the same mistakes she made with Billy.

They lived in a modest apartment across town, supported by the government’s hush money, the lawsuit Max finally brought up against Neil, and Susan’s secretary job.

It was a good fit for Max, well within biking and skating distance from her friends. Her room wasn’t as big as her one on Cherry Lane, but it was packed with things that screamed Max. From the posters and photos down to Billy’s old record player and all his records, all kept pristine in the corner. Reverent. She even had his cologne on her dresser.

Steve can’t help but smell it. He doesn’t expect it to punch the breath out of him, like Billy was there, like in the Byer’s house that night. Looming over him. Straddling his hips. Swinging. Makes him blink a couple times. Clears the smell, the image from his brain.

Aramis. Makes Steve chuckle to himself.

He sleeps on the couch, despite Susan and Max’s protest. It’s a pull out anyways. He has a stiff back in the morning, but doesn’t mind. Happy to spend the day with Max, to see how she has kept her fire, accompanied by a growing kindness. It’s funny though, how much her mannerisms and reactions still remind him of her brother.

It settles him. To know that even though Billy is dead, he’s still very much alive.

They welcome 1987 the same way they did the previous year. Robin plants a gross and loud smooch on his lips, tells him that it doesn’t count since they’re both queer. Steve sees Will stiffen out of the corner of his eye. Turns to him. Sees the blush high on his cheeks. Watches him fiddle with his hands in his lap.

Oh.

He reminds himself to talk to Robin about it. Maybe they can be the “fairy gaymother” to Will, like Robin was for Steve. Or, Fairy Gayparents. He’ll have to see.

He hasn’t told anyone yet. Hasn’t felt the need to. He doesn't feel any different. Knows no one here will see him any different. So he figures he’ll go about it the way he did his sexuality: just let shit happen.

He gets drunk with the “adults”, basically anyone older than eighteen. The kids protest, wanting to join in on the fun, to be a part of the game that Hopper of all people have started up. But Joyce waves them off. The kids argue for a moment, but then slink off to Will’s room to play Dungeons and Dragons and Steve knows he won’t see any of them again until the morning. Hopper reminds Mike he can’t sleep in El’s room and that he will be checking and Mike doesn’t reply, just goes wide in the eyes and scrambles away.

Hopper’s laugh is loud and boisterous and Steve finds himself laughing along, leaning into Robin and feeling warm. Content. Happy to be back home.

They play various games, some drinking games from Hopper and Joyce’s youth, some that Robin brings in from college, and some board games that turn into drinking games. They start off with the spiked eggnog and somewhere along the line, they devolve into beers, spiked drinks, and anything that the drunken heart desires. Joyce laughs a lot, the happiest he’s ever seen her, watches as she crowds in close to Hopper, how he lets her. Beams at her. A private little thing that lets him know that in that moment, they’re the only two people in the room. It hurts good. Really good. Aches in that good way, like after you work out really hard and you give into the sore, are able to relax, to stop fighting. And you’re not crashing, not giving out, but rather, achieving peace. Too tired to worry about the rest. Just happy for doing it, for making it past the pain and the ache. It’s only floating on from here.

Nancy starts hiccuping around one in the morning. It’s a cute little thing, a signal that she’s had too much. She nuzzles into Jonathan and he’s happy for her. Happy for him too. No longer angry or upset. Gave up on that a long time ago, once he realized he had no anger left to hold, once he realized that they were no good for each other, that one day your life can be perfectly fine, and the next day, there are monsters and Russians and.

And you could die.

Any of them could. Be like Billy. Unexpected. Too young. Nothing they can change.

It had been a while since Starcourt. They could all talk about it without the immense pain that came with it. He still thinks about it. Every day. Still wondered if he could do it differently. If it would change anything.

Maybe he just feels bad for Billy, wishes he had the chance to have a moment like this. To be surrounded by those he loves. To be able to float, to coast on happiness. To forget about the monsters and the tunnels and the baggage they all carry.

