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Steve Harrington had always believed that pain was something you swallowed whole and quiet.
You didn’t let it show. You didn’t give it weight. You didn’t let it become a problem someone else might feel obligated to solve. Pain, to Steve, was a private thing—something that existed behind clenched teeth and steady hands, tucked away where it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. It was a lesson learned early.
The headache had started three days ago as a dull pressure behind his eyes, the familiar kind that warned him to pace himself. He hadn’t. He never did. By the fourth concussion in the Upside Down, the neurologist had warned him about chronic migraines, about light sensitivity and nausea and the way stress could turn manageable pain into something unliveable. Steve had nodded, smiled, thanked the doctor, and then gone right back to throwing himself between monsters and kids who didn’t know how to duck fast enough. Now, the pain pulsed like a living thing.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, waiting for the room to stop tilting. The sunlight leaking through the blinds stabbed straight through his skull, sharp and merciless. His stomach churned, empty and acidic, and his hands shook just enough that he curled them into fists to keep them steady. He swallowed and told himself, You’re fine.
That was the other lesson. If you told yourself it often enough, it almost became true.
Downstairs, he could hear Robin arguing with Dustin over the merits of some new movie, Eddie’s voice cutting in with exaggerated outrage, and Erica demanding that someone stop touching her cereal. The after-events of last nights group sleepover taking a toll on Steve. The kids needed a chance to unwind from the stress of the last few months, so Steve gracefully offered up his house as a home-base. It sounded like chaos. It sounded like family. It sounded like a responsibility Steve couldn’t afford to drop, no matter how much his head felt like it might split open.
He stood, the motion making black spots flicker at the edges of his vision, and waited until they faded. He splashed cold water on his face, grimacing when the bathroom light buzzed to life. The mirror reflected someone who looked worse than he felt, which was saying something. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. His hair—usually a point of pride—hung limp and unstyled. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. Steve straightened his shoulders anyway.
Downstairs, Eddie Munson looked up the second Steve appeared, brown eyes sharp despite the lazy grin he wore. Eddie always noticed things first. It was a skill honed from years of being the odd one out, from watching for danger in hallways and classrooms and anywhere people thought it was acceptable to corner someone weaker.
Steve hated that Eddie could see him. “Jesus, Harrington,” Eddie said, tone light but gaze concerned. “You look like shit.”
Steve snorted, forcing a grin. “Good morning to you too, Munson.” Robin turned, her smile faltering almost immediately. “Steve,” she said slowly, like she was approaching a skittish animal. “Are you… okay?”
“I’m great,” he said automatically, grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee he didn’t want. The smell made his stomach lurch. “Never better.” Dustin frowned. “That’s a lie.”
Steve shot him a look. “That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate,” Dustin shot back. “You sound like you’re about to throw up.” Steve took a careful sip of coffee, nearly gagged, and set the mug down untouched. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired doesn’t make your hands shake,” Lucas said quietly from the table. Steve curled his fingers tighter around the counter, knuckles whitening. “I didn’t sleep well, and it can, if you’re tired enough.”
“That doesn’t make you squint like the sun personally offended you,” Robin added. Steve’s smile tightened. He could feel the walls closing in, the questions lining up behind their eyes. He hated this part. Hated being looked at like something fragile. Like something that might break if they pressed too hard. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. The room went still.
Eddie raised his hands in mock surrender, but the joke didn’t quite land. “Okay, Big Boy. Easy.” Steve exhaled slowly, forcing himself to soften his tone. “Sorry. I just—there’s stuff to do. Hopper wanted help with the supply run, and then Joyce asked me to check on Max’s mom, and—”
“Steve,” Nancy interrupted gently, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do everything.”
The words landed wrong. They always did. Steve’s chest tightened, something old and ugly curling up from a place he didn’t like to acknowledge. Don’t have to implied choice. It implied safety in saying no. It implied that if he stopped, someone else would step in without resentment, without punishment. That had never been his experience. “I do,” he said flatly. “I’ll see you guys later.” He grabbed his jacket and was out the door before anyone could stop him, slamming the door harshly behind him. The noise sent a spike of pain through his head, and he had to pause on the sidewalk, breathing through it until the world steadied. Behind him, unseen, Eddie watched through the window with a frown that didn’t fade.
