Chapter Text
It’s nearing five by the time Steve gets home. The sky is already dark, streetlights illuminating their little patch of concrete. He can see bugs trying to get near the bulb - out of the dark and into the light.
He turns to look back down at his hands still gripping the steering wheel. Sits in his truck for just a little bit longer. Not quite ready to venture into the empty house. It’s Friday. Man, does he fucking hate Fridays, a thought that he knows teenage Steve would have never predicted his future self thinking. But here he is thinking exactly that. The thought of two, full, free days fills him with dread. It feels like…butterflies, or no they’re too pretty…maybe moths? Yeah that works - they’re ugly fuckers - could almost pass as being creatures from the upside down. So, it feels like moths are swarming around in his stomach trying to claw their way up and out his throat. It makes him feel out of control over his own body, his mind. He’s sick of feeling out of control.
The moths will die down by the time he’s back to work on Monday. There’ll be grades and kids to distract him. It’s a good gig. Makes him feel like he’s got some kinda purpose.
He remembers feeling a weight being lifted off his shoulders when he’d decided he’d wanted to teach. Steve Harrington, notorious aimless loser in his dad’s words, had finally figured out what he’d wanted to do with his life. He’d taken some control over his own life. It would only be smooth sailing from that point onward. He could settle down and relax. Find a house. Find a girl. Live.
The sailing is a little rocky so far. He still feels good about teaching, except something about his life right now isn’t fitting quite right. Fit’s like his jeans from freshman year that he keeps a hold of in case he’ll one day be able to fit back into them. Tight and uncomfortable, making him want to squirm out of his own skin, and not because they’re necessarily bad - it’s just he’s grown out of them.
Nancy seems to think the problem with him is Hawkins itself. Last month, when she’d been back in Hawkins, she had stopped by Steve’s to borrow the Harrington leaf blower. Apparently Karen had decided leaves on the lawn would just not do, but Ted was unwilling to rake the leaves for her. And that's how Nancy had found herself outside Steve’s poolhouse one crisp Saturday morning as he lugged the thing out for her.
She’d been leaning against the poolhouse, eyes transfixed on the pool, when Steve deposited the leaf blower at her feet and stood next to her. He could tell by the look on her face that she was gearing up to something. Needed to get something off her chest. God knows why this particular chore had inspired such a thing. Steve had lit a cigarette. He remembers he hadn’t eaten anything that day. The cigarette helped to stave off the hunger as he waited Nancy out.
Finally, still looking at the pool, she said, “Sometimes, I'm surprised by how long we lasted together.”
Sure as hell wasn’t where he had expected the conversation to go.
“Way to make a guy feel special, huh?”
A small frown appeared on her face - frustrated that he couldn’t immediately read her mind and decipher what she was trying to say - he’d imagine.
“No, I mean… it’s just, we’re so different.”
“Yeah.” He agreed, nothing's ever been truer, but the word came out sounding confused. He was genuinely at a loss as to why they were rehashing their relationship at that point in time. That shit had long been put to bed. She once again looked frustrated that he was not getting it, so he added, “I’ve gotta admit, imma little lost here, Nance.”
“Like.. like right now I think you’re experiencing the exact opposite problem that I had last year. Or like the problem I had but in reverse.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was in Boston, still am, obviously. But I wasn’t happy because of what I was doing. I couldn’t just continue to hand in tests and papers like nothing had happened, y’know?”
He, decidedly, did not know. Still doesn’t. He nodded anyway.
“And that sucked but at least I wasn’t in Hawkins anymore. I could leave the library.. or .. or wherever it is that I was and not have to be haunted by fucking… fucking ghosts everywhere I turn.” She looked back to the pool.
Irritation bubbled in his chest - this was not a conversation he was expecting, nor wanting to have when he had agreed to loan the leafblower.
“You’re happy with what you're doing, with your job - and Steve, that truly makes me so happy. But what difference does that make if you're stuck in a town that almost killed you?”
