Chapter Text
Flecks of dust floated gently in the beams of morning sun shining through Steve Harrington’s bedroom window. The ceiling fan hummed gently overhead and the soft rumble of tires on pavement cut through the early-morning birdsong. It was a gentle way to wake up, and that's how Steve liked it. Gentle was a concept that until recent years felt unfamiliar; but now, far removed from angry alarms, bickering parents, and apocalyptic calamity, gentle wove its way into every place it possibly could.
He sat up slowly, lashes fluttering as he acclimated to the light, and glanced at the clock: 8:07am. He reached for the glass of water beside his bed— drained it— and stood, shuffling his way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
His apartment was small and somewhat dated, but cozy nonetheless. There was a tiny galley kitchen with crooked cabinets and a fridge covered top to bottom in magnets. The living room had a faded green rug and was just big enough for the Henderson’s old couch, a table that Wayne Munson built him as a housewarming gift, and a thrifted TV with a single grey bar running top to bottom on the left hand side. His bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in, and sure your knees touched the cabinets when you sat on the toilet, but at least the water pressure was good. Above anything else, it was his. His own space to craft mornings like this one; to cook his favorite meals, to play his music, and to kiss his boyfriend. He didn’t need anything else.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes, started the coffee maker, double-checked his work schedule taped to the fridge, and stepped over to the radio on his bookshelf to get some sound going. The speakers buzzed to life, volume just slightly too loud, as Freddy Mercury’s voice exploded into the room “HAMMER TO FALL!”the cheers of Wembley stadium echoing behind him. He drank his coffee as he cracked eggs into the pan, all the while banging his head and tapping to the drum beat, sleep-worn voice cracking slightly as he sang along “…make the bed, light the light, lady mercy won’t be home tonight…”
Halfway through prepping breakfast and performing a flawlessly executed air guitar solo, the shrill cry of his phone interrupted the peace and forced him to turn the volume down before snatching it phone off the hook.
“This is Steve…” He said, pressing the receiver between his shoulder and cheek before returning to the stove flip.
“Steven, it’s mom.” An impatient voice spoke across the line.
“Yup, hi mom… what can I do for you?” Steve asked, rolling his eyes and preemptively checking out of the conversation.
“I need a favor. Go by the house and grab my stole for me. Ya know, the fur one? Aunt Cheryl is taking me out to dinner with her and Uncle Mark on Saturday and this is a nice place we’re going to.” Steve sighed, dropping the phone to his chest for a minute and muttering a prayer, before pressing it back to his ear.
“Yeah, ma, I don’t know if you need furs right now…it’s July.” He said, tone deadpan as he struggled to lift the eggs onto his plate without breaking their yolks. “Also, you do know that you’re allowed to physically be in the house, right? You aren’t exiled to Aunt Cheryls, Dad will let you in the door—”
“It doesn’t matter what the hell time of year it is, the restaurant is inside Steven. It’s about the outfit…and you know I can’t go back there! I can’t even look at that man after he had that slut in our…” Steve once again held the phone away from himself, silently mock-screaming before putting the phone back to his ear, “…just grab it for me and run it over please. It’s hanging in the back of the armoire. Unless of course your father gave it to that hussy to wear out to some—”
“Alright, ma! Yeah sure whatever. I’ll get it this weekend, ok. I’m working a double today and tomorrow so, I’ll get it to you before your dinner.” He interjected, stifling a curse as he accidentally popped one of the yolks.
“Thank you Steven, just remember to call before you come this time.”
“Sure. Yeah… I gotta go now, mom. Bye—”
“Oh! And my night cream! The french one!” Steve hung up the phone, loudly groaning before snatching the toast out of the toaster and turning the music back up; head bouncing again as his voice meshed with Freddy’s, “You just got time to say your prayers, while your waiting for the Hammer To Fall…”
By the time he made it to Family Video, the temperature had climbed enough to leave a glistening layer of sweat across his skin. The AC had been broken in his truck for the last 6 months but he’d never been able to find the time to fix it. He’d traded in the Beamer a few years back and, much like his apartment, the truck wasn’t perfect but it felt more like him.
He opened up the doors and flipped on the lights, milling around the store stocking the overnight returns and setting out the candy displays.
Robin arrived a half hour later— tripping through the front door, tote bag falling off her shoulder and sunglasses askew.
“You’re late, Buckley” Steve smirked, leaning over the counter.
“Do not start with me Stevie or I will dock your hours I swear to god.” She shot back, eyes rolling skyward as she hoisted her bag back into place and made her way to the back office. “I had a very long night okay…”
“Ooh, let me guess… Did it include far too much red wine… a certain curly-haired journalist… and some long-overdue making out?”
“I am not talking about this with you right now!” Robin shot back before disappearing into the room. “She’s only been back in town a day Steve. Let me live!” She emerged a moment later with an envelope of cash, stepping behind the counter next to Steve and starting to load the register. “…I mean yes, there was red wine… and, well, yes, we did talk about her time out in LA reporting on the riots.” She kept counting the drawer. Steve leaned in behind her, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked so high it might float away. Finally she sighed. “Ok and yes, we were up until 3am talking and giggling and it may be why I’m a little tired and hung over this morning…” Her cheeks getting progressively more red. “…but nothing happened and I’m still your manager now and I can still fire you if you ask me any questions because we are so not talking about this right now!” She punctuated the sentence by slamming the cash drawer closed, finally turning to look at Steve and the smirk permanently etched on his face. After a minute, it faded to a soft smile and he set a hand on her shoulder with a squeeze.
“Next time? Greek food and Joni Mitchell. Gyros from the diner, Blue on the stereo… she’ll be yours in ten minutes flat.” He winked and walked around the counter towards the pile of tapes to be restocked.