By the time Steve made it to Hopper’s truck, the migraine had evolved into something monstrous. Light was unbearable. Sound was worse. Every step felt like it sent vibrations straight through his skull, rattling something loose inside his brain. He leaned against the truck for a moment, pretending to check his watch while nausea rolled through him in waves. Hopper noticed anyway. “Kid,” he said gruffly, climbing out. “You look like hell.”
Steve forced a laugh. “Is that your way of saying hello?”
“It’s my way of saying you should be home in bed.”
“I’m fine.” Hopper’s eyes narrowed. “You say that like someone who’s lying.” Steve shrugged, climbing into the passenger seat. “I’ve been worse.” That, unfortunately, was true.
The supply run was a blur of fluorescent lights and echoing aisles. Steve moved on autopilot, grabbing what Hopper pointed to, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked too closely. He nearly dropped a case of bottled water when a sudden noise sent pain lancing through his temples. Hopper caught it before it hit the ground. “That’s it,” he said, voice firm. “We’re done.”
“I can finish—”
“You can sit,” Hopper cut in. “Or you can puke in my truck. Your call.” Steve swallowed hard and sat.
On the drive back, his thoughts drifted where he didn’t want them to. To memories of being sick as a kid, curled up on his bed with a pounding head and a fever that made his bones ache. To calling out for his parents and being told to stop exaggerating. To learning, early and painfully, that needing help only ever made things worse. By the time they got back, Steve’s vision was blurring at the edges. Joyce took one look at him and swore. “Oh honey,” she said, hands warm and steady as she guided him inside. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m okay,” he murmured weakly.
“No,” she said softly, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re not.” She pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, and Steve flinched on instinct before he could stop himself. Joyce noticed. Everyone always noticed, eventually. Her eyes softened with something like understanding. “You’re safe,” she said quietly. “We’ve got you.” The words made something in Steve’s chest crack open, just a little. He didn’t let it show.
That night, Steve lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling while pain throbbed behind his eyes. He could hear the others moving around downstairs, voices low and concerned. He knew they were most likely talking about him. It made his stomach twist with something that wasn’t entirely pain. He rolled onto his side, pressing a pillow over his head to block out the light and the sound and the fear creeping in around the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t hear Eddie come up the stairs until the mattress dipped. “Hey,” Eddie said softly.
Steve didn’t open his eyes. “Go away.”
Eddie snorted. “Tempting, but no.” There was a pause, then the creak of the bed as Eddie sat fully. “You don’t hide it well, you know.”
Steve huffed weakly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You fool everyone else,” Eddie admitted. “But not me, Steve-o.” Steve finally looked at him, vision swimming. “Why do you care?”
Eddie’s smile faded, something earnest and unguarded taking its place. “Because you matter.” The words hit harder than any monster ever had. Steve turned away, jaw clenched. “I don’t need saving.”
“I know,” Eddie said gently. “But you deserve help anyway.” For a long moment, Steve didn’t trust himself to speak. Downstairs, the others whispered and planned, hearts heavy with worry and care Steve hadn’t asked for and didn’t know how to accept. Upstairs, he lay sick and hurting, clinging to old lessons that no longer served him, unaware that the family he’d built was already figuring out how to catch him when he fell.
Steve woke up to the smell of coffee and the distant sound of voices deliberately trying to be quiet. That alone should have told him something was wrong. For a few disoriented seconds, he stayed still, eyes closed, cataloguing the pain. The migraine hadn’t broken overnight; it had merely shifted, settling deep behind his right eye like a lodged splinter. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and when he swallowed, his throat felt raw and tight. His stomach churned, uneasy and hollow, and his limbs were heavy in a way that went beyond exhaustion. He was sick. Still sick.