She never was one to beat around the bush. In that moment, he kind of hated it. He managed to sound surprisingly calm when he turned to look at her and said, “I'm happy for you Nance. That you’re enjoying being at the Herald and in Boston- ” He paused, she looked at him expectantly.
“But ghosts aren’t real.” And with that he flicked his cigarette away, picked up the leafblower and handed it to her, effectively ending the conversation.
The conversation had hit him like a freight train. Too confronting, too soon. He’d gone back inside and his heart had started hammering in his chest. Like a moth caught under a glass. The tips of his fingers going numb. A prickle behind his eyes. A lump in his throat. Nancy was wrong. She had to be. He repeated it like a mantra as he bit down on one of his Mom’s throw cushions in an attempt to stop himself from sobbing.
Once he’d calmed down, he immediately got into his car and just drove. No destination in mind. He’d driven round in circles until afternoon had bled into evening. By the time it was dark, he was at a club in Indy. The night blurs from that point onward.
He still thinks Nancy is wrong. It just doesn’t make sense. Hawkins is supposed to work. Despite all its traumas, gates and monsters it was still his home. A home that he’d planned to stay in - with its school, and sunsets and view. He never dreamed of ending up anywhere else. His dreams had always been contained to Hawkins city limits. It never occurred to him that he could end up somewhere else. That he maybe would want to end up somewhere else.
Teaching is working. Hawkins is supposed to work, so it will. Eventually. He just needs to stop wallowing and moping about. When he moves house he thinks that’ll do the trick.This house is too big. Too empty. And then, before or after he moves, a girlfriend couldn’t hurt. Some company. A good distraction from any and all upside-down related thoughts. Once he’s got those two things he’ll be right as rain. He can figure this out. He just needs control.
He’s out of his truck now. Walking towards the red front door. It feels like a march to the gallows, Robin would definitely call him a drama queen for that thought, but she's not here. As soon as he’s inside, he triple checks that the front door is locked. Then he goes around the house to make sure all the windows and doors are still locked. He checked this morning before he left for work. But that's over eight hours where he wasn’t here to make sure they stayed locked. So he checks again.
Making sure the house is secure only brings him some semblance of comfort. The moths are still swarming - making themselves at home in his chest. He feels jittery. Filled with a frantic energy and a need to do something, anything to keep himself occupied. He showers. Lets the routine of it comfort him.
Once he’s out of the shower, pajamas on, it occurs to him that it’s dinner time. But he had a big lunch earlier and so the thought of thinking about what to have and then actually eating it fills him with dread. Stresses him out to the point he feels queasy. So it's a no to dinner. Instead, he reaches for the vodka on the bar cart and begins making a vodka soda.
Drink in hand, he sits on the telephone stool and dials a now very familiar number. It’s a good thing that his parents are letting him stay here rent free because the amount of money he has spent on phone bills these past two years has been astronomical.
The phone rings twice before he hears, “This is Robin.”
God, it's always such a relief to hear her voice. Without being able to see her everyday, Steve’s mind spirals on worst case scenarios of Robin dead in a ditch somewhere. It’s only when they call each other does Steve realise he’d been holding his breath between each call.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Thought it would be.” She sounds happy to hear from him, but she’s also got that slight lilt to her voice that means she's had a couple of glasses of wine. She’ll be going out tonight then. Their conversation cut short by exciting clubs and new friends.
Robin always wanted this though, to get out. To ‘experience culture, Steve, culture.’ He’s happy for her, god is he happy for her. But there's this awful, horrible part of him that can’t help being jealous and bitter. It seems everyone's doing well. Everyone’s moving on. Making new choices. Being happier. Getting to know other people. Steve's stuck. He’s stuck and Robin’s doing just fine without him.
He clears his throat, “You going out tonight?” Tries to leave the bitterness out of his tone. It’s not fair to her. She does not need him being a wet blanket on her night.
“Yeah, won’t be as fun without you, though.”
“Nah, you’ll have a blast. Just whatever you do, do not have any tequila shots-”
“Oh my god, Steve, one time!”
“Twice!”
