Chapter Text
“Steven, stop making those noises.”
Steve is seven years old, and is holding his index finger between his wobbling teeth. He’s at the age where his two front teeth have been missing for a few days now, and he’s got a few teeth that are wobbling at the back. He finds solace, occasionally, sticking his grubby fingers in his mouth to self-soothe his tooth-aches away.
Apparently, that’s not something a Harrington man should do. Steve hadn’t realised turning seven the past week meant he was now considered an adult, let alone a ‘man’.
He’s sat in a meeting with his father, and he’s wearing his nice clothes as is his father sat beside him. Arthur Harringtons wears his suit and tie with a money-making smile, and Steve copies it not-so-subtly behind his wet digit stuck in his mouth.
“And get those fingers out of your mouth.” His mother chides from beside him. He’s sandwiched between his mother and father, both dressed smart and smiling as if they’re a nice family who deserve to have all the money in the world, thank you very much! Steve’s not so sure why they use their silly smiles to coax others in trickery; they certainly don’t use those smiles back home.
As Steve’s mother snatched his wrist and yanked his index out between his gapped-tooth mouth, his father doesn’t miss a beat as Steve’s back tooth comes flying out of the seven year olds mouth and lands on his lap.
Steve’s eyes go large, as his mouth feels up with blood and there’s a string of gum attached to the sharp edge of his now-fallen tooth laid across his lap, staining his nice trousers.
He, being an obedient son, and not wanting another tooth to be knocked out from his fathers backhand later if he were to interrupt this very important meeting, grabs the blood stained tooth and pockets it silently, swallowing his own blood until he can find a tissue.
If he were a child, he would have cried and begged to be in his mothers arms. He’d show his father the tooth he’d lost and hope they’d reassure him of the tooth-fairies appearance later that night.
But he was a Harrington man, now, a proper adult.
He kept his tooth, and when they got home he ran to his bedroom to hide it under his pillow.
“Steven Harrington, you get down these stairs right now!” His mother yells, and her voice is already starting to slur, even though they’ve been home all of half an hour.
He pads downstairs, and reaches the kitchen where his father stands with his hands on his hips.
“What’s this that your mother tells me, of you being disruptive?” His father sneers, and Steve shrinks back into himself.
He can’t help it, what follows. The back of his throat rumbling little noises. His stuffy nose snuffles, and it’s a quiet noise that echoes through the empty house.
His father slams a hand down on the table, and Steve yelps.
He’s running before his father is, but like all other times, he is ultimately caught.
——
Hopper’s watching from the kitchen, as Joyce frets and hovers her palms over Steve, who sits cross legged on the sofa, still in his jeans and nestled under what seems like ten million blankets. Hopper watches from the corner of the room, as Joyce fluffs pillows and tells stories to keep the tremble out of her voice.
“Is that warm enough, sweetheart?” She says with a tone only a mother can convey, undeniably caring and concealed worry, simultaneously. Hopper watched as she wipes her palms on her thighs, belt down slightly as to not appearing towering to Steve were he sits bundled. She sits, tentatively, on the edge of the sofa as Steve nods absently.
His eyes are wide, as wide as the first night the two adults had realised that Steve was probably not as okay as he was failing to pretend to be.
“Is there anything we can get you? Some more water to drink, or a hot-water bottle?” Joyce asked as he turned over her shoulder, and made the look seem innocent to Steve, but Hopper caught the pleading look that was sent his way, and Joyce only started to turn back to Steve when Hopper was forced out of his stilled position in the kitchen, when he started walking over to the two on the sofa.
He placed his large hands on Joyce’s slim shoulders, trying to seem harmless enough to Steve. Hopper wasn’t an idiot, he could understand why Steve might have had an affliction towards him. Hopper tried to act like it didn’t sting a little that he wasn’t Steve’s favourite.
As he came closer, and stood behind Joyce, he unknowingly blocked all light coming from the kitchen lights still turned on, causing a shadow over both Joyce and Steve himself. Which, Hopper’s heart crushed as he heard it; the soft little whimpers from the back of Steve’s throat, as if he were afraid of the large shadow looming over him and the only person who had shown him comfort tonight.
Hopper’s face paled, as Joyce instantly turned to shushing Steve gently with the backs of her fingers rubbing against the boys cheek to placate him from his fear.
“Shhh, oh Steve, it’s okay. It was just Hop, silly old Hopper. Nothing scary. Shhh, shhh.”
Hopper took a step back, his heart hammering in his chest. He absently clenched his fists, and that earned him a slap on the knuckle from Joyce, who glared up at him as she motioned down rewords the floor. Hopper understood wordlessly, though his mouth hung open a little in a mix of too-many emotions to count.
