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The thing about Enzo's is that it's supposed to be romantic.
Soft lighting, the kind that comes from actual candles instead of the fluorescent assault of Family Video. Quiet music, some kind of jazzy instrumental stuff that's probably supposed to be classy. The gentle murmur of conversation, the clink of silverware on plates, the occasional pop of a wine cork. It's the nicest restaurant in Hawkins, which admittedly isn't saying much, but it's nice enough that Steve had to dig his one good button-down out of the back of his closet to iron and make sure it didn't smell like the back room at work.
Steve's been here before, obviously. Took Nancy here sophomore year for their six-month anniversary. Brought a few other girls here back when he was King Steve and his dad's credit card had no limit. But this is the first time he's been here while actively trying not to throw up from anxiety, which is a new experience.
"Stop fidgeting," Robin hisses from across the table. She's wearing a dress (an actual dress, dark green and simple but still a dress) and she looks about as comfortable as Steve feels. "You're going to knock over your water glass."
"I'm not fidgeting," Steve mutters, but he moves his hands from the table to his lap anyway. His right leg is bouncing under the table, has been since they sat down twenty minutes ago. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Too late now, dingus. They're here."
Steve looks up, and sure enough, there are two girls approaching their table, and his stomach does something complicated.
His date is Christine Platt, who he vaguely remembers from high school, a year younger, on the debate team or something. Mousy brown hair, nice smile, the kind of pretty that Steve probably would've overlooked back in school but now seems perfectly acceptable. She'd seemed interested when he'd stammered his way through asking her out at the grocery store last week, at least. Interested enough to say yes.
Robin's date is Melissa Gavin, who Steve definitely remembers from high school because she was on the basketball team and had shoulders that could probably bench press him. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, an easy confidence that makes Steve feel even more nervous on Robin's behalf. Robin had gone bright red when Melissa had asked her out, had immediately come to Steve's house to panic about it for three hours straight.
Thus: the double date. Moral support. Safety in numbers. A guaranteed excuse if either of them needs to bail.
Steve stands up when they approach because his mom drilled that into him before he could walk, and Robin kicks him under the table but stands up too. There's an awkward moment of should-we-hug-should-we-shake-hands-what's-the-protocol-here before they all just sort of nod at each other and sit down.
"Sorry we're late," Christine says, settling into the chair next to Steve. She smells like something floral, perfume, probably, the kind that comes in those fancy bottles. "We couldn't find parking."
"No problem," Steve says, at the same time Robin says, "Parking here is a nightmare, we had to park like three blocks away."
There's a pause. Steve can feel the back of his neck heating up.
"So," Melissa says, leaning back in her chair with an amused smile. "This is cozy. Double date, huh?"
"Robin's idea," Steve blurts out.
"Steve's idea," Robin says simultaneously.
They glare at each other. Christine laughs - a pleasant sound, kind of musical. Steve tries to relax.
The waiter comes by, introduces himself as Mark, rattles off the specials in a tone that suggests he's said this speech about four hundred times already tonight. Steve barely processes it. He's too busy trying to figure out where to look, what to do with his hands, whether he should have ordered wine to seem sophisticated or if that would just make him seem like he's trying too hard.
He orders the chicken parmesan because it's familiar, because he can pronounce it, because his brain has apparently decided to abandon him entirely. Robin orders some kind of pasta with a name Steve doesn't catch. Christine gets the special, some kind of fish thing. Melissa orders a steak, rare, and Steve feels a flicker of respect.
"So, Steve," Christine says once Mark has disappeared with their orders. She's leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, giving him her full attention. "Robin says you work together at Family Video?"
"Yeah," Steve says. "Have for a while now. Since, uh, since last summer."
"He's my favorite coworker," Robin adds, and there's something in her voice, a warmth, a fondness, that makes Steve's chest feel tight. "Only coworker, but still. The favorite."
"That's sweet," Christine says. "What do you do when you're not working?"
It's a normal question. A date question. The kind of thing people ask when they're trying to get to know each other. Steve should have an answer prepared.
His mind goes blank.
"I, uh." He clears his throat. "I hang out with some kids I know. Drive them around mostly. They're into Dungeons and Dragons and stuff."
"Oh, that's cool! Are you into it too?"
"Not really my thing," Steve admits. "But they're good kids. Someone's gotta make sure they don't get themselves killed."