The conversation then moves to talk of Thanksgiving after Robin mentions that she’s booked her flights. Steve will pick her up from the airport the day before Thanksgiving, then drop her off at her parents. The next day she’ll suffer through her dad’s tofurkey and her moms passive aggressive comments as Steve will be trying very hard to get away with eating as little as possible at the Henderson residence. Then, the day after Thanksgiving the annual ‘people who fought monsters and saved the world friendsgiving’ will commence at Steve’s house.
They move onto talking about their days which leads to Robin talking about how her professor had crumbs in his mustache during her morning lecture - which leads to her saying that if Steve were to grow a mustache it would inevitably end up full of bagel crumbs. He does not say that he no longer eats bagels. Robin would probably panic buy a flight home right now if she heard that.
They end their conversation in the same way they always do, “Love you.”
“Love you too, dingus”
When Steve hangs up, he’s once again holding his breath. He looks down at his glass and realises that he’s finished his drink. They must’ve been on the phone for longer than he thought.
Later that night, after another vodka soda, he tries to go to sleep. Hoping the vodka and the spliff he’d just had will work their magic. They don’t. He’s tossing and turning for hours before he finally gives up. He sits up in his bed, his mind moving a mile a minute as he scrubs his hands over his face. He’ll go for a drive. Yeah that’ll be good. Tire him out. Then he’ll come back and get a good night's sleep.
Quickly he throws on an outfit that isn’t his pajamas - which really should be the first sign that he is not just going for a late-night drive around town, but whatever. Levis, a green knit, and sneakers with a complimentary blue tick. That’ll do.
He checks all the locks around the house and then grabs his keys and wallet from the sidetable and books it out the door. Now that he’s decided to go on a drive he needs to get out of the house as soon as possible. Itching for the feeling of his hands gripping the steering, the outside world zooming by a little too quickly as he lets go of his typical, cautious approach to driving.
His subconscious is in charge now as his foot presses harder on the accelerator. It feels good. Adrenaline pumps his veins as he zooms right past the town limits. No longer contained. At this speed, it would be so easy for his truck to veer off course. But he’s got a grip on the steering wheel and he knows his limits. He’s in control.
Steve really shouldn’t be surprised that he ends up in his go-to club in Indy. His late night drives typically end here. When he’s too wired from the drive - adrenaline coursing through his veins - that the thought of going back seems impossible. He stays, tells himself he’ll have one drink, let the adrenaline seep out of his system and then he’ll go back. He, decidedly, does not do this. After his sixth vodka soda - with that hazy feeling taking over his eyes - he figures what the hell and happily accepts the bump offered to him in the bathroom. He’ll drive back tomorrow.
He stumbles back onto the dance floor - revelling in the warmth of other bodies pressing up against his - taking comfort in it. He dances with a girl. A blonde with pretty green eyes. They kiss. He goes back to hers. They fuck. He stays the night and leaves in the morning. And so it goes.
It’s the day before Thanksgiving. The air is biting at his cheeks and Steve has had to regrettably wear a beanie to fight off the chill.
He’s just parked his truck in the airport parking lot. Just to be safe, he’s arrived twenty minutes before Robin’s plane is meant to land. She has zero patience and Steve fears what might happen if she’s left waiting by herself in an airport. He checks his watch, then gets out of the truck and checks that his bat is in the trunk. It is, because he’d put it in there from his bedroom just before leaving, but he had to check. The relief he feels makes it worth it. Thank god, he’s still got the thing at all, honestly. Back in ‘85 he started moving the bat between his bedroom and beamer. It was by complete luck that it happened to be in his room when his precious beamer was sucked through the gross, goop wall. He thinks if he lost both his babies in one foul swoop he would’ve just taken one of Nancy's guns and shot himself right then and there.
Trunk closed and locked, Steve makes his way to the airport entrance and sits by Robin’s gate, awaiting her arrival. They’d seen each other in Philly over a month ago but that may as well have been last year with how much time feels like it's passed. There's a swirl of passengers entering through the door, and amongst them he can spot the top of Robin's head. He gets up immediately, doesn’t want to waste a single second now that he’s spotted her.