The day was long and slow, as usual. Wednesdays were always dead. That’s why Robin scheduled them together. Pretty much everyone returned their movies on Monday and Tuesday and then came in to rent on the weekends. Wednesday and Thursday were like getting paid to goof off. Steve and Robin spent the day on the floor behind the counter, feet propped on stacks of VHS tapes, talking about everything and nothing; while Robin nursed her hangover with bad gas station coffee and gummy worms.
“—and now I have to go over there and get her her stole and her wrinkle cream on Saturday—”
“What the fuck’s a stole?” Robin asked, words muffled from a mouth full of candy.
“It’s like a shawl but furry”
“Why does she need a fur shawl in the middle of July”
“Robin I have no idea! It’s a fucking power play!” Steve yelled, exasperated. He stuck out his hand to silently demand one of her gummy worms. She handed him two and he tossed them in his mouth before letting his head fall back against the wall. “She probably wants him to think she’s all dolled up for some hot date. Or maybe she just wants intel? Like, she wants me to report back if he’s miserable and pining… I don’t know Rob, it’s the same shit they always pull and I’m just the messenger stuck in the fucking middle…” He trailed off, hands scrubbing over his face as he let out an exhausted exhale.
“I mean hey,” Robin offered, shrugging her shoulders, “Maybe this time it’ll actually stick and they’ll leave each other alone and then no more of this back and forth messenger bullshit?”
“It’s a bluff. It’s always a bluff. She’s mad and hurt and over at Cheryl’s fucking wailing about how disrespectful and awful he is, but then a week or two from now he’ll present her with some egregious diamond tennis bracelet or a trip to Majorca and she’ll tell me they worked out their differences. It’s always the same. I mean what is this, affair number 4? 5? I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve done this song and dance.” Robin nodded, popping the last worm in her mouth and shoving the empty bag in the trash.
“Have you talked to him about it?” She asked. Steve let out an amused jet of breath and raised an eyebrow at her.
“After the fight we had last month? Not a chance!” He pulled his knees in towards his chest, arms resting around them, “Mom telling me about another affair was just icing on the cake. I have nothing to say to him.” There was an echo of pain in the admission. Robin sat up, legs criss-crossing in front of her.
“Well, if you need someone to just be there when you go on Saturday, I’m more then happy to serve as a buffer? Just don’t ask me to make conversation…” She shuddered at the thought.
“Oh god, I’m never bringing you to the house again,” Steve groaned, “remember the last time you came over with me and he was almost giddy because he thought I’d finally brought a girl home again? I’m afraid if he sees you twice he’ll double down on it and think I’m over my little phase.” Robin snorted.
“Speaking of significant others, are you going to Eddie’s tonight? I know I have you on a double but you’re not gonna skip the bonfire, are you?” Steve nodded.
“Yeah no, no I’m not skipping. I’ll just be late since my bitch of a manager is making me work until 10 on the slowest day of the week.” He threw a paper clip from the floor at her shoulder and playfully rolled his eyes.
“Listen that lady is a bitch— manager Robin and best friend in the universe/soulmate/soul sister Robin are two different people!”
“Yeah, sure…” He said, forcing himself to stand and stretch a bit. “Just don’t set anything on fire until I get there with my fire extinguisher please? Last time he almost sent everyone to the ER playing that flaming stick game with Dustin.”
“Maybe bring two? Just in case.” She offered in reply, sliding past him and walking into the back to check on a delivery she was expecting.
Robin’s shift ended just after 4:00. As an apology for Steve’s suffering, she ran across the street to buy him dinner before going home to change. He got a couple of customers that night, but the minutes crawled by like hours in the silent store. His only solace was finally having full control of the radio—bopping through the aisles, dancing and lip-syncing where no one could see. Finally, the clock hit 10 and he was in his car with the store closed up by 10:03.
He considered going home to change, maybe freshen up his hair a bit, but he was already getting there late and didn’t want to miss all the fun. He settled on stripping off his vest and polo to change into one of Eddie’s old t-shirts in his trunk, then headed for Forest Hills.
When he pulled up, the fire in the trailer yard had already climbed high enough to make his stomach lurch. They’d made it even bigger this time. Sitting in a horseshoe shape around the blaze on plastic chairs were Robin, Nancy, Max, and Wayne, each with a drink in their hands, laughing into their cups while Robin shot anxious glances at the flame. Dustin and Eddie, were on the opposite side of the fire, each holding one side of a wood pallet and shuffling towards it. Steve’s eyes widened, realizing what that was for and throwing open his car door just as the two launched it onto the pile, embers exploding out in a cloud and sending the smoke in random directions. As the airborne embers landed like evil fireflies in the grass around their feet, Robin jumped up, yelping as Max’s hollered “OH! what the fuck?!” Eddie and Dustin collapsed in a fit of maniacal laughter. Nancy set about stomping out the few embers still glowing, throwing a hell of a glare at the boys responsible.
“Eddie Munson if you set my fucking house on fire I will personally put your ass in this dirt do you hear me!” Wayne yelled, swatting his hat at his nephew. Steve laughed affectionately at the scene before cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling across the yard
“Don’t worry Wayne I figure’d he’d be on demon behavior!” Everyone turned to look at him as he pulled a fire extinguisher out of his trunk and wiggled it before setting it back down. “Just in case of emergencies!”. In the flicker of the fire light, he could see Eddie’s face light up with glee before he barreled toward him, launching into a full-body tackle-hug that knocked Steve flat on his ass in the dirt.
“You’re late!” Eddie pouted, licking a stripe up Steve’s cheek like a golden retriever and planting a kiss right on top of it. Steve grimaced.
“And you’re drunk.” He laughed, pushing his boyfriend off of him so that he could stand. Dustin appeared beside him with a cold miller light that he tossed into Steve’s expectant hands.