He's aiming for charming, for self-deprecating humor, but it comes out a little too real. A little too much like yeah, I've literally had to keep these children from dying multiple times, no big deal. Christine's smile falters slightly.
"That's... really nice of you," she says.
Across the table, Robin is doing better. She and Melissa are talking about music - the band they both like, some concert Melissa went to in Indianapolis last month. Robin's gesturing with her hands, animated and excited, and Melissa is watching her like she's the most interesting person in the world. Steve feels a surge of affection for his best friend, followed immediately by relief that at least one of them isn't completely bombing.
The conversation continues. Steve tries. He really does. He asks Christine about work (she's a secretary at the elementary school) and nods along when she talks about the kids, the teachers, the bureaucratic nightmare of the Hawkins school system. He laughs at her jokes. He maintains eye contact. He does all the things you're supposed to do on a date.
But there's something building behind his right eye. A pressure. Faint, barely noticeable, the kind of thing he might ignore on any other day.
Steve knows what it means.
No, he thinks firmly. Not now. Not tonight.
He reaches for his water glass, takes a long drink. Sometimes hydration helps. Sometimes.
"You okay?" Christine asks.
"Yeah, totally fine," Steve says, setting the glass down. His hand is steady. That's good. "Just thirsty."
The food arrives in a flurry of activity. Mark sets down plates with a practiced flourish, refills water glasses, asks if they need anything else. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce and melted cheese fills the air, rich and heavy.
Steve's stomach turns over.
He picks up his fork anyway. The chicken looks good, golden breaded exterior, marinara sauce, a blanket of mozzarella. Normally he'd be all over this. He cuts a piece, brings it to his mouth, chews.
It tastes like absolutely nothing.
That's the second warning sign. When food stops having taste, when his brain decides that eating is less important than processing the screaming pain signals starting to fire off, he's got maybe thirty minutes before things get bad.
He swallows. Takes another bite. Tries to focus on what Christine is saying - something about a field trip, a mishap with a school bus. He nods. Smiles. Laughs when she pauses for effect.
Across the table, Robin glances at him. Just a flicker, a quick check-in, before returning her attention to Melissa. Steve keeps his expression neutral.
The pressure behind his eye is getting worse. It's spreading now, creeping across his temple, into his forehead. The candle in the center of the table flickers, and the movement makes his vision swim slightly.
He cuts another piece of chicken. The sound of his knife against the plate is too loud, metal on ceramic, a harsh scraping that makes him wince.
"This is really good," Christine says, gesturing at her fish. "How's yours?"
"Great," Steve lies. "Really great."
He's not sure he's even tasting it anymore. He's eating on autopilot, mechanical, because not eating would be weird and he cannot be weird right now. He cannot ruin this for Robin. She's happy. She's laughing at something Melissa said, her whole face lit up, and Steve would rather die than be the reason that light goes out.
Another ten minutes. The conversation flows around him. He contributes when he can - short responses, agreements, the occasional question. His head is pounding now, a steady throb that matches his heartbeat. The music that seemed soft and pleasant when they arrived now feels invasive, each piano note driving into his skull like a nail.
The lighting is wrong. Too bright, too dim, too flickering. He can't tell anymore. Everything has a halo around it, a fuzzy edge that makes it hard to focus.
Robin is looking at him again. This time she holds his gaze for a moment longer, and he sees her eyes narrow slightly.
He shakes his head. Just barely. Not now.
Her jaw tightens, but she turns back to Melissa.
Steve makes it through another five minutes before he has to admit defeat. The pain is crawling down the back of his neck now, into his shoulders, and his stomach is churning for real. The smell of food that filled the restaurant - garlic and wine and something sweet, maybe bread pudding - is making everything worse.
He needs to get out of here. Now.
But Christine is telling a story about one of the kids at school, the whole table is listening, and Steve can't just leave. Can't just get up and walk away like a freak. Can't ruin this.
His vision doubles for a second. He blinks hard, and it resolves, but his hands are starting to shake.
"Steve?"
Christine's voice seems to come from very far away. He looks at her - tries to look at her, anyway. His eyes don't want to focus properly.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if you wanted to split a dessert."
Dessert. The thought of eating anything else makes his stomach lurch. He swallows hard against the nausea rising in his throat.
"I, uh." His voice sounds weird. Distant. "Maybe just—maybe just coffee."