He rushes over to her, swoops her up into a hug as she drops her bag to accommodate him and laughs in delight. He puts her down, still hugging her and mumbles into her, “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, dingus.”
As they’re hugging, he can feel her holding onto his waist in a way that has him knowing exactly what she's going to say next, “Have you lost weight?”
He shrugs, aiming for casual, “Maybe. I don’t know.” He does know. He has lost weight and he’s sickingly happy about it.
She narrows her eyes at him, but before she can say anything more he goes back in for a second hug. Mainly because the first one was too short and also a little bit to stop the weight conversation in its tracks. He rests his chin on the top of her head. Breathing her in. Her hair smells good - like lavender intertwining with that distinctly Robin scent.
“You using that new shampoo I recommended?”
She pulls back, smiling up at him “Yup.” Popping the ‘p.’
“Why? Is it looking extra super duper good?”
“Hm-hm, looks less brassy now.” He says it the same way she commented on his weight, observational.
“Plus I can smell the lavender.”
Steve grabs her bags and they start walking through the airport towards the carpark.
“Yeah you were right about the colour.” She links her arm through his. Leaning her head on his shoulder before perking up again, “Oh! That reminds me! Can you pretty please cut my bangs before friendsgiving dinner?”
He heaves the most dramatic, pathetic, put-upon sigh he can manage, “Oh I see how it is - you’re only keeping me around for my hair-care prowess.”
She whacks his chest in mock outrage “Steven Harrington I would never! I keep you around for your hair-care prowess and your apple pie.”
He wipes away some fake tears “Sure, sure. But yeah, course I'll cut your bangs.”
“Good word by the way.”
“What, prowess?” she nods, “yeah I know, some kid used it in class the other day, do not ask me the context, and I thought I've gotta steal that.”
They’re at his truck now. Robin opens the passenger door as Steve places her luggage across the backseats. He can see Betty the bunny rabbit poking out of one of the bags. She really can’t go anywhere without that thing.
Steve is opening the drivers door as he says, “alright lets get this show on the road.” Before he can actually get the ‘show on the road’ a look of horror spreads across his face as he looks at Robin.
She has put her crusty, dusty converse up on the dash, all casual and nonchalant like she's completely unaware that she's gonna give Steve a brain aneurysm. He squawks “Robin!” and she looks at him all wide-eyed mock innocence. Oh she knows. She knows exactly what she's doing.
“Yes, Steven?” She bats her eyelashes up at him as he screeches,“How many times with the goddamn feet on the dash?”
She looks far too pleased with his reaction.
“It's dangerous! Total health hazard. And… and it’s gross!” Robin just cackles - the absolute gall of her. He tries to sternly shake his head at her but the sternness is lost to his own laughter. He can’t help it, her laugh is contagious.
Of course, in the end, he lets her keep her feet on the dash. He’ll wipe it with disinfectant later. “Just- if you think we’re gonna crash, put your feet down. Alright?”
He looks over at her to make sure she's listening, she does a little salute, “Aye aye captain.”
He mutters about hip bones and shattered pelvises as he starts the ignition and then they’re off.
After he drops Robin off at her parents, he realises that he’s feeling drained. Like he’s spent all his energy on trying to be fine and normal. Social interactions with his friends have been like that recently. It’s weird, he desperately wants to see them, talk to them and there’s a calm and levity to him that only comes from being around the people he loves, and yet - he’s completely zapped afterwards. It doesn’t happen with his colleagues or the grocery clerk - there's no performance there, no having to try to be the Steve that they remember, hoping they don’t see through the cracks, because they only know the version of Steve that exists now. There’s also no calm, no levity.
It’s the day after thanksgiving now. Yesterday, Steve maybe, possibly, potentially had a teensy panic attack in the Henderson bathroom. It’s just there'd been so much food and, aside from the apple pie, he hadn’t made any of it. Had no idea how much oil was used, or if it had been butter instead of oil, no control whatsoever and Claudia is always telling him he needs to get more meat on his bones.