Wonders if Billy could have that. Wonders if Billy does have that, wherever he is. Hopes he’s on the beach that El told him about. Hopes he’s happy. At peace.

***

His first official date with Nick is the first weekend that classes resume.

Steve’s surprised he says yes, given that it’s been months since they met. Wonders if the guy still remembers him. But he lights up over the phone. Tells him that he’s glad Steve moved in okay. Asks how he’s liking Chicago.

Nick has a full time job, works at some firm Steve can’t remember the name of. Makes him itch at the memory of his father. But Nick is nice, kisses him real good. The weekend works best for both of them.

Nick tells Steve he’s taking him for dinner and Robin picks out his outfit so a panicking Steve doesn’t have to. It’s a turtleneck. Emerald green. Same color of Nick’s tie that night. Wonders if he’ll wear it again, if they’ll match.

Robin tries to give him the sex talk, half of it makes Steve run hot with embarrassment, the other half making Robin so red she has to stop and start several times. If Steve ever needed proof that Robin hated dick, the way she balked at the mere mention of it was enough.

She gives him a kiss on the cheek goodbye. Tells him she hopes he doesn’t come home. He pretends he doesn’t feel the condom she slips into his pocket. Jesus.

Steve doesn’t know if he wants that, yet. Men are new to him. It’s not as familiar as a woman, but that’s not what terrifies him. King Steve died a long time ago. And though his ghost may reappear every once in a while, Steve gave up on casual sex after Nancy. Saw no need in it. Often was too preoccupied with other things--such as monsters--to get into the whole charade of it all like he used to.

Who knows. He’ll see where the night takes him.

Nick picks him up right outside of his complex’s lobby. The snow is falling, just enough to stick to his eyelashes. Not enough to freeze him to the bone.

It’s a short drive, Steve notes. He doesn’t know where they’re going. Knows only that he was supposed to dress nice. Whatever that means. He stares out the window as Nick drives, watching the snow so he doesn’t have to worry too much about what he needs to do.

Steve hasn’t been on a date in a long time. Even with Nancy, it was high school. Courting was juvenile there. Dates only happened once you were dating. You usually fooled around and then got together. But then again, that isn’t much different than what happened with him and Nick.

It’s just that. Steve doesn’t know what to do. Is used to being the one who picks up the date. The one who drives the car and picks the place. Loves the control of it, the knowing smiles he gives his giddy dates. Likes picking up the bill, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to at the place Nick is taking him. He’s just a student. The truth is that he doesn’t know the etitque here. He’s used to the traditional form of it all.

Now he understands Robin’s rants about gender norms and all that.

The restaurant is beautiful when they arrive. Definitely not in Steve’s price range. There is smooth jazz playing in the background, only the light murmur of conversation and the clinking of dishware filling the place. Reminds Steve of where his mother and father used to take him.

Nick follows him to the table, hand on Steve’s lower back, warm and soaking through his sweater. It eases him a little. Doesn’t help when Nick whispers how hot he thinks Steve looks in green.

It makes him blush like a virgin. And in a way, he guesses he is.

It’s stupid. So stupid. But he’s here on a date. With a man. In a crowded restaurant, right during Reagan’s prime. Something tells him that they can’t hold hands across the table. It twists funny in Steve’s chest. A relief and also a disappointment. He looks around, expects everyone to be watching, staring. Glaring. As if he’s wearing a giant neon sign that reads: QUEER BOY HERE.

But Nick hooks his foot around Steve’s ankle and smiles into his menu when Steve looks at him. And it helps.

***

He should have really considered Nick’s offer when he whispered, all sweet and sultry, into Steve’s ear. Asked him to come back with him. To his apartment. To spend the night.

And Steve said yes, full of expensive steak and swimming happily in a tipsy state from the bottle of red he got them. He’s swooning, has never been courted before. Always been courting. And he understands it all. The butterflies. The way the girls would dote on him after he picked up the check. How they would be ready to spread their legs and let him wear them like his crown.

Steve gets it.

