Chapter Text
The car was stuffy. Hot, from the late October sun glaring through the windshield. Steve reached toward the center controls, ready to adjust the temperature, but redirected the motion halfway through to chew on his thumbnail instead. A faint click, click, click, reverberated into the silence every time his teeth skated over the jagged edge.
He froze at the soft rustling of paper from his right. Nearly glanced over at the faint almost-cough of Nancy clearing her throat. He dropped his hand back to his lap. Watching his own fingers intently, he drummed them against his thighs a few times before stopping that, too. Clearing his own throat, he turned carefully toward his window, away from Nancy reading his college entrance essay in the passenger seat.
He knew the essay was crap, that it was disconnected and confusing, but he was running out of time.
It seemed easy enough, when he started. Every prompt centered around a single question: What is your biggest accomplishment?
And the answer was simple. His biggest accomplishment was saving Nancy and Jonathan the night that monster clawed its way out of the Byers’ ceiling.
So, he wrote about that. About the icy terror that flooded his body as his mind tried, and failed, to understand what he was seeing. About the way his hands shook so badly he dropped his keys trying to fumble his way through unlocking the car door. About the strange sense of calm that steadied his knees and made his vision sharp when he glanced back at the house and saw those flashing lights. The strength that allowed him to swing the bat over and over and over again into that thing so it wouldn’t hurt Nancy or Jonathan.
He pulled in some of his grandfather’s stories from the war. That feeling of holding a loaded weapon, pointing it right at the enemy. Knowing, that if you didn’t act, you and all your friends would die.
Because that’s what it’d felt like, in that moment. He’d felt like a soldier.
He’d almost finished the essay before he realized he would never be able to submit it. NDA aside, who would believe him? At best, he’d be rejected. At worst, he’d buy himself a one way ticket to the nuthouse over in Kerley County.
Eraser shavings had coated the kitchen table, the end of his pencil worn down to the metal, by the time he’d removed any mention of monsters or the upside down from his paper. He’d stared at that paper, trying desperately to find another accomplishment that could fit into the war stories still scattered across the page. Stared so long that the weight of ‘early application’ and ‘upholding the Harrington name’ drained away into drooping eyelids and the distant chime of midnight from the clock in the hallway.
Giving up that night was easy. He cleaned up the eraser shavings the next morning, just in case his parents decided to cut their work trip short, and left the essay sitting on the table. It stayed there, untouched, lurking just on the outskirts of his attention, until his dad called yesterday morning.
He’d almost missed it. He wished he’d missed it.
The phone rang, loud and echoing, right as Steve was swinging the front door shut behind him. He paused at the noise, hand frozen on the knob. Waiting. When the phone rang again he stepped back inside, closing the door behind him, and walked over to the kitchen. He settled against the wall beside the phone, letting it take a bit of the weight from his backpack, before cutting off the next shrill ring by lifting the handset out of the cradle.
Bringing it to his ear, “Hello?” He hoped it wasn’t Ms. Smithfield again. She’d called two days ago, looking for her dog. A sickly little bichon frise that he’d spent the rest of his Saturday afternoon tracking down.
A much deeper voice filtered down the line and Steve’s spine snapped straight. “Steven. Haven’t burned the place down, yet, huh?” Always the same joke. Always the same stiff chortle following it.
Ice slid down Steve’s back. “No, sir.” He leaned around the phone to glance at the calendar posted on its other side, eyes catching on the red circle over Wednesday's date.
“How are college applications going? Get them submitted yet?”
Normal questions. Expected questions. But there was a forced casualness lacing his dad’s tone that made an ancient part of his brain step forward. Start whispering, ‘danger, danger, danger.’
His eyes landed on his paper where it was shoved off to the side of the kitchen table, forgotten. He scrambled for something to say. Any excuse for why he never finished the paper and submitted his applications. Anything except the government-conspiracy-shaped-truth that still found him in his dreams.
A sigh echoed through the plastic handset and that whispered warning grew into a blaring siren as a disappointed-satisfied “Steven…” followed it.
“I know, I know.” He rushed to say, not sure what he knew or where he was taking the conversation. Only that he needed to wiggle his way out of the trap he’d fallen into, before his dad could dispose of it with him still stuck inside. “I’m almost done.” His keys started to jingle softly and he tightened his grip on them to stop his hand from shaking. “Just a couple touch-ups and then I’m sending them off.” He smiled, even though he knew his dad couldn’t see him. “I’ll make the deadline.”
“Good. I’m glad.” Steve didn’t think he sounded very glad. “First impressions are everything, Steven. They need to know you’re a go-getter. That you can put the work in to achieve what you want. You’re already behind, since you’re submitting so late.”
They’ve had this conversation dozens of times and Steve wanted nothing more than to slam the handset back into the cradle. To scream that he wasn’t submitting late. That early application was still early application. That he didn’t even want to go to college.
But he didn’t do any of that.
He stood there and listened to his dad tell him about responsibility and how he can only take Steve so far in life before he needed to put in his own effort. That he had a reputation to uphold. That he expected more from him. That he was disappointed.