“Hell yeah man, catch up!” The boy cheered, tipping his own can to his lips and chugging. He drained, then crushed it with a triumphant slam onto the arm of the lawn chair.
“Dude,” he wheezed, wiping his mouth. “Oh god, why do people drink this stuff? It’s like drinking bread…and it hurts…” His face scrunched, one hand pressed to his stomach, regretting all of his life choices. Steve chuckled, nudging him and offering a big-brother smile.
“Easy there, cowboy. You said the same thing last time.” He ruffled Dustin’s curls affectionately, “ Now stop doing that, you’re gonna make yourself sick again.” Dustin groaned.
“That was one time.” Steve rolled his eyes, then turned to face Eddie, sending a pointed look at him.
“And you, stop encouraging him!” Eddie pouted, knocking back his own beer before shooting a look at Robin.
“Buckley, no more scheduling Stevie to work when we have plans, he gets grumpy.” Robin’s face deadpanned as she shot a look at Steve and then back at Eddie.
“Yeah sure I’ll keep that in mind.”
Around midnight, Wayne headed to bed and Nancy finally convinced Dustin and Eddie to stop adding wood to the fire. The chaos died down as they all talked and laughed around it. By 2am, the pyre before them was nothing but thin lines of smoke and a few barely glowing embers. Everything was so still. No buzz of cicadas, no far off cars— just clear night air, the buzz a few too many drinks, and the warmth of being surrounded by his people. Eddie was curled in his lap like he wasn’t the taller one, cheek resting in Steve’s hair, breath ticking his forehead.
“All right, I think we should call it.” Steve sighed. “Ladies. Henderson. It’s been lovely, but I need to get this gremlin to bed.” He nudged Eddie awake, helping him stand before leaning his boyfriend’s weight against him. There were hugs all around, Robin and Nancy headed to their car, and Max taking it upon herself to smother the last few embers, then drag Dustin to her trailer across the way to sleep it off on the couch.
Steve guided Eddie inside and to his room, flopping him down on the bed with a soft “oof”
“Strip me…” Eddie mumbled, eyes half lidded and speech slurred. Steve laughed gently, pressing a kiss into the tip of Eddie’s nose.
“Alright, big guy, but I’m gonna need you to work with me here. No alligator rolls.” Eddie narrowed his eyes mischievously. “No. No, I know that look. If you do it I’m going home. No cuddles. Now come on, shirt off.” Eddie whined dramatically but allowed Steve to get him out of his clothes that smelled like campfire and beer; though not without Eddie cracking jokes and trying to sneak a hand into Steve’s boxers at every opportunity. Eventually, they curled up together, warm skin to warm skin; Steve’s arm draped protectively over his boyfriend’s chest.
Mornings at Eddie’s felt different. He loved his little apartment, but he’d also be the first to admit how nice it was to wake up to the coffee already brewed, pleasant conversation with Wayne, and the presence of the people who made him feel safe. Truly the opposite of the jarring chaos of his childhood home; The Munsons’ place was gentle, peaceful; it quietly introduced you to the new day instead of ripping you out of REM sleep and shoving you full speed into the world.
He took his time, he and Wayne talking sports and work and that hungover menace in the next room. Once he’d finished his cup and helped Wayne clear the drying rack, Steve headed out for the day. His first stop was back to his apartment to shower and change into clean work clothes ahead of the day’s impending double shift.
He stepped through the threshold, kicked off his sneakers, and set his keys in the little bowl by the front door. He made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water when he noticed an urgent flashing red light on the answering machine. That was strange. Nobody should have called last night. It gave him a flare of anxiety that he couldn’t quite place; like his body sensed danger long before his brain caught up. When he got closer, there was a flashing number 6 on the screen. Six voicemails? Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever had six voicemails left on that machine the whole time he’d owned it; let alone in one single night. He bit his lip, quickly pressing the play button.
“Steven, it’s me. Pick up the phone.” A pause, “Hello? I know you can hear me, pick up. Steven?! God damn it son of a—” The message ended, silent tape running for a few seconds before the next message began. “Steve, please. I got’a talk ta ‘ou. Iss impordant. I mean it—” Silent tape static marked the end of another one. Steve clicked pause. The groan he let out was deep from within his exhausted spirit. His dad had clearly gotten drunk and spammed Steve’s voicemail with progressively incoherent rambling. It wasn’t the first time. It likely wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t have time for this shit. He could deal with it later. After his shift. After his father’s hangover passed. It was always better to talk the next day anyway. He turned away, grabbed a towel from the hall closet, and headed for the shower.
He arrived at Family Video an hour later. He and Robin were the only ones scheduled again and while he knew Thursdays were busier than their Wednesday shifts spent sitting on the floor, it still meant a day spent with Robin, so it couldn’t be all bad. All morning, Robin rambled about the flirty ride home she’d shared with Nancy, the prolonged hug at her front door, and Robin’s complete and total cowardice when she bailed with a ‘sleep tight’ and fled to her car.
“You’re hopeless you know that right?” Steve said, face flat eyebrow raised.
“Yes thank you Steve, I am aware. What stunning insight.” She hissed, “I liked you better when you were hopeless and single too.” They laughed, sticking their tongues out at each other and resuming their work.
Around 2pm, just as Steve was beginning to lose steam and there were conversations thrown around about a potential coffee run, the screech of the phone pulled their attention. Robin groaned at the thought of standing up from the comfortable perch she’d taken on the counter. Steve laughed with a teasing “stay put princess, I’ll get it” before standing up from the floor and picking up the handset.
“Family Video, this is Steve speaking…” A shuddered breath, tense and terrifying.