He’s walking around Nick’s apartment-- penthouse, to be more precise. He looks at the smattering of photos. Drags his finger across the leather couch. Reads the worn spines, taking in what books he’s loved.

He’s a nice guy, Nick. Someone that Steve definitely would want as a friend. Smart. Charming. But not in the way Steve used to be. More genuine. A magnet. It’s easy to fall into conversation with him, to discuss interests and dreams. But still, Steve was wise enough to not give too much away. Didn’t let up on anything more of his past other than the fact that he came from Hawkins and is an only child. That’s it. Told him about Robin too, but he had already known about her. Asked if Robin and the “pink haired girl” had gone on a date yet, so he tells her all about Sloane. How Robin’s too scared to make it official. Steve understands her, knows that their past is a loaded gun. Easy to go off and make a mess. But Nick tells him she should go for it, that if you jump, you may fall. But you also may fly. And Steve knows he’s not just talking about Robin and Sloane.

Perhaps that’s why Steve said yes to Nick. Tired of falling. Hopes he can soar this time.

Nick knows that he’s new to...this. Takes it slow in a way that makes Steve want to cry and clutch at the man. Doesn’t know what he did to deserve the attention and care of a stranger, but douses himself in it. Wants it to stay long after Nick’s gone.

He’s in Nick’s bedroom, running his hand along the dark wood of his dresser when Nick enters. Hands him a drink. Apparently, Nick’s hobby is mixology. Told Steve he was a bartender in college. Asked him a bunch of questions and decided on a drink to make for him.

The attention is cloying. Makes him itch.

He sips at it, letting out a hum of approval when it's exactly what he needed. And Steve notices. A bottle. It’s golden, familiar. He picks it up. Reads it and feels his heart thump.

Aramis. Fuck.

He almost drops the bottle when Nick pressed against his back, noses against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Steve lets himself breathe. Breathe in. Deep. Smells Nick and more, old feelings flickering to life. Smells the cologne and it makes his head swim. Or maybe that’s the drink. Or the way that Nick mouths at his neck now, humming along his skin, dragging his stubble along the sensitive stretch in the most tantalising way.

Steve turns in Nick’s embrace, pressing his forehead against Nick’s. Takes him in. The way he breathes. The warmth of him. How broad and built he is, lean but not too bulky. How his blue tie matches his eyes. Or how he smiles now, content with just resting his hands on Steve. Letting him set the pace.

It’s too gentle, almost. Steve wants to break apart. Wants to shove the man back and yell at him. Get him angry, get him to see the messed up side of Steve.

But he doesn’t see it. Doesn’t know it. Won’t ever know it. And it terrifies Steve, makes him feel guilty. Like he’s lying to Nick.

Steve buries his head into his shoulder. Breathes in Nick and Aramis and.

It calms him. Makes him smile in the way nostalghia does. Gives him the perseverance he needs. Pushes him to turn his head, to start pressing kisses to Nick’s neck. Letting his lips drag against the skin, against the stubble. Feels the rumble of his throat, how he hums in pleasure. Makes Steve feel alive, boldened by the fact that he did that. He knows how this goes, knows how to make people feel good. Tracing his lips up to the bolt of his jaw, goes right below his ear. Sucks there, hard enough to draw a pleased noise from Nick, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Feels Nick clutch at Steve’s arms, still in the placating position they were in. Like he didn’t want to trespass, like they were at a middle school dance, saving space for Jesus.

And Steve can’t have that.

Pulls back. Takes in Nick’s reddened lips, shiny from wetting them. Looks at the waning blue in his eyes, how hooded his lids are. Knows he must look the same. Knows they want the same.

He feels up Nick’s chest, mirroring their alleyway kisses. Feels the same curve of his muscles, the soft skin covering the hard planes of his pecks, his abs. Toned. Athletic. And Steve wants to see it, wants to see how deep his blush goes, how thick the hair on his chest is. Wants to get his hands on skin.