Steve stood there and took it until finally, “And now, look! You’re going to be late for school. Maybe if you’re quick, you’ll make it on time. I expect to hear all about your applications on Thursday,” the line went dead in his hand.
He did slam the phone back in place, then, satisfaction rushing through his chest at the resulting clatter-ring. His fingers itched to pick it back up and slam it down a few more times, to revel in that satisfaction a little longer, but he forced himself to let go. He wasn’t a child.
Storming over to the kitchen table, he snatched up the abandoned paper, folded it in on itself, and shoved it into his backpack’s side pocket, resolving to finish it during study hall.
Except, his dad lectured so long that he was late picking Nancy up for school. Which meant he spent study hall making it up to her, writing definitions onto flashcards until the side of his hand was dark and shining from the pencil lead. Lunch was no better, since he forgot his bag in class with the paper still folded up in the side pocket. Then, Coach cornered him after his last class and roped him into an hour long conversation about basketball tryouts. He’d never been more grateful that Nancy was catching a ride home with some girl from the paper.
By the time Steve finally got home, his cheeks ached from holding a smile, his eyes felt gritty, and his chest ached with the knowledge that he was no closer to keeping his promise from that morning. He pulled the paper from his bag, unfolded it carefully, and laid it back into its spot on the kitchen table. It lurked in his periphery as he made himself dinner, trying to dredge up some other accomplishment that would be worth the six hundred words he needed to hit.
Images of flashing Christmas lights, the smell of gasoline, and the feeling of smooth wood beneath his palms was his only answer.
It followed him into his dreams when he finally called it quits. Flashes of wrinkled white skin yielding under a nail studded bat. Of otherworldly chitters and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Of a girl with blood pooling in her hand. Of leaving her behind next to shimmering blue water. Of that chittering growing into a soft growl, rumbling right behind her. Of that thing grabbing Barbara and dragging her into the water with a splash and she’s screaming, screaming, scre–
Steve sat at the kitchen table this morning sometime just after three, sweat soaked and shivering, and decided he’d write about basketball. The Northern game. That was an accomplishment, right? Winning was an accomplishment.
Only, it didn’t feel much like an accomplishment with Nancy reading silently beside him.
Jitters crawled over his skin, settled in his chest, and made him want to get out of the car just so he could pace while he waited for her to say something.
He heard the wet sound of her mouth opening, the small gasp of breath she took in, and the jitters flared under his skin. But no words followed as she resettled into the seat, and Steve couldn’t take it anymore.
“I know!” It came out louder than he meant it to, jitters bursting from his body alongside the statement as he finally turned to face her. Her eyes went wide when they met his gaze. “I know.” He repeated, quieter. “Just say it. It’s crap.”
Her face softened, but her eyes stayed tight as she said, “It’s not crap.” And his stomach sank as her voice hit that specific pitch. The one that came out when she assured her mom the meatloaf was delicious or told her dad they’d keep the door open while tugging Steve up the stairs behind her.
“But it’s not good,” he pressed, something thick and hot spreading through his chest. It weighed him down, set his heart racing, because he needed her to say the essay was good enough to submit and actually mean it.
“It will be.” She said it like a declaration, leaving no room for argument. The weight on his chest lifted slightly at the look on her face. How her eyes softened into that gentle, teasing, kind of care that never failed to remind him how much he loved her. “It just…” the softness dissipating as she turned back to his paper, “needs some…reorganizing.”
He watched as she leaned forward to rummage in her bag for a moment, before pulling out a pen. She glanced at his paper before turning to face him with a sheepish smile, “Can I mark on it?”
“Yeah. Sure–” the soft scritch of pen against paper started immediately, “I guess…” he trailed off, that weight resettling on his chest. Each swipe of Nancy’s pen made the exhaustion prickling behind his eyes worse and he bit back a sigh as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
His eyes were still closed when Nancy spoke up. “This first paragraph,” hand slipping from his face as he turned to look at her, “you use the game against Northern as a metaphor for your life,” her eyes wide, placating, pen circling over the paper without marking on it, “which is great.”
Face slipping into something strained, pen shifting to circle over the second half of the paper, “But then, here, you start talking about your grandfather’s experiences in the war and I just–” She turned to him fully, smile stretched into a grimace, and Steve’s whole body went tense, “don’t see how it connects…”
It hung in the air like the aftershock of an explosion. His chest squeezed tight, made it hard to breathe, and for a split second he thought about telling her everything. About the phone call with his dad. About the dreams that haunt him every night. About sitting at his kitchen table that morning and bullshitting his way through the paper in her hand. About the accomplishment he really wanted to write about.
But then he remembered Nancy in the hospital that night almost a year ago. How she’d walked back into the waiting room, her eyes red rimmed and shining with unshed tears. The feel of her sweat slick palm pressed into his as she dragged him out into the parking lot. Holding her when she’d broken down and told him what really happened to Barb. The pinch of her finger nails digging into his back as she clutched his shirt. And he quickly decided, like he had that night, like he had so many times since then, that he wouldn’t add to her hurt.
He could handle it himself.