Steve exhaled slowly, annoyed with himself. He should have gotten up earlier. Should have pushed through. Letting them see him like this—curled in on himself, barely functional—felt like a failure. He started to sit up and immediately regretted it as the room tilted violently, forcing him back down with a quiet curse. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay.”
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked. A voice—Robin’s—hushed someone else, followed by Eddie’s unmistakable whisper, stage-dramatic even when subdued.
“I’m just saying, if he throws up on me, I want it on record that this was not my idea.”
Steve squeezed his eyes shut.
Great.
He lay there for another minute, gathering himself, before forcing his body into motion. He swung his legs off the bed, bracing his hands on the mattress while the dizziness passed. He moved slowly, deliberately, the way he’d learned to after the third concussion. Sudden movements were the enemy now. Light, sound, stress—all of it conspired against him. When he opened his bedroom door, he slowly headed downstairs, the hallway light stabbed straight through his skull. He hissed under his breath, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Robin noticed immediately. “Too bright,” she said, already moving to flick off the overhead light. “Sorry.”
Steve paused, caught off guard by how fast she reacted. “You didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” she cut in quickly, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on. Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Steve,” Nancy said firmly from the kitchen table, “sit.”
The tone left no room for argument. Steve looked around. Everyone was there, except for Will who had been helping out in the middle school for the past few days, volunteering where he could. Steve suspected that he felt guilty for not being in Hawkins to help. He thought that was stupid. Dustin perched on the counter, Lucas beside him. Mike and El sat close together on the couch, El’s eyes flicking toward Steve with quiet concern. Erica leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression sharp but attentive. Hopper stood near the sink, pretending not to watch too closely. Joyce hovered by the stove, worry etched deep into her face. And Eddie—Eddie sat on the arm of the couch, legs bouncing, eyes locked on Steve like he was afraid to blink.
Steve swallowed and sat. The chair felt too solid beneath him, too real. He hunched forward instinctively, elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes in a futile attempt to dull the pain.
“How bad?” Robin asked softly. Steve shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Dustin groaned. “Dude.” Steve shot him a weak glare. “What?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not dying,” Steve snapped, then immediately winced as the sharpness of his own voice sent pain spiking through his head. He softened his tone. “I’ve had migraines before.”
“Yes,” Nancy said quietly. “But not like this, right?” Steve opened his mouth to argue and stopped. Because she was right. He could feel it—this wasn’t his usual manageable baseline pain. This was layered on top of something else. Fever, maybe. Exhaustion definitely. His body was waving red flags, and he’d been ignoring them for days. Joyce placed a mug on the table in front of him. “Tea,” she said gently. “Ginger. It might help your stomach.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“I know,” Joyce replied. “Drink it anyway.” Something about her voice—soft but unyielding—made Steve comply. He wrapped his hands around the mug, surprised at how comforting the warmth felt. He took a careful sip. It stayed down.
No one said see? out loud, but he felt it anyway. Robin leaned against the counter beside him. “So,” she said, too casually. “We were thinking today could be a… low-key day.”
Steve stiffened. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Incorrect,” Erica said flatly. “You have a head injury problem and the decision-making skills of an idiot.” Steve blinked at her. “That’s uncalled for.”
“She’s not wrong,” Dustin added. Steve looked around at them, irritation bubbling up beneath the pain. “I’m fine. I can handle it.” Hopper crossed his arms. “Kid, I’ve seen you get shot at, mauled, and possessed-adjacent. This?” He gestured vaguely at Steve’s pallor with a sarcastic flair. “This is you running on fumes.” Steve’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need babysitting.” The room went quiet. Steve winced at the irony.
Eddie shifted, finally speaking. “No one said babysitting.”
“That’s what this is,” Steve shot back. “Everyone hovering. Deciding what I can and can’t do.” Nancy stepped closer. “We’re worried.”