“Steven?!” Margaret Harrington’s voice clawed through the receiver, landing too loud, too hurried in his ears, “Oh, thank God…” He felt goosebumps appear down his arms.
“Mom? Mom how did you— what’s—”
“Steven. Listen to me. Daddy’s dead.”
There were a few beats of silence, during which Steve’s brain seemed to outright reject the sound waves attempting to enter it. He felt himself glitch before, finally, a coherent thought.
“That’s not a funny joke.”
His voice came out thin, wavering. A silk thread of disbelief, holding back a tidal wave.
Robin jumped to her feet, intense eyes trained on his face.
“Steven why would I— Why—” She let out a raspy sob. “He’s dead, Steven. Dead. I just got a call from Susan next door they found—”
The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor, but his hand stayed frozen in the air eyes wide.
“Steve?!” Robin yelled running over to him and taking his face in her hands. He was staring straight through her, tears welling thick in his eyes as Margaret’s rambling voice bled out from the phone in warbled fragments. “Stevie-- Stevie what happened!?” She begged, hands moving from his cheeks to his shoulders. He could feel himself trembling in her grasp until finally his brain seemed to register those six words:
1. Steven
2. listen
3. to
4. me
5. daddy’s
6. dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead .
It echoed, again and again, until he finally understood.
And without a word, he collapsed; an agonizing scream tearing its way out of him.
He was on the floor. That much he could register.
He could feel the thin, dirty, family video carpet under his palms but everything felt blurry, oversaturated. Sound was muffled around him, overtaken by the pulse of his blood whooshing in his ears. The phone was still talking. Something muffled like it was underwater. A warbling, tinny screech that sounded something like his name but could have been—
“Steve—Steve!”
His head jerked up, Robin’s face inches from his own. She was kneeling on the floor with him, scrambling for the receiver before jamming it to her ear with a half shouted “hello?!” He watched her face fall before his vision went blurry again.
His face was wet, he raised a shaking hand to his cheek to touch thick droplets.
He was crying. When had he started crying?
He glanced around the room that was suddenly overwhelmingly bright, breath echoing loudly as if it were bouncing off the inside of his own body like a gunshot in a cavern. His stomach flipped and he staggered to his feet. The vague sound of his name ringing in his ears. He fell, clumsily, through the door of the tiny employee bathroom as his body purged the pain into the toilet bowl. His chest ached like something was sitting on it. Something big. Something wrong.
“I have to call mom—I have to—” He was sitting on the floor, back in the bright room, his back against the wall… when had he left the bathroom?
“Steve? That— that was your mom that called, you just talked to your mom.” Robin said, pushing the cup he was somehow holding, though he had no idea why or for how long, towards his lips urging him to drink. Her face contorted into something strange, something horrified.
“I don’t remember where he moved the spare key let me just ask him… ask him which flower pot…” Steve moved to reach for the phone, but Robin grabbed his wrist gently. Voice so soft it barely made a sound.
“Steve—baby—no…”
There was another voice in the room now, gruff and familiar.
“Is he here with us?” The voice said, echoing loudly but still melting into the slop of words simmering in Steve’s brain “Steven listen to me, daddy’s dead” “Daddy’s dead” Why the fuck did she say daddy? He hadn’t called Richard his “daddy” since he was maybe five years old…
“Steve. Kid— can you hear me?” Steve’s eyes focused on Hopper’s face Where the fuck did Hopper come from.
“Yeah… yeah sorry…” He focused all of his attention on the man in front of him, but still felt like they were speaking to each other through tin cans and string. He felt his body nod, no idea what he was agreeing to, and then suddenly he was walking; feet not registering the earth as he took steps that felt too big towards the squad car. Outside, He could smell the scent of deep fryer floating through the air from the diner, maybe he should pick dinner up for Eddie after work. Work…
“Robin I gotta call Jack and see if he can cover for me tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be able to come in…” Steve said, momentary clarity in his voice
“Stevie don’t worry about that right now, ok? Just breathe for me…just like that…”
The trees rushed by in a blur of green, the sound of the siren ripping loudly through the dense fog that had settled in the wrinkles of his brain. They never stopped for a single traffic light, “Thats not right, Hopper should have stopped at the lights.” Steve thought to himself. Hell, what were they rushing for? His dad was already dead. He wasn’t going anywhere.
The blur of green gave way to something worse; red and blue lights flickering too slowly, swirling in his vision. Steve blinked once. Twice. But the light didn’t resolve; they made everything feel too sharp and too soft at the same time.
The space outside the car was no longer occupied by forest lined roads and stop signs. It was replaced by a swarm of cars and uniforms crawling all over The Harrington’s house like a split-open ant hill. Yellow tape stretched in an X across the front door, but most of the officers were gathered at the side gate, spilling into the backyard.
That’s when it hit him. The question he hadn’t thought to ask.
“Wait… Hopper…what happened? Where was…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
A passing officer stopped just outside the gate to the back yard, his pants soaked through at the knees. The world fell away beneath him.
The pool.
His head felt stuffed with cotton.
The pool. Again.
Images of Barb. Of the Upside Down. Of Drops of blood in the water; they all poured back into his memory, the swirling red and blue only driving him further into the fears he’d buried years before.
“Robin…” His voice cracked, the sound frayed with agony. Her hand found his back and rubbed in soft soothing circles. He tried to lean into the comforting touch, but the relief felt foreign in his body, felt inexplicably dangerous. He flinched away from her, throwing open the door of the car and walking, his body moving on autopilot towards the front door he’d walked through a thousand times.