"You sure? The tiramisu here is supposed to be amazing."
The word 'tiramisu' bounces around in his head, meaningless syllables. He knows what it is, he's had it before, probably, but right now his brain can't make the connection between the word and the thing.
"Steve." Robin's voice, sharp and clear. He turns his head toward her - too fast, the room spins - and she's staring at him with open concern now. "Can I talk to you for a second? Bathroom?"
It's not a question.
"Sure, yeah." He pushes his chair back, and the scraping sound it makes against the floor goes through his head like a gunshot. He barely suppresses a flinch.
Standing up is a mistake. The room tilts, and he has to grab the edge of the table to keep from swaying. Christine is looking up at him with confusion, maybe concern. Melissa's eyebrows are raised.
"Be right back," he manages.
He follows Robin through the restaurant on autopilot. The walk to the bathrooms feels like miles. Every sound is amplified: conversations, laughter, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. The light fixtures above them burn into his retinas. He keeps his eyes on Robin's back, on the familiar shape of her, and tries not to throw up on Enzo's nice carpet.
She doesn't actually take him to the bathroom. She steers him toward the back exit instead, the one that leads to the alley behind the restaurant. The second they're outside, Steve doubles over, hands on his knees, gasping in the cool night air.
"How bad?" Robin asks.
"Bad," he grits out. "Getting worse."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Like a seven. Maybe eight." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck."
"When did it start?"
"Right after we sat down. I thought—I thought maybe it would pass."
"Steve, you idiot." There's no real heat in it. She's already moving, one hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the door. "Come on. We're leaving."
"No." He straightens up too fast, and the world spins violently. Robin's hand tightens on his shoulder, steadying him. "No, you're not—Robin, you're having a good time. She likes you. You can't leave."
"Watch me."
"I'm serious. I'll be fine. I'll just—I'll go sit in the car for a bit. You stay. Finish your date."
"And what, you'll just drive yourself home?" Robin's voice is flat. "With a migraine? Yeah, that sounds safe and smart and not at all like a terrible idea that would get you killed."
"I'll wait until it passes a little—"
"Steve." She steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. Even in the dim light of the alley, he can see the stubborn set of her jaw. "I'm not leaving you alone in a car when you can barely stand up. We're both leaving. Now."
"Your date—"
"Can be rescheduled. You're more important."
"Robin—"
"Nope. No arguments. This is happening." She's already steering him toward the parking lot. "Where are your keys?"
"Jacket pocket." The words feel thick in his mouth. Everything feels thick, sluggish, like he's moving through water. "Left side."
She fishes them out without breaking stride, and Steve lets her because fighting takes energy he doesn't have. The parking lot is a blur of shapes and shadows. He thinks he knows which car is his, the BMW is usually pretty distinctive, but he can't quite make it out.
Robin can, apparently. She guides him to the passenger side, unlocks the door, practically pours him into the seat. The leather is cool against his back. He leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes.
"Stay here," Robin says. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
He hears her footsteps retreating. The sound of the restaurant door opening and closing. Then silence, except for the ringing in his ears and the relentless pounding in his skull.
Time does something weird. He's not sure if seconds or minutes pass. Everything is just pain and nausea and the uncomfortable awareness that he's absolutely ruining Robin's night, her chance with a girl who actually seems interested in her, because his stupid broken brain can't handle a normal dinner at a normal restaurant.
The driver's side door opens, and Robin slides in. She doesn't start the car.
"Okay," she says. "Slight complication."
Steve cracks one eye open. "What?"
"They followed me out. They're, uh." She jerks her thumb toward the windshield. "They're right there."
He forces both eyes open and immediately regrets it. Standing in front of the BMW, illuminated by the parking lot lights, are Christine and Melissa. Christine has her arms crossed. She does not look happy.
"Oh god," Steve mumbles.
"Yeah."
Robin rolls down the window. The sound makes Steve's teeth ache.
"Is he okay?" That's Melissa, leaning down slightly to peer into the car. Her voice is gentler than Steve expected.
"Migraine," Robin says shortly. "He gets them sometimes. Pretty bad."
"He seemed fine during dinner." Christine's voice is sharp, skeptical. She's looking at Steve like she's trying to solve a puzzle she doesn't like. "Is this because—is he trying to get out of the date? Because if he's not interested, he could have just said so."