Steve laughed, short and humourless. “That’s your mistake.” The words hung heavy in the air. Joyce’s face fell. Robin’s eyes widened. Eddie looked like he’d been punched. Steve realized, too late, how that had sounded. “I didn’t—” He stopped, pressing his fingers into his temple as the pain surged again. “I just mean… I’ve dealt with this before. Alone. I don’t need—” His voice faltered, frustration bleeding through. “I don’t need this.”
“What,” Eddie asked quietly, “people caring?” Steve flinched. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Memories rose unbidden—his father’s voice sharp with disdain, his mother’s cold indifference, the way sickness had always been treated like weakness. Like an inconvenience. Like something to punish rather than help.
“I’m going back to bed,” Steve said abruptly, standing too fast. The world tilted violently. Hands caught him before he could fall. Robin steadied his arm. Hopper braced his shoulder. Eddie was suddenly right there, one hand hovering at Steve’s back like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. Steve froze, breath coming too fast, chest tight with something dangerously close to panic. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t—”
“Easy,” Hopper murmured. “No one’s hurting you.” Steve shook his head, vision blurring. “I said don’t.” They let go immediately. Steve stood there, swaying, humiliation burning hotter than the fever. He could feel their eyes on him—concerned, confused, hurt. He hated it. Hated himself for reacting like that. For letting old instincts override the present. “I’m fine,” he said again, because it was the only shield he had left. He retreated upstairs before anyone could stop him.
They waited until they were sure Steve was gone before speaking. “That was bad,” Dustin said.
“That was telling,” Robin replied, rubbing her arms like she was cold. Joyce sank into a chair, visibly upset. “That boy has never been allowed show that he was sick.” Hopper nodded grimly. “Or vulnerable.” Eddie paced the length of the room, agitation rolling off him in waves. “He’s running himself into the ground because he thinks if he stops, something awful happens.”
Nancy’s throat tightened. “We can’t force him.”
“No,” Robin said slowly. “But we can… outmanoeuvre him. We make it so he gets help without realizing it’s help.” Lucas frowned. “How?”
Joyce’s eyes flicked upstairs. “We cook. We clean. We make the house quiet. We keep lights low. We keep him company without making it a thing.” Hopper added, “And we make sure he doesn’t leave.”
Eddie stopped pacing. “He’ll figure it out.”
“Eventually,” Robin said. “But by then, maybe he’ll already be feeling better.” Eddie’s jaw tightened. “And if he freaks out again?” Joyce met his gaze. “Then we remind him he’s safe.” Eddie nodded slowly, resolve settling in his chest.
Steve lay in bed, staring at the wall, listening. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He wasn’t even sure if he was hearing things or if the fever was messing with his head. But the murmurs downstairs carried just enough for him to catch pieces of it.
He’s never been allowed to be sick.
Make it quiet.
He’s safe.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, throat burning. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want their pity or their plans. Didn’t want to feel this raw, this exposed. But underneath the fear and the anger was something worse. Hope. He’d learned, painfully, that hope was dangerous.
A soft knock sounded at his door. It could only be one person. “Go away, Eds,” Steve called weakly. The door opened anyway. Eddie stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. The lights were off; only the dim glow from the hallway filtered in. “I brought ice packs,” Eddie said quietly, holding them up like an offering. “And water. And… these.” He set a small bottle of migraine medication on the nightstand. Steve stared at it. “I didn’t tell you—”
“Robin did, but,” Eddie said. “You mentioned it once. After the first demobats attack. You were half out of it.” Steve turned his face toward the wall. “I don’t need it.” Eddie didn’t move. “Okay.” The word was gentle. No pressure. No argument. After a long moment, Steve spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you still here?” Eddie’s voice was just as quiet. “Because you literally look like you’re drowning.” Steve swallowed hard.
“I’m not,” he insisted, but the words lacked conviction. Eddie sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd him. “You don’t have to prove anything anymore, Stevie.”