Two officers tried to stop him but he pushed right past them, barely registering the objections. He marched straight up to the door as he always had and reached out to find his body frozen. His hand hovered just over the doorknob, suddenly unable to turn it. He was petrified, his brain endlessly looping: “He’s not there. He’s not there. He’s not—”
“Steve!” A voice like honey and morphine called out through the ether and silenced the incessant whisper. His body turned in slow motion just as a warm blur collided into him; strong arms wrapping around his shoulders and burying Steve’s face into a t-shirt that smelled like cedar and cigarettes. In an instant, the world came back into focus.
“Eddie…” He breathed, melting into the embrace.
“It’s ok, you’re ok, I’m right here...” Eddie mumbled softly into Steve’s hair. “I’m right here…”
Steve could hear the busyness now, smell the dust in the air from the dozen cop cars that had kicked up gravel on their way in. For the first time since the phone rang he was taking in information. He pulled away from Eddie, letting his boyfriend cup his face in his hands and meet his gaze.
“Hi.” Steve whispered. Eddie gave a sad smile, letting his thumb softly brush the tear track on Steve’s cheek.
“Hi.” He replied, “Are you in there?” Steve nodded, taking a deep breath and looking around at the chaos as Eddie’s hands fell back down to rest on Steve’s arm.
“I’m sorry— I— When did we— Fuck.” Steve craned his neck around Eddie to find Robin in the crowd talking to Hopper and a few other officers. Eddie watched him carefully for a few seconds before softly shushing him and beginning to guide his boyfriend back over to Robin and the deputies.
“He’s back on earth.” Eddie said once the group was in earshot. Steve flushed red, eyes darting down to his shoes.
“I’m sorry. I— I don’t know what happened… I’m sorry…”
Hopper’s face softened for a moment before returning to the task at hand.
“Neighbors saw the gate open this morning and came over to make sure everything was ok. Thats when they found him in the pool. It looks like it very well could be an accidental drowning, but we’ll have to wait on an autopsy for the coroner to determine final COD.” Steve’s hand gripped Eddie’s with white knuckles, as if letting go would mean floating back off into space. He nodded, stomach lurching at the words he never in a million years would have associated with his dad—
Drowning.
Autopsy.
Coroner.
“I want to see him.” Steve said, voice suddenly stronger and full of certainty. Everyone turned to look at him, varying levels of pity and concern across each face. Steve stared back at them for a beat, a bubble of frustration exploding as his brows narrowed into a glare. “Seriously. It’s not going to make sense until I see him. Please, just let me see.” Hopper looked conflicted.
“Kid. You don’t want to do that, not yet…” His tone didn’t carry its usual authority; in its place was the pained hesitation of someone who knew the price Steve was asking to pay for closure.
“Don’t tell me what I do and do not want, Hopper.” Steve spit back, staring at the chief with an intensity he rarely felt anymore. Hopper nodded.
“Fine. Munson, drive him. I’m going to need to make a call on the way, they don’t normally do this. Meet me at Hawkins General and I’ll walk you down to the M.E.” Eddie nodded, squeezing Steve’s hand and nodding towards his van.
“Buckley, come on. You’re comin’ too.” Eddie said as he passed her. He nudged her back and began walking behind the two of them, shepherding them to the van doors.
The morgue of Hawkins General Hospital was a confusing labyrinth. Even with Hopper’s guidance, the blur of identical doors and endless turns that felt like they were walking in circles left Steve dizzy like he’d just come off a carnival ride.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed and crackled, casting a cold, clinical glow that burned into his eyes. In the center of the room was a long metal table; atop it, a human shaped lump draped in stark white cloth. Steve felt the sick rise in his throat again as he stood just outside the double doors.
“…You don’t have to go in, kid.” Hopper murmured, momentarily blocking Steve’s path with an arm across the threshold and eyes full of ache.
“I do.” Steve replied, less argumentative now, more so resigned. Hopper sighed and stepped away, catching the bridge of his nose in his hand.
“I got you.” Eddie said, offering Steve a quick squeeze before the two of them stepped into the room. It felt like stepping into a freezer, shivers running through them both from the frigid air. Steve let go of Eddie’s hand and tentatively stepped up beside the body. The M.E, a woman with kind eyes, pulled back the sheet and for the second time that day, Steve’s brain refused to cooperate; refused to let the image in.
It was his father… and yet, it wasn’t; more like a wax figure in his father’s shape. A mannequin wearing his skin. His features were swollen, lips faintly blue, cheeks puffed just enough to look wrong. Even in death, Richard Harrington’s brow was furrowed—deep lines etched into place like the scowl had followed him into the afterlife.
Steve felt his knees wobble beneath him, taking a half step back into Eddie. Instinctively, he reached a trembling hand across his father’s forehead to smooth the familiar hair, which without it’s usual gel and styling, dried with a soft curl at the front. One eerily similar to Steve’s own.
As he stared, Eddie stepped beside him, slipping his fingers into Steve’s other hand. He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. They just stood there as Steve tried to catch up to the reality that the man on the table was his father, and he was gone.
A few days later, after the fog off shock had dissipated, Steve stood outside the doors of the Fareham law offices. His father’s lawyers. He felt ridiculous in one of Richard’s old suits that pinched in some places but hung much too big in others. His mother had insisted that you couldn’t just walk into an attorney’s office wearing any old thing; but it felt disrespectful, disgusting even, to be parading around in a young Richard Harrington costume. Nonetheless, he’d followed instructions and was now marching up to the doors with a level of feigned confidence he hadn’t attempted since he was King Steve.
“I just can’t do it Steven, I just can’t go in there!” Margaret Harrington cried, taking a gasping breath into a handkerchief and smearing it with mauve lipstick. Steve sighed, turning to face his mother and then walking back beside her to take her hand.
“Mom? I know this is hard. But please, we both need to be here to sign off on this. If we don’t sign, it all gets tied up in probate court even longer. Months of red tape. You don’t want that, right?” His eyes were tired. Not just from the terrible nights sleep he’d had the last 4 nights, but existentially tired. Spiritually tired.