Steve wants to protest, wants to explain that no, this has nothing to do with her, she's nice and pretty and perfectly dateable. But forming words feels like trying to push through concrete. He manages something that might be "No," but it comes out garbled.
"He's not faking," Robin says, and there's an edge to her voice now. "Trust me, I've seen him have these. He's really sick."
"It just seems—"
"Look, I get it," Robin interrupts. "I know it seems suspicious. Bad timing, right? But Steve has chronic migraines. They can come on fast, and when they're bad, they're really bad. He didn't want to leave. He tried to stick it out. He was actually trying to get me to stay and finish the date without him."
There's a pause. Steve has his eyes closed again, but he can feel Christine's gaze on him.
"Is he... going to throw up?" Christine asks as Steve badly stifles a burp.
"Possibly," Robin says.
"Great. That's just great." There's a shuffle of movement, and Christine's voice gets a little farther away. "You know what, this was clearly a mistake. Tell Steve I hope he feels better, I guess."
"Christine, wait—" That's Melissa.
"No, it's fine. I'm going home. Are you coming?"
Another pause. Then Melissa's voice, closer to the window: "Robin, I'm really sorry about this. Rain check?"
"Yeah," Robin says, and Steve can hear the disappointment in her voice, the forced casualness. "Yeah, of course. Rain check."
"Take care of your friend."
"Always do."
He hears footsteps. Car doors opening and closing. An engine starting. The sound of tires on pavement.
Then silence.
Robin doesn't move for a long moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath.
"Well," she says. "That was a disaster."
"'M sorry," Steve slurs. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Ruined it. Ruined your date."
"You didn't ruin anything, dingus. Your brain is just an asshole." She reaches over, and he feels her hand on his arm. "How's the nausea?"
"Bad."
"Okay. Don't puke in the car. Your car's already gross enough." She pauses. "But actually, if you have to puke, aim for the floor mat. Those are easier to clean."
He might have laughed if his head didn't feel like it was splitting open. Instead, he just groans.
"Right. Let's get you home." Robin starts the car, and the engine noise makes Steve whimper. "Sorry, sorry. I'll drive smooth, I promise."
She does her best, especially for someone without a driver's license. Steve has to give her credit for that. She takes the turns slow, avoids potholes, doesn't brake too hard. But every movement still jostles him, sends fresh waves of pain radiating through his skull. The streetlights passing overhead are strobing behind his eyelids, and the nausea is getting worse.
"Robin," he manages.
"Yeah?"
"Pull over."
To her credit, she doesn't ask questions. She just swerves to the side of the road, and Steve has the door open before the car's even fully stopped. He leans out and throws up his fifteen-dollar chicken parmesan onto someone's lawn.
It's violent and awful, and his head screams with every heave. When it's over, he stays hunched over, gasping, strings of saliva hanging from his mouth.
Robin's hand appears with a handful of napkins, probably from the stash he keeps in the glove compartment for emergencies. He takes them, wipes his mouth, tries to get himself together.
"Better?" she asks.
"No," he admits. "But empty."
"That's something, at least." She waits until he's pulled himself back into the car and closed the door before she starts driving again. "We'll be home soon. Ten minutes, tops."
It feels like hours. Steve loses track of time, of where they are. All he knows is pain and darkness and Robin's voice, quiet and steady, talking about nothing in particular. She's telling him about something Melissa said during dinner. He doesn't process the words, but the sound of her voice is grounding.
The car stops. He's vaguely aware of Robin getting out, of his door opening, of her hands on his arm.
"Come on, Steve. You gotta help me out here. I can't carry you."
He tries. He really does. But his legs don't want to cooperate, and the distance from the car to his front door might as well be a marathon. Robin half-drags, half-guides him, cursing under her breath the whole way.
"Where's your house key?"
"Same pocket," he mumbles. "With the car keys."
She finds it, gets the door open, maneuvers him inside. The stairs to his room are impossible, so she steers him toward the couch instead. He collapses onto it face-first, and the cushions smell like fabric softener and faintly like the pizza the kids ate here last week.
"Okay," Robin says, slightly out of breath. "Stay here. Don't move. I'm going to get supplies."
He couldn't move if he wanted to. He just lies there, face buried in the couch, trying to breathe through the pain.
Robin returns a few minutes later. He hears her moving around, setting things down on the coffee table. Then the lamp turns off, and the room goes blessedly dark.