So he pushes. Nick goes back, eyes focused on Steve, until he’s guiding him back with just two fingers, pressed to his chest. And Steve pauses at that. Stares at where his fingers rest, just between Nick’s pecks. Feels like Robin would be using that voice now, giving that face, if she were here. The one that lets him know that he’s stupid, that he’s missing something.

But then Nick’s knees hit the bed and he goes down. And he’s beautiful. He’s splayed across the dark grey comforter, his white shirt standing out, straining against his skin, well past it’s due to be taken off. And that thought goes straight to Steve’s dick. And he was intrigued before, curious. Interest piqued. But here. he’s ready, determined to get his hands on his skin, to get his hands in Nick’s close cropped curls, to pull at the longer hair on top, to get his hands on his dick.

The thought should terrify him. But it doesn’t.

Steve sinks down onto the bed, straddling Nick’s waist, and finally, finally. He leans down and kisses him. Moans into it, all filthy. Like he’s finally getting water after being parched. Should be ashamed of it, blushing like a bride, but Nick echoes him. And it goes to Steve’s head. Makes it all swimmy.

And he can’t help but continue, letting his body go into muscle memory as he licks into Nick’s mouth. Lets himself get lost in the musky taste of him that he remembers, can’t help but get addicted to the way that it’s so different from a girl’s sweet taste. Lowers himself. Groans out at how good the flat planes of Nick’s body feels against his, how the pressure feels against his dick, how he can feel Nick’s, can feel how hard he is. How hard Steve’s made him.

And it’s different, but not weird. A fleeting thought, a comment, as he continues through. Forgets all his worries. Feels bold and reaches down, cupping Nick from outside his slacks and eats up the moan he receives. Moves his body, his hands, his mouth in the way he needs, the way it feels good, the way it feels right. Feels Nick move with him, responds with him. Like it’s a dance. And he’s leading. Decides he likes it this way. Not much different than a girl.

So he focuses on it, on which angles feel good, what pressure.

And he forgets about what he’s supposed to do. And what he’s supposed to think. And he jumps off the ledge.

***

Max comes to stay with them on March 25th. Tells them she’s going to stay with them for a couple days. Steve doesn’t ask questions, delighted to show her around. He should be worried about school, but she tells him it’s Spring Break, that there’s nothing to worry about, so he goes with it.

It’s nice to have her around. To have someone else to shoot the shit with him and Robin. She adds a nice element to it all, just as stubborn and smart mouthed as Robin, but more perceptive, like Steve.

He shouldn’t be surprised when she finds out--well, asks about Nick. Robin mentions him offhand, calling him Steve’s boyfriend, and he laughs about it, used to the comments and their usual banter until he realizes. Freezes. And he can hear Robin do the same, hears the sudden silence that comes from the kitchen in the middle of her preparing dinner. Can hear the popping of the sauce on the stove. Breathes deep. Hears Robin mutter “fuck”.

Steve’s terrified to turn and face Max. Doesn’t want to see her face, see the disgust. The face of betrayal. The hurt that comes from being friends with a fag. Or whatever other horrible things his brain supplies in that split moment.

Instead, she goes, “Oh?”, like she just heard the most salacious gossip and wants all of the details, like when Robin told everyone she knows about how Steve curls up in his sleep like a baby. But this. This is his lifestyle, his sex life. An immoral one, if you ask a majority of people; he has seen how people turn up their noses at Freddie Mercury, Elton John, etcetera.

She’s beaming when he looks at her. Looking between Robin and Steve to see who will spill first. It takes her a moment before she catches on. Rolls her eyes, like they’re the inconvenience. Like Steve didn’t just accidentally admit to his surrogate sister that he was into dick.

“Jesus, you two. Relax. I’m used to it.”

Steve lets out a breath. Relaxes into the couch. Robin points at Max with her wooden spoon, flicking sauce onto the floor and goes:

“Wait a second. What do you mean by ‘used to it.’”

And this time, Max is the one to freeze. To go pale. To stutter out an, “ummm”.

“Are you?”