He’d had no idea how long the post-death to do list was, but now that he was living it? Spending all day every day wadding waist deep through the mire of the fallout? It was unrelenting.
In his mind, you got the call, you had a funeral, you published the obituary, and then you were done. He’d never thought about any other steps. Things like police investigations and notarized copies of death certificates. Submitting forms to the social security office, trying to figure out their mortgage lender and how to pay them, probate court, debt hearings…all of it new and all of it, exhausting.
He’d certainly never considered that he would be the person handling any of those things; but Steve’s mom had proven herself far more of a liability than an asset when it came to the logistics— falling into dramatic and ultimately unhelpful displays of grief at the slightest sign of complication.
“Fine.” She took a loud staggered breath and shoved her handkerchief into her pocket book, “I suppose I’ll just have to manage.”
The conversation was brief. All business, no fluff. They explained Richard’s will, the probate process, and how disbursement of the assets works. It was all very complicated and made Steve break out in a prickly anxious sweat, but by the end of the hour, he had a vague understanding and felt comfortable enough to sign what he needed to sign.
On the drive back to his aunts, they passed the house, crime scene tape still crossing the door. Steve felt himself break out in a cold sweat at the sight of it, but shoved the feeling down as best he could.
“I wish they’d take that tape down already.” Margaret complained, “It’s doing nothing but making us the talk of the neighborhood. The least they could do is put the place back to rights.” Steve sighed, throwing a frustrated glance at his mother before swallowing his feelings about her priorities.
“Yeah, I’m sure they will soon.”
“Did you speak with Tanya, the florist that I told you about for the funeral?” He asked nonchalantly. Steve tightened his knuckles around the steering wheel.
“I did. I don’t think we can do that mom. She quoted me $800 for the arrangements you wanted, thats a LOT of money and I—”
“Oh, ok, I see.” She said pointedly, sneering down her nose at him. “You don’t think your father is worth a nice funeral. You’d rather slap together some half assed thrift store get together—”
“Mom, stop. Jesus! It’s not about him not deserving a nice service! Its just that with the thousand-dollar casket, and the catering, and the stupid printed programs and everything else involved in this whole morbid party… forgive me, but I just don’t think I have another $800 in my savings to spend on peonies!”
“They aren’t peonies, Steven, they’re carnations!” She snapped back, with a level delusional contempt that Steve could barely wrap his head around. He sighed, head dipping toward the steering wheel for a moment.
“Fine. Ok, I’m sorry mom. I’m sorry. I—” he sighed and bit his lip, “I’ll call Tanya back and see about placing the order.” Thankfully, he pulled into the driveway bringing the agonizing conversation to a close.
He wanted to be mad, he really did; but some sick part of him was actually grateful for the fight and for the pushback he got from her about anything and everything. At least that was better than everyone else, who spent their days tiptoeing around him as though at any moment he might shatter.
Robin’s sickly sweet optimism and endless stream of silver linings was nice for a day or so; but it was really beginning to wear on him. Eddie’d done every chore around both of their houses, picked up the groceries for him, made dinner every night; essentially done everything but wrapped him in bubble wrap and forbade him from lifting a finger. Dustin hadn’t roasted him in days, which was somehow worse than when he did, and Max was actually laughing at his dry humor jokes… it all felt so wrong, so jarring and different and sickening. He didn’t need people to coddle him. While everything was changing around him, he just needed something to stay the same. In some kind of fucked-up grief math, Margaret Harrington’s usual self-centered dramatics felt like a breath of fresh air.
Funeral day felt like a marathon. Between managing his mom’s hysterics, Eddie’s overprotective smothering, and Robin’s relentless insistence that the flowers were beautiful and the benediction was perfect and that his dad would be so proud— Steve just wanted to throw himself into lovers lake and scream under the water at the top of his lungs.
He’d hardly been present, focusing most of his mind on the flow of the service, the payment to the vendors, whether there was enough food to go around, or if anyone else had noticed the ding in the glossy wood at the corner of the casket. If he focused too much, got too into the present moment, realized where he was and what the fuck they were doing there, he was sure he’d fully break down.
He sat stoic and steady beside Margaret in the front row, Eddie’s warmth pressed into him on the other side. He stood when he was supposed to and spoke when he was supposed to; reading robotically from the heavily curated statement he’d written. It was full of lies about his father’s upstanding character, care for his family, and commitment to a life doing good. It made his stomach ache to say it; but the real eulogy he’d written, the one full of pain and truth and feelings… that one had been veto’d by a very disgruntled Margaret. “Just think how that will look, for his own family to stand in front of the town and speak ill of the dead. Have some respect Steven”
When it was finally over, Robin found him sitting crosslegged beside the pile of fresh dirt pinching it between his fingers before letting it fall back down onto the mound, over and over.
“You survived!” She cheered, plopping down beside him with an overly enthusiastic robin-smile. Steve let out a small jet of breath and leaned his head onto her shoulder.
“He didn’t.” Steve answered, voice hollow, before he could even register that he said it. He sat up and watched Robin’s face fall, eyes widening. “Sorry…” He offered, “Bad joke.” Robin laughed nervously.
“No, no… it was funny! Just caught me off guard.” She flashed another big smile and let her head fall on to his in return. They sat in silence for a little while, Steve beginning to fidget with the dirt pile again. Finally, he spoke.
“He left me six voicemails, Rob.” He finally said, voice catching as the words tumbled over his teeth. “I was going to go home, change out of my work clothes… if I’d have gone home I would have seen them, I could have called him back. I could have…” His words faded out, breath shuddering, but his face flat. “I still haven’t listened to them. I can’t. I saw them Thursday morning when I went home before work. I got through two. He was rambling, drunk… so I walked away. I didn’t have time for it.” He was quiet again for a beat. “I’m so scared of what I’ll hear on the other four, Rob.”