"Here." She touches his shoulder, and he turns his head just enough to see what she's offering. A glass of water. Two pills - aspirin, probably, even though they both know it won't do much. "Take these."
He manages to prop himself up enough to swallow the pills, then collapses again. Robin sits down on the floor next to the couch, her back against it, close enough that he can feel her presence.
"You want me to try any of Dustin's weird remedies?" she asks. "I think he mentioned something about peppermint oil once. Or was it lavender? Some kind of plant."
"No," Steve mumbles into the cushion. "Just... quiet."
"I can do quiet."
And she can. Robin, who usually fills every silence with words, who thinks out loud and narrates her own life, goes quiet. She just sits there, occasionally shifting position, a steady presence in the dark.
Time passes. The pain doesn't get better, exactly, but it stops getting worse, which is something. Steve's thoughts drift, unfocused and scattered.
"You should've stayed," he says at some point. His voice is muffled by the couch. "At the restaurant. With Melissa."
"And leave you to drive home like this? Yeah, that would've gone great. Enzos's would have gotten a call from the hospital in like twenty minutes."
"Could've called someone else. Dustin or—"
"Steve." Robin's voice is firm. "I'm exactly where I want to be, okay? Well, no, I'd rather be literally anywhere else because watching you be in pain sucks, but you know what I mean. You're my best friend. You're my... platonic soulmate. You think I'm going to ditch you because of some girl?"
"She was a good girl."
"She was a great girl. And if she's actually interested, we'll go out again. And if she's not, then whatever. There'll be others." Robin shifts, and he feels her hand pat his ankle. "But there's only one you, dingus. And you're stuck with me."
His chest feels tight, and it has nothing to do with the migraine.
"Thanks, Rob," he whispers.
"Yeah, yeah. You can thank me by never scaring me like that—" She cuts herself off. "Just. You should've told me it was starting."
"Didn't want to ruin your night."
"Your night was already ruined the second you started feeling bad and didn't say anything. At least if you'd told me right away, we could've left before ordering. Saved some money."
"Your chicken looked good."
"It was okay. Yours looked better, not that you'd know since you apparently couldn't taste anything." She's quiet for a moment. "How long has this one been building? Really?"
Steve thinks about it. About the weird feeling he'd had that morning, the slight sensitivity to light that he'd ignored. The way coffee had tasted off at work, how he'd snapped at Robin when she'd dropped a tape on the floor and it had clattered.
"Maybe all day," he admits. "Didn't realize until dinner."
"Steve—"
"I know, I know. I should pay more attention. Track triggers or whatever."
"Dustin would be so disappointed in you right now."
That startles a laugh out of him, which turns into a groan when it makes his head throb. "Don't make me laugh."
"Sorry." But she sounds pleased with herself.
They lapse back into silence. Steve can feel himself starting to drift, the exhaustion that always comes with migraines pulling him under. Robin's still there, a warm weight against the couch, and it makes it easier to let go.
"Hey, Robin?" he mumbles, barely conscious.
"Yeah?"
"You're gonna find someone great. Someone who gets it. Who gets you."
"I know," she says softly. "But thanks."
"And when you do, I promise I won't get a migraine and ruin it."
"You better not. I'll never forgive you."
He smiles into the couch cushion. "Love you."
"Love you too, dingus. Now shut up and sleep."
He does.
Steve wakes up six hours later with Robin asleep on the floor next to the couch, her head pillowed on her arms, one hand still resting on his ankle. His head still hurts, but it's duller now, manageable. The worst has passed.
He doesn't move. Doesn't want to wake her. Just lies there in the dark, grateful for best friends who know exactly when to ignore his protests, who understand that sometimes taking care of each other means ruining a perfectly good date.
When Robin does wake up, stiff and grumbling about sleeping on the floor, she'll insist on making him breakfast even though neither of them can cook. She'll call Melissa and try to salvage things, and maybe it'll work out or maybe it won't. She'll make Steve drink approximately a gallon of water and tell him at least three times that he's an idiot for not saying something sooner.
And Steve will let her, because that's what they do. They take care of each other. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when it means missing out on something good.
Especially then.
But for now, in the quiet dark of his living room, Steve just closes his eyes and lets himself rest, safe in the knowledge that whatever happens, Robin's got his back.
Always.