“No!” she snaps. Blushes something awful. Steve looks to Robin, who’s looking at Max like she doesn’t believe her. They glare back at each other, both leveling each other with the all-seeing glare that Steve hates being scrutinized under. It’s interesting to see them go head to head, the challenge and the attack. He wonders which will win, but then Robin’s face melts and she grins.

“Oh,” Robin laughs gleefully. Clapping her hands together and twirling around. “I knew it! I fucking knew it!”

Max’s eyes go wide. She shakes her head frantically.

“What?” Steve asks. Of course he’s missed something. He always does. Robin gives him that look.

“Nothing Stevie. Just something between us girls.”

Max’s face is squished into the cushion. Steve doesn’t know if it’s because of embarrassment or annoyance. Maybe both, knowing Max.

“Robin”, the pillow speaks, then the head of red raises, “If I hear anything else about this, I’ll fucking gut you.”

It’s a very Billy threat. Sits too big on her like the jacket on her shoulders. Hand-me-downs. Makes Steve chuckle. Robin mimes locking her lips and then eats the key. Makes Max laugh, despite her glare.

***

Steve is making homemade pizzas, a little treat for Max, when she comes home. She didn’t tell him where she was going. Just told him she’d be back late, but before dinner. He directed her on how to use the metro and let her go. Gave her his key since he knew Robin would be home when he got home from his shift.

He hears the lock now, waits for the usual outburst from Max that always comes with her. Her bag hits the floor. Her skateboard too. But no comment. Steve listens, furrows his brow in concern. Turns off the burner he’s using to make the pizza sauce. Wipes his hands and throws the towel over his shoulder like the mom he is. Rounds the little divider wall that separates the kitchen and living room and--

She’s crying. Or she was. Her eyes are glassy. Red. Her nose too. She stares off, looking at nothing and everything at the same time. She takes one look at Steve and breaks. Big fat tears fall from her eyes and she wails. Steve rushes to her, feels her completely collapse against him. Takes Billy’s jacket off of her and hangs it up. Escorts her to the couch. He hears Robin enter from her room, looks at Steve and makes a face. He waves her off. She doesn’t return. Goes to the kitchen instead, but Steve can’t be assed.

Max continues, sobs so loud that it cracks inside Steve, makes his own eyes well up. He rarely sees Max like this, hasn't seen her this bad since Billy died. Holds her close, rocks her and shushes her. Plays with her red hair and tries to offer some comfort. Starts breathing with her, outloud and counting, when she starts hiccuping on air, unable to get in enough breaths.

Robin brings hot chocolate and a tall glass of water for Max and Steve’s thankful. Tells him that she’ll continue dinner for him, that she’ll make it just ready to pop in the oven when they’re ready.

It takes about an hour for Max to calm down enough. Enough for Steve to slip out of her grasp to pop the pizza in their oven. The hot chocolate is long gone cold, but Max takes the water. Curls back into Steve when he returns to the couch. Doesn’t bother moving to a dry patch of his shirt, not that there are many anymore.

She stares now. Sipping water occasionally. Holding Steve's arm with the other. So tight it almost hurts. Her breathing stutters every one in a while, still coming down from whatever happened. But the tears are done. Steve doesn’t know if she has any left to spare.

They eat the pizza in silence, the three of them. Robin makes more hot chocolate and Max squeezes Robin’s hand in lieu of saying thank you.

They’re halfway through Ferris Bueler’s Day Off when Max finally speaks.

“Today is Billy’s birthday.”

It hits Steve square in the chest. Right between the pecs, right where he pushed Hargove that night. Seems like ages ago.

Steve doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know how to. Pulls her into his arms and puts his chin on her head. Lets her lie on his chest until she passes out. Waits until she’s snoring slightly before he lifts her and tucks her into his bed, abandoning the air mattress for the night.

He grabs a stray pillow, a throw blanket, and takes the couch. Hopes Max has a good sleep. Hopes he does too.

He dreams of ocean blue eyes framed with dark lashes, of a charming smile, of an arched brow with a split in it, of golden skin, golden curls. For once, he doesn’t see them stained with black blood.

…