“Oh Stevie…” she put an arm around his waist, pressing him tighter into her. ”You don’t know when he left those messages though. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any kind of difference at all?” Steve just sighed again. “Hey,” Robin began again, tone brightening, “I know it’s a little morbid but now at least you have those voicemails to listen to one day if you ever just need to hear his voice?” Steve froze. He dropped his latest pinch of dirt and looked at her, expression half broken and half amused.
“Robin, thats gotta be the worst silver lining I’ve ever heard.” It was so bad it pulled a dark little laugh out of him.
“Ok, yeah I know, I had to stretch for that one. Give a girl a break I’ve been looking for a lot of silver linings lately.”
Eventually, the two of them stood up, dusting the grass clippings off of their pants and headed back into the church. Steve found his mother chatting with an uncle he hadn’t seen in years, her face twisted in some uncanny valley expression of both despair and delight; a polite society smile paired with desperately sad, red rimmed eyes.
“Oh Steven!” She called waving him over. “You remember your Uncle James, it’s been what, at least 20 years since that time we had Christmas at your house?” Steve gave a stiff smile before letting his face fall back to blank.
“Oh it has to be, at least! Steven you were only a tiny thing running around in the snow with our little basset hound penny, god rest her.” He nodded, pretending to have even the slightest recollection of this man.
“Oh my goodness you know I do remember that trip to see you, it was when we got stuck in that awful snow storm and Steven made us replay that dragon song on repeat for hours.” She laughed her rehearsed country club laugh, resting her finger tips on Steve’s shoulder. “God almighty, I wanted to tear my hair out by the time we got to you.” Both of them laughed but Steve felt his chest collapsing in on itself. The memory of that car ride physically burning; because, that part? Now, that, he remembered. “I don’t know why Richard encouraged it the whole time. The awful song would finish and Steven would say ‘play it again daddy, play it again!’ and this man would rewind the whole thing and just start singing along with it all over again. My god, it was like being a prisoner of war.”
“Oh gosh, I can imagine. Man, the things we do for our kids…” James replied. Steve was shaking, throat thick and dry.
“Great to see you again James. Excuse me.” He barely managed to get the words out as he pushed past and into the bathroom to throw water on his face. That car trip, that song, it was near and dear to him. Back when things were so, so good. Richard’s voice, slightly hoarse and off-key, meshing with Peter, Paul, and Mary? It was like a different man; his father had smiled, delighted to spend hours and hours doing it just because it made Steve laugh. He’d never forgotten it. That was still one of his most treasured cassettes. The sound worn grainy and strained with a thousand playthroughs in its time. That was the man he was going to miss. That was the man who laid dead beneath that dirt pile.
Once the funeral was over, much of the dead-people-logistics were finished. At the very least, they were out of his hands. He spent the week returning to some semblance of normalcy. He worked, he cleaned, he smiled, he chatted about Nancy problems with Robin and happily snuggled up with Eddie at night. By all intents and purposes, things were back to normal. On occasion, he’d get an occasional wave of sadness or guilt. But that was normal, everyone kept telling him that; Grief comes in waves. It was true. He’d think about it often but he wasn’t collapsing under the weight. Even his mother had finally stopped wailing and blubbering into the phone every day. Finally, she left her sister’s place and moved back into the house. She’d mumbled something about getting that pool filled in, maybe turning it into an outdoor kitchen, but maybe not. Maybe she’d sell the place entirely and move somewhere warm like California; but she hadn’t made up her mind. For now, she’d changed all the curtains and bought new silk sheets to dispose of the old ones that he’d slept in.
Two weeks after the funeral, Steve stood in his kitchen making coffee, the sound of REO speed wagon filling the apartment with some artificial enthusiasm, when the phone rang. He rolled his eyes, preemptively braced for some more of Margaret’s “emergencies”that she liked to throw at him on any given day. He turned down the music and pressed the plastic receiver to his ear.
“This is Steve.”
“Hello Mr. Harrington, This is Brett Fareham, we spoke a few weeks ago about executing your father’s will?” Steve straightened up, clearing his throat
“Oh. Yes, Mr. Fareham. Hi, how are you?” His voice cracked.
“I’m well. I wanted to call because we’ve finished the preliminary accounting of your father’s estate, and I’d like to walk you through a few things. Just to set expectations and explain procedure. His situation is a bit… well… a bit complicated.” Steve’s stomach clenched, something in his tone of voice gave him goosebumps.
“Oh, ok…Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.” There was a pause as some papers shuffled in the background and Mr. Fareham cleared his throat.
“Right. So, as I mentioned, we’ve reviewed the estate, and, as it currently stands… the outstanding liabilities significantly exceed the value of the assets. The mortgage was refinanced— twice— and unfortunately, it’s underwater.” He stopped speaking, presumably giving Steve a moment to digest what he’d said. Steve furrowed his brow.
“ What do you mean underwater?” He asked cautiously.
“Meaning the amount owed on the property is more than the property’s current appraised value. Additionally, there are several unsecured lines of credit, a substantial balance on a personal line of credit, and multiple tax liens. There’s also a pending claim from a private lender— which we’re still verifying the paperwork for.” Steve’s ears were ringing.
“But thats not— We don’t, like, inherit that stuff or anything, right? I mean, it doesn’t become ours?”
“Not exactly, no. You’re not personally liable for them, but the problem is that because the estate is considered insolvent, the remaining assets will need to be liquidated and distributed to creditors in the order of legal priority. Beyond that, any remaining debts will be discharged.” Steve gulped, his body beginning to realize what this meant before his mind had time to catch up.