So, he’d excused himself, had a tiny moment in the bathroom before splashing some cold water on his face and re-entering the dining room like nothing had just happened. Dustin eyed him warily, but he’d put on the performance of a lifetime. Slipped on the mask of a fine and normal man like it was nothing. He felt drained and like a piece of shit afterwards. Like a fraud. The same way he did after he dropped Robin off. The same way he’s felt for the past two years when his friend’s concerned eyes glance his way. He just needs to figure his shit out, get some control, and then there’ll be no need for the mask. No performance.
He’d picked Robin up later that evening - having her stay the night had helped to soothe his nerves. Also hers, because according to her she needed to get as far away from her mom as humanely possible.
It’d been nice sharing the same bed again. They were in arms reach if either got a nightmare and Steve had found he fell asleep easier with the sound of Robin’s steady breaths beside him. Plus, she was a deep sleeper so his snoring didn’t bother her.
Now, they’re in Steve’s ensuite, with an hour to spare before everyone starts arriving. The sounds of the Fleetwood Mac record they have playing filter in through the open door. Robin is sitting on the toilet seat, lid closed, with a towel wrapped around her shoulders. Steve is standing between her knees, brandishing a comb and his good hair scissors.
He combs her bangs forward, eyeing them to see how much he should snip off, as he does he says,“Mia Mercer got bangs recently, by the way.”
“When did you see her?”
He begins cutting her bangs whilst replying, “Just at Melvad’s, they look good, but she definitely only got them because she’s copying-”
“Sandy Wilson.”
“You know it.”
“I just don’t get it, like Matt has gotta be the most boring guy in the history of the universe. Neither Sandy or Mia should be with him. Seriously.”
“Totally. He’s such a meathead. You know one time in basketba-”
“he tried to make the shot even though he definitely should’ve passed to Patrick, yeah, yeah I know.” She rolls her eyes fondly at Steve and he rolls them right back.
They lapse into comfortable silence as Steve continues to trim. Or what Steve thought was comfortable silence until Robin looks at him very closely. That's never a good sign.
“Steve.” She says very seriously.
“Thats my name.”
She only rolls her eyes at his dumbass response and once again, in that same serious tone, says, “Steve.”
He sighs, momentarily putting the scissors down so he’s looking her in the eye and not just at her forehead. “If this is about me forgetting that I'd already told you the basketball story… my memory’s fine, Robin. It’s like super normal for people to tell stories too much, Tommy was the worst at that.”
“No, no it’s not that.”
He makes a gesture as if to say ‘well, what is it?’
She looks directly into his eyes and oh fuck why does she suddenly look so sad. “Are you okay?”
Right, okay, so this isn’t going to be a gossipy hairdressing session then. Fuck.
He picks up the scissors again, both to give him something to do with his hands and buy some time so he can figure out a response. Because, the thing is, Steve knows that Robin knows that he very much is not okay. She doesn’t need him to reply honestly to confirm her suspicions. She likely knows he wouldn’t answer honestly anyway.
She’s definitely not asking because she wants her nerves soothed by a lie. They would very much not be soothed, and that girl can tell Steve is lying from a mile away. He once tried to tell her that ‘yes, he did like that she was wearing two different coloured converse at once’ and she had immediately seen right through him. She still wears them mismatched, though. And whilst Steve does not like the idea of mismatching shoes, he has grown fond of the way she does it. Anyone else doing it needs to seriously reconsider their life choices.
Anyway, not the point, the point is she’s asking because she wants to help him be closer to okay. She wants to solve his not-okayness. But Steve doesn’t want that. He can fix it himself. Because the thing is, sure, he may not necessarily be okay, but ultimately nothing's wrong with him. He’s just confused - because he thought he’d figured it out. He’d even gotten glasses for fucks sakes. Did it take a lot of nagging? Yes. Does he barely wear them? Also yes, but he got them. He’s supposed to be okay. He’s supposed to be settled. So there's a few kinks, so what? He can smooth them over. He will figure this out. Make himself okay. And he doesn’t need anyone to help him.