Anger was most certainly there, bubbling in his chest as he knelt down as to bring light back into the room and across Steve’s face, and not loom over the boy like a large shadow trapping him. Anger swirled through his blood, through his veins, at the thought of Arthur Harrington every hurting a hair on Steve’s head.
“Hey kid,” Hopper tried, and Steve looked to him as he snaked a pale hand out from under the blankets to hold onto Joyce’s fingers in a death grip. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He tried a smile, and knew it came more as a grimace.
Steve’s eyes fled down, searching his lap as his soft face went a little flush in the dim light. “It’s okay.” He said quietly, just under his breath and over his downcast chin. “I… I wasn’t scared.”
Hopper smiled a little at that, a proper smile. He shuffled closer, absently. “Of course, I apologise.”
“How are you feeling, Steve?” Joyce asked as her thumb brushed against said boys knuckles rhythmically.
Steve responded with a nodding sound I’m the back of his throat. “I feel…” He shuffled, as if suddenly self-aware of the too-long limbs attached to his self. “Warm.”
“That’s probably the seven different blankets on you, kid.” Hopper smiled, and Steve let out a little snort. Joyce rolled her eyes fondly.
“Well excuse me for making sure nobody freezes.” Joyce teased, her features soft as he glanced at Hopper for a moment, before her eyes were drawn back to the boy on the couch again. “Is it a good warmth, sweetie?”
Steve nodded slowly, his hand not gripping Joyce’s own also snaking out from the blankets and hovering over his chin, near his lips. Hopper felt his face twitch, his brow furrowing for a moment as he searched Steve’s face, hoping to get in to look in his head.
“Good. Would you like us to put on a movie?” Hopper was sure Joyce didn’t know what they had in the house, but a film put on in the background would provide some noise to fill the silence.
Steve gave a small shrug, and his two finger pads stroked over his bottom lip rhythmically. Joyce tutted, and pat his knee gently before she shuffled down to search through the few VHS sets they had. Amid the world ending, and the process of saving said world to prevent said end; Joyce hadn’t quite had the time to rent movies from Family Video. Also, the young man who ran the front counter didn’t seem to like her much, or anyone for that matter.
Steve and Hopper mumbled between each other behind Joyce, and her hands tenderly held the home video Bob had made only last year. A tear sprung to her eye, dripping onto the carpet as a small smile graced her lips.
She held the cassette tight in her small hand, glancing up to the ceiling with glassy eyes. She hoped, as she put the cassette through and stood to turn the television on, that Bob was watching her and Hopper rehabilitate the boy sat on their sofa to safety, and that he was proud.
“What did you choose, Joyce?” Hopper spoke in a soft tone, now sat closer to the Steve blanket on the couch, and beaconing Joyce over to sit with them. She smiled, and pressed herself up to Hopper’s body, watching with a fond smile as Steve reach a hand out to hold Joyce’s own.
“Just an old home video.” She took Steve’s warm hand in her own and stroked over the back of his knuckles gently with the pad of her thumb. “I just thought it would be nice to watch, after everything.”
Hopper kissed the crown of her head, and Joyce caught the corner of Steve’s lips curling a little in a small smile.
They’d be alright. Joyce thought with a smile, as Bob’s voice came to sound, as he taught Jonathan how to work the camera from behind. Yeah, they’d all be alright.
——
It became a routine, some time after. They had done enough talking, Joyce had smiled when Steve asked nervously if they’d all like to come around his and talk about ‘all that happened that night’, and Steve had become a regular weekend resident at the Byers-Hopper home.
Of course, Will and Eleven were ecstatic to see him. Most nights that Steve slept round, on the couch with his pile of blankets, he sometimes didn’t get to be the big eyed boy he melted into. Sometimes, and that meant most nights, he was bombarded with Will and Eleven. Steve had no chance for a moment alone with those two around, let alone an intimate second with either Joyce or Hopper. Still, Steve seemed content enough.
The youngest teens would follow him around, ask him questions and ask him to play games. Joyce had a sweet photo of the three playing monopoly before things turned sideways (Eleven threw the games board across the room, and Will was in near tears by the end of it. Steve seemed smug enough, even in the photo and after the game ended in a major argument: He had been winning during the entire game, apparently.)
It seemed, to Joyce at least, that even if Steve didn’t become the young little boy who needed to be nurtured by parents who weren’t his own, that he still healed in some other way. As if, being with the younger teens healed the yearning young man who had been desperate for the company of a sibling his entire life.
Whenever Steve was inside the little house outside of town, Joyce thought, that Steve knew this was where he belonged.
And maybe she would get it into his head too, that this is what he had deserved years ago.
——
Jonathan was a different story, compared to Eleven and Will’s excitement of Steve’s regular visits.