“So you have to pay all the debts before we get the money thats left… or like, before we get his life insurance money or whatever?” Steve offered, panic continuing to rise as his heart rate climbed.
“Yes, the debts get paid first. The problem, Mr. Harrington, is that the value of the estate is less than the value of these outstanding debts and so, after the repayment, there will not be anything left over for disbursement.” He took a quick breath, once again shuffling papers before he continued speaking. “Typically, in this case, a life insurance policy could avoid the liquidation of some of these assets, like the primary residence for example, but unfortunately, Mr. Harrington, the policy was terminated for nonpayment last fall. I’m afraid that coverage is no longer active.”
Silence.
“Liquidation of the prima— Are you telling me you’re taking our house?!” Steve yelled, adrenaline jolting through his body like a lightning strike.
“The law office isn’t, no. But the lender will likely initiate foreclosure proceedings to recover the unpaid mortgage. I’m sorry Steven, I really am, but it appears there won’t be anything left for disbursement.”
“But—” Steve squeezed his eyes tight, rogue frustrated tears escaping, “There has to be something? I mean, it’s our house?! I fucking grew up there! What are we supposed to do?!”
“I’m truly sorry. I wish I had better news, but your father left behind substantial liabilities and very little liquid or salvageable value. It’s… a difficult position. I recommend preparing your mother for the likelihood of foreclosure within the next few months.” His voice was soft, but firm. Steve stood there in stunned silence for longer than he should have, longer than was socially acceptable for a phone call; but eventually his instinct for respectability and self-preservation kicked in blunting his rising panic and ripping the emotion out of his voice. Suddenly, he felt alarmingly detached.
“Right. Yeah, ok. Thank you for calling, Mr. Fareham. I’ll speak with my mother. I’ll be in touch if we have questions”
“Of course. I’m sorry again. Take care.” Steve was slamming the phone into its cradle before the man could finish his sentence.
There was nothing. Nothing.
Steve felt the numbness begin to fade and in its place was pure, unfiltered rage.
He stood in the kitchen. Perfectly still except for the vague twitching of his fingers. With a shaking hand, he reached across the counter for his coffee, to find that the liquid had gone cold as it sat.
He stared at the mug, a silly gift from Eddie. Plain white with Charlie Brown on the front looking tired. It was a silly little trinket, but it was his favorite. He stared at it like it had the power to hold back the steam boiling in his ears but after a minute the power failed and a dangerous laugh began to creep out of his chest. Low and rumbling.
He slammed the mug down on the counter before turning and slowly opening the cabinet behind him. He gazed at the rows of coffee mugs he’d been collecting since he was a teenager, some beautiful and handmade, some silly with cartoon characters and funny sayings, all near and dear to him. He stared at them for another few seconds, his brain processing the conversation he’d just had. He reached out, taking hold of a deep sapphire colored one, turning it over in his hand before promptly throwing it to the ground. Ceramic shattering against the tile. He reach back in and removed another and then another
Crash.
Crash.
Crash.
No words. No screams. Just a soft maniacal laugh and the sound of ceramic exploding on the floor. The sixth mug he threw harder, sending smaller shards of glass spinning into the baseboards. The seventh, he smashed against the edge of the counter, slicing open his hand in the process. He didn’t even feel it, just reached for another one, smearing blood on the cabinet door.
After that one, the scream came. Deep from the pit of his stomach. In a voice he’d never heard come out of his throat before.
“You fucking coward!” He smashed the final mug on the shelf against the tile. “You selfish, spineless, smug piece of shit!” He reached for a plate, hurling it into the wall where it split in three pieces and fell to the ground, joining the pile on the floor. “You always leave me to clean it up!” He turned swinging a kick into his trash can, denting the side and sending it flying across the carpet. “Nothing?! You left us fucking nothing?!” He swung, punching the drywall with his already bleeding hand and split his knuckle, adding to the red river staining the sleeve of his shirt. “They’re taking the fucking house!” He hurled a picture frame from the bookshelf across the room, watching as it crashed into a cactus in the window and cracked the pot, dirt spilling down the wall. “Was this the plan, huh? Was it the grand fucking finale?! Just drop dead in the fucking pool and let me sort out your stupid—” He landed a kick on the refrigerator door, “useless—” another kick. “Sad fucking life!” Three more kicks. He screamed again as he fell to the ground. “You fucking bastard!” His voice cracked, his body losing the ability to sustain his rage. It turned, too quickly, into pain. His chest heaved. His throat burned. Silent, angry tears slipped down his cheeks without permission.
“You were supposed to be the adult…” he whispered. “You were supposed to… to protect us. What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK!” He sobbed until there was nothing left.
He realized how badly his hand hurt and looked down to see a lot more blood than he expect staining his clothes and dripping onto the ceramic covered floor.
“Fuck.” He whispered wincing as he tried to adjust himself to stand up. He used his good hand to reach for the phone and dial slowly, pain steadily growing in, what he could only assume was, his broken hand.
“If you’re selling something we don’t want it” Eddie’s voice chirped.
“Eddie, I fucked up, mind coming over to play doctor?” Steve huffed into the phone, inhaling sharply as he tried to flex his fingers.
“Goddamn it Stevie, what did you do now?” Eddie said, half teasingly and half concerned.
“You’ll, uhh, you’ll see when you get here. I’d do it myself but I need a second set of eyes to figure out how bad this is.”
“Jesus… uhh, ok. I’m on my way.” Eddie said, suddenly all business. “I’ll be there in 10.”
“Thanks Ed, love you.”
“Love you.”
The line clicked and the dial tone returned. Steve sat back on the ground, chest heaving and head resting against the wall— entirely unsure of what the fuck to do next.