Steve laughed weakly. “You don’t know that.” Eddie did something unexpected. He didn’t argue. He didn’t reassure. He just said, “Maybe not. But you don’t have to be alone while you’re figuring it out.” Steve’s breath hitched. For a long time, neither of them moved. Finally, slowly, Steve reached out and took the ice pack. Eddie smiled, small and careful, like he knew better than to make a big deal out of it.
Downstairs, the house settled into a quiet rhythm of care and concern. Upstairs, Steve Harrington lay in the dark, migraine pressing and heart aching, beginning—terrifyingly—to wonder what it might be like to let himself be held up instead of holding everything together.
Steve dreamed of cold. Not the sharp, clean cold of winter air or lake water in July, but the heavy, suffocating kind that seeped into his bones and refused to leave. In the dream, he was small again, curled on a bed that was too big in a house that was too quiet. His head throbbed, his stomach twisted, and every breath hurt. He called out once—only once—and the sound of his own voice startled him awake.
He lay there, disoriented, heart racing, sheets twisted around his legs. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The pain grounded him faster than anything else ever could. It was still there, a dull roar now instead of a scream, but his head felt heavy and wrong, like it didn’t quite belong to him. The room was dim. The curtains had been drawn at some point, blocking out the worst of the sunlight. A small lamp glowed softly on the nightstand, its light turned low. Someone had been careful.
That realization sent a spike of something sharp and complicated through his chest. Steve shifted, wincing as nausea rolled through him. He reached for the water on his nightstand and froze when he noticed the glass was half empty. He hadn’t drunk that much before falling asleep. He was sure of it.
Someone had been here. His first instinct was panic, Were his parents home? Did he leave a mess- Did the kids leave in time- Was he alone-? He sat up too quickly, the movement sending a violent wave of dizziness through him. He barely had time to grab the edge of the mattress before the world lurched, his vision going grey at the edges. “Hey, hey—don’t do that.” Eddie’s voice cut through the fog, low and urgent. Hands steadied Steve’s shoulders, firm but not forceful. Steve sucked in a breath, chest tight, every nerve screaming at the unexpected contact.
“Don’t,” he rasped, more plea than command. Eddie immediately loosened his grip, though he didn’t pull away entirely. “I’m not holding you,” he said softly. “Just… keeping you upright, Harrington.” Steve’s breathing was too fast. He focused on the familiar rasp of Eddie’s voice, the cadence grounding in a way he hated how much he needed. “How long was I out?” Steve asked once the worst of the dizziness passed.
“Couple hours,” Eddie replied. “You didn’t move much. That’s… probably good.” Steve laughed weakly. “Great. Love that for me.” Eddie huffed quietly, then grew serious again. “You scared us.” Steve looked away. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Eddie said. “That’s kind of the problem.” Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Eddie shifted slightly, settling back against the headboard, close enough that Steve could feel the warmth of him without being crowded. “They’ve been quiet,” Steve said after a moment. “Way too quiet for a bunch of teenagers.” Eddie smiled faintly. “Operation: Don’t Freak Out Steve is in full effect.” Steve winced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s working, though,” Eddie countered. “You slept.” Steve swallowed. He didn’t want to admit how much that mattered. Another wave of nausea hit, sharper this time. Steve pressed a hand to his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. Eddie noticed instantly. “Okay,” Eddie said calmly. “Bucket’s under the bed if you need it. Slow breaths. You know the deal.” Steve’s stomach twisted again, but it passed. He sagged back against the pillows, exhausted. “Why are you doing this?” Steve asked quietly. Eddie didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was steady but unguarded. “Because you take care of everyone else like it’s your job. And you don’t let anyone take care of you. And that’s bullshit.”
Steve let out a shaky breath. “You don’t understand.” Eddie tilted his head. “Then explain it to me.” Steve stared at the wall, jaw tight. He could feel the words pressing against his ribs, demanding to be let out. He hated that they wanted Eddie of all people. Eddie, who already looked at him like he mattered too much.