He answers her, because he knows that there's no avoiding this conversation if Robin wants to have it. She’s at least given him the benefit of asking while he's got something to do with his hands. Although, risky move on her part, he could sabotage her and give her the wonkiest bangs known to mankind.
He settles on, “I don’t want you to worry about me.” It's an empty, albeit true, response. Now that it's out of his mouth, and her mouth is still downturned, it feels lacklustre and not at all reassuring. Damn it.
“Well I am worried, dingus. And I.. It's scaring me because I don't know how to help this time.” She takes a deep breath in - oh god she's about to ramble and Steve doesn’t think he can stop her in time.
“This isn’t like Starcourt y'know? It’s not as easy as us sharing a bed when the other is having a nightmare or or… driving around listening to music to distract us from our thoughts. And I know- I know that those things were temporary band-aids. Okay? I know. But at least I could do something and you could do something. But now? I.. I feel actually sick at night knowing you're not a ten minute drive away. I couldn’t go to the doctors when I had a cold because you weren’t there to hold my hand and reassure me that there’d be no bone saw-”
Steve thinks he might throw up. He’s the worst person ever “Rob, I’m - I'm sorry.”
“No, no shut-up, don't give me that, I can see what you’re thinking and don’t. I didn’t say that to guilt trip you.” He nods - he knows she’d never.
“I said it because it goes both ways. For every nightmare I have I know you’re having one too. I know you had to go to the doctors without me to get your glasses. Which thank you to any god listening that you did.” She slides a sneaky side-eye his way and he huffs a laugh in response.
“My point is - I want us to be there for each other. More than just on the phone or every few months. I want to be there for you-”
Fuck, theres tears collecting in his eyes at that. He refuses to let them fall.
“Because... Because I can see that you’re not okay and I think part of the problem, Steve, is that you’re here with no one to look out for you. No one who knows what you’ve been through.”
He shakes his head. His body actively refusing what she's implying. That he should leave Hawkins and say sayonara to his whole life-plan. And for what? Just cos he can’t man-up and be happy with what he’s got? No. No way.
He pulls away slightly, puts the scissors on the counter. The bangs are basically done now, anyway. He shakes his head some more, quickly meeting her eye and then promptly refusing to meet it once again “Rob, you know I can’t. I can’t.”
“Do I know that though? Do you?”
And there are tears in her eyes now, too. He’s done this to her. He’s made her worried. He’s made her upset. He’s made her cry. If he could just be normal and okay then none of this would be happening. They’d be able to have their phone-calls and sparse meetups and that would be enough. Sure, he’d still be crawling out of his skin not being able to see her every day but it would be enough. It would. And it should be now because it has to be. But it's not. He just needs to get some control over the situation and then it’ll all be fine.
They’re distracted by the sound of his name being yelled out from downstairs, “Steve!”
Oh thank god, saved by Dustin Henderson. He quickly wipes away any tears that may have fallen, clears his throat, and then shouts, “Upstairs!”
Next, there's the sound of Dustin’s stomps coming up the stairs. That kid has zero stealth.
Dustin’s standing in the doorway to Steve’s bedroom, looking for all the world like he didn’t spend all of yesterday with Steve. “C’mere in here you lil shrimp - I’ll give your hair a quick touch up too.”
He hugs Dustin, guides him to sit on the toilet lid so he can cut his hair, and promptly pushes the conversation with Robin to one side of his brain. He plasters a smile on his face. A mask of normalcy. He’s played this part before and he can play it now. Robin, for her part, plays along. Says to Dustin that it’s not fair that he gets to have Steve’s apple pie for his regular thanksgiving and today at friendsgiving. There’s a small, teasing smile on her face as she says this but, unlike Steve, she hasn’t got the art of the performance down. Steve can see it, in her eyes, in the strain of her smile that nothing's been resolved. That she's still just as worried, if not more. He does his best to ignore it, at least for now.