“It connects because,” he gestured with a hand, “y’know, because we both won.” It sounded weak, even to him, and he wasn’t surprised when Nancy bit her lip, turning quickly back to the paper in front of her. Frustration bubbled through the sludge clogging his chest. It didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be submittable. But, watching Nancy sit there in silence as she chewed into her bottom lip, he wasn’t sure it was.
“That’s the whole point,” it slipped out, hushed under his breath, without his permission. He’d spent all morning zeroed in on that one, weak connection. The thought of having to do it again made ice slip down his spine and his voice came out pinched as he asked, “Do you think I should start from scratch?”
“No! No.” Hope soothed away his frustration and melted the icy chill, “I mean–” only for them to slam back into place as her voice hit that pitch again. “I just–” She paused, turned to face him with furrowed brows, “When’s the deadline?”
“It’s tomorrow for early application.” His dad’s voice rang in his ears, promises of another call on Thursday. He’d never rewrite the paper in time without help. Looking at Nancy, at the sympathetic expression that flooded her features, he was struck with an idea. “Can you come and help me tonight?” Everything was better with Nancy around. Homework answers came a little easier, the silence in his house was a little lighter, and that fuzzy warmth spread through his whole body.
Anticipation clawed behind his ribs, made his heart clench. If she came over, Nancy would help him fix it.
Her face shifted, brows furrowing before smoothing back out. She shook her head slightly, eyes going tight, “We have our dinner, remember?”
His stomach sank so far, it felt like he’d dropped from the high point of a rollercoaster. Hazy images of his nightmare flashed in his mind. Images of Barb screaming as that thing pulled her into his pool, and dread flooded through his entire body.
He tilted his head back against the headrest, groaning in frustration as Nancy’s voice grew louder, “We already cancelled last week-” she cut off as he stuck his tongue out, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. He felt childish as he did it. Like he’d suddenly crossed an invisible line.
Nancy’s face was pinched in a mixture of surprise and hurt. “You don’t have to come.” Her voice took on a defensive edge as she turned back to his paper, lifting it from her lap to wave it lightly. “Just focus on this–”
Steve snatched the paper from her grip. Screw the paper. Screw early application and his dad’s expectations. Screw the dread still swirling in his gut at the thought of going over to the Hollands’ and having to see–
“What’s the point?” He crumpled the essay into a small ball, squeezing tight to hide his shaking hands. There was no rewriting the essay. He wasn’t going to make early application. It was time he told his dad he didn’t want to go to college. That he hadn’t wanted to go since everything happened and the world he knew was turned on its head. He needed to be here.
“Hey, calm down.” Nancy reached over the center console, trying to take the essay from him, but he pulled it further away.
Forcing his voice to come out light, “I’m calm, I’m calm.” He took a breath, trying to slow the racing of his heart and actually calm down. He threw his hands up in defeat, turning to face her again. “I’m just being honest. I’m gonna end up working for my dad anyway–”
“That’s not true–”
“Yes, it is.” It came out bitter, bitten off. This, at least, he’d talked to her about. Not wanting to become his dad. She thought he didn’t want his dad’s job, that working in the corporate branch office was his worst nightmare. He never explained that it was so much more than that.
“I mean, would that be so bad?” He ran a hand absently over the wheel. “It’s got insurance and benefits and all that adult stuff.” He dropped his gaze as he rubbed his thumb over the stitching. “And, y’know, if I took it, I could be here for your senior year.”
“Steve…” Her voice was soft, almost berating.
“Just to look after you a little. Make sure you don’t forget about this pretty face.” He looked back over at her, but she turned toward the window before he could get a good look at her face. It made his gut twist. “Nance, I’m serious.” He can’t tell her everything, can’t put that on her, can’t lose her.
She looked back at him with wide eyes, that soft expression flooding her features. He leaned across the center console and kissed her. Let the soft press of her lips on his reassure him that she was still there.
Pulling back, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” And her voice was so soft, so fragile, that it made something twinge in his chest. Something that felt closer to the dread still swirling in his gut than the fuzzy warmth her words usually triggered. His brows furrowed as he scanned her expression, but a sharp squeal and music blaring over speakers had her turning away before he could figure out what was wrong.
He followed her gaze through the passenger side window just as a blue Chevy Camaro ripped through the parking lot. Opening his door, he lifted himself out of the Beamer as it squealed to a stop in a nearby parking spot. The music cut off as a red-headed girl popped the passenger door, dropped a skateboard onto the pavement, and started toward the middle school.
He only watched her for a second before turning back to see the driver exit the vehicle. For a moment, all he could see was a mop of curly blond hair. Its red undertones flared under the sunlight as the boy stepped fully onto the pavement. He couldn’t be older than Steve. Probably a Junior, but maybe a Senior. He shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it, leaning back against his car.
A different kind of dread flooded over him. He’s known people like this guy. He used to be this guy.
Nancy looked over at him from where she was standing on the other side of the Beamer. He gave a small shake of his head and they both turned as the guy started walking toward school, hands in his jacket pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips. A few smaller curls blew in the breeze of his pace and it was instinctual for Steve to size him up when he turned his back on them. The dread tingled in his gut.
Steve sighed. Sure. Why not throw another problem onto the pile.