“If I was sick,” Steve said slowly, “it was a problem. If I couldn’t get out of bed, I was lazy. If I asked for help, I was weak. And if I didn’t stop being those things fast enough…” His voice faltered, old fear curling in his chest. “Things got worse.” Eddie didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush him. He just listened. “So I learned,” Steve continued, “that being useful was safer. Being okay was safer. If I could handle it, no one got mad. No one hurt me. No one… noticed.” Eddie’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “Steve.”
“I know you all mean well,” Steve said, the words tumbling out faster now. “But when you hover, when you decide what I need without asking, it feels like I’m trapped again. Like I don’t get a say.” Eddie’s expression softened, understanding dawning. “So when we help without telling you…”
“It feels like a lie,” Steve finished quietly. “Even if it’s a nice one.” Eddie nodded slowly. “Okay.” Steve blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Okay. That makes sense.” Steve hadn’t expected that. His chest ached with it. “But,” Eddie added gently, “there’s a difference between control and care. And I think your brain is still stuck in survival mode.” Steve let out a breath that trembled. “I don’t know how to turn it off.” They sat in silence again, broken only by the soft hum of the house. Steve’s head still hurt, but it was manageable now, dulled by sleep and medication and—annoyingly—care.
A sudden, sharp knock on the door made Steve flinch. “Steve?” Nancy called. “Can we come in?” He hesitated. Every instinct screamed to say no. To hide. To pretend he was fine. Eddie looked at him, question clear in his eyes. Steve swallowed. “Okay,” he said finally. “But… slow.” Nancy, Robin, and Joyce entered quietly, careful with the light and their movements. Robin immediately clocked Steve’s tension and stopped a few feet away, hands up in surrender. “We’re not here to ambush you,” she said. “Promise.”
Joyce smiled softly. “We just wanted to check on you.” Steve nodded, fingers twisting in the blanket. “I heard you,” he admitted. “Earlier. About the plan.” Robin grimaced. “Yeah. That… backfired, didn’t it?”
“A little,” Steve said. He took a breath, bracing himself. “I don’t like not knowing. It makes me panic.” Nancy stepped closer, careful and deliberate. “We’re sorry. We thought we were helping.”
“I know,” Steve said. “And you were. Just… not the way I needed.” Joyce reached out, stopping short of touching him. “Tell us how to do it right.” The question felt dangerous. Also freeing. “I need to be asked,” Steve said. “Even if I say no. Especially then.”
Robin nodded immediately. “Deal.” Nancy added, “And if you say yes?” Steve hesitated, then said quietly, “Then I need you not to disappear the second I’m better?”
Something shifted in the room. Joyce’s eyes shone. “Oh, sweetheart. We’re not going anywhere.” The truth of that settled over him slowly, cautiously. Like stepping onto ice and realizing, after a terrifying second, that it would hold. They didn’t stay long. They didn’t overwhelm him. They checked his temperature, reminded him to eat later, and left him with quiet reassurance instead of pressure. When the door closed again, Steve sagged back against the pillows, drained but lighter.
Eddie was still there. “You okay?” Eddie asked. Steve nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
He hesitated, then added, “Thank you. For… staying.” Eddie smiled, softer than usual. “Anytime.”
The migraine pulsed, a reminder of the damage Steve carried, the ways his body would never quite be the same. He knew this wouldn’t be the last time. The headaches, the fear, the reflex to run—it would all come back. But so would this.
“Hey, Eddie?” Steve said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“If I… if I forget,” Steve said, voice rough, “can you remind me that this is different?” Eddie didn’t joke this time. He didn’t deflect. He reached out slowly, giving Steve time to pull away. Steve didn’t. Eddie’s hand rested warm and steady over Steve’s, grounding and sure. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.” Steve closed his eyes, letting himself lean just a little into the contact. His head still hurt. His past still loomed. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t carrying it alone. Downstairs, the house was full. Not loud, not chaotic—just present. A family stitched together by shared trauma and stubborn love, learning how to care without control, how to stay without hurting.
Steve Harrington stayed in bed that night, migraine and all. And for once, that didn’t feel like failure.
It felt like trust.
Eddie stayed with him all night.