Although it had occurred years ago, and Joyce knew Steve was a different person now, she stayed wary of Jonathan’s odd looks thrown Steve’s way when he’d come home from work, when he’d walk in and find Steve Harrington- the guy who broke his precious camera in sophomore year, and consequently, the guy Jonathan smashed the face of behind the cinema.
Joyce was desperate for her boys to get along. She shocked herself thinking of Steve as her own so easily, but only for a moment. She fretted on the idea of the two never getting along, and Joyce mentally planned ahead how to focus her attention on both boys at the same time, without either of the two having to interact.
Hopper was having none of it.
Ever the gruff, grumpy man, when Steve left at the end of the weekend as he normally did, after saying goodbye to Steve, Hopper went barging into Jonathan’s room.
The argument they had was far from light-hearted, with Jonathan caught in a bad mood (having seen Steve the entire weekend) and Hopper being just-about-done with Jonathan’s ‘attitude’, the argument ended with doors slamming and throats sore from violent yells.
Although Hopper had indeed ‘started it’, Jonathan ultimately ‘ended’ the argument with a hoarse yell of Hopper “Not being my dad!”
The next morning, the air was tense at the breakfast table. There already being little space, with it feeling cramped with three occupants let alone now five, and the annual sixth nearly each weekend.
Eleven and Will glanced between each other, in between watching the intense staring contest between Jonathan and Hopper across the table.
It was Jonathan that broke first.
He broke the tension with a sigh.
“I just don’t understand why he has to be here so often.” Jonathan grumbled, signing into his porridge that he was more spooning at than consuming.
Joyce and Hopper shared a look, and Joyce spoke first.
“Well, honey. He doesn’t have anyone else, and the kids enjoy his company.” Joyce tried to mediate, trying her damn hardest not to air Steve’s business out without him being present. From the way he first reacted when Hopper and Joyce found out, she didn’t want to know the extremities Steve would go to if he found out either of them told Jonathan his business.
“But I don’t.” Jonathan retaliated, and Hopper lifted up in his chair as if his body was revving to start an argument, staring with ‘Don’t talk to your mother that way!’
“I know, honey. But… have you tried?” Joyce tried herself with her words, and Jonathan dropped his spoon and it clattered on the side of the bowl, and started to sink into his porridge.
“What?”
“Well, I mean people change, Jonathan. At least try to figure out if he’s still that douche from sophomore year.” Joyce spoke, sitting beside Hopper as the two young teens giggled behind their hands at Joyce’s light swear.
“I don’t know…” He went to reach for his spoon again, but his finger tips got covered with oatmeal bits, and he pulled a disgusted face. “Ew.”
Eleven’s nose started bleed after a paper towel lifted by Jonathan’s head, and he nodded his thanks to her.
As Jonathan wiped his hands clean, he thought to his mom’s words.
Maybe. Maybe he could give Steve “The Hair” Harrington a chance. Maybe once.
His chance to rekindle a low flame appeared two weekends later, when Hawkins was hit with a storm.
<~>
A night shift at the post last night had Jonathan starting work at 9, and coming home at five the Sunday morning.
-
Having put in extra time at work, for the money and ‘the Steve situation’, had Jonathan coming home after half eleven at night.
Parking and quietly as he could, and making sure to take his shoes off at the door incase they made too much noise against the wood floors, Jonathan was already half-asleep by the time he reached the hallway. So, the sounds of someone sleeping restlessly on the couch startled him enough for images of demogorgons and evil Russians flashing before his eyes.
Through his panic he pressed his back up against the wall, chest pounding as his hands balled into fists, as if he could take on monsters from another dimension with his bare hands. Through the stupidity of it, his eyes cleared, and he made out the unwelcoming familiar sight of Steve Harrington bundled under his mom’s blankets, laid sleeping on the couch like a lost puppy.
He refrained from rolling his eyes, because his mom wanted him to try and be better at this stuff, and went to turn down the hall to mope and sleep like he normally did; When Steve’s breath hitched in his sleep, and his leg, somehow under the weight of the five blankets on top of him, kicked out restlessly.
Jonathan watched with bated breath, waiting for Steve to jump up and scare him like the jerk he was, or call Jonathan a freak for ‘watching him sleep’.
Which… Jonathan shuffled nervously, was what he was doing… maybe he should just leave it-
A whimper flew from Steve’s lips, a short quiet sound of agony. As if, in his sleep, Steve was aware his noises could wake others. As if he was afraid, to be afraid, because of the repercussions.
Jonathan winced at the idea, thinking of his ten year old self scared to hold his dads gun, and being slapped across the mouth when he started to cry for the poor animals he was meant to be hunting.
Steve makes the noise again, and his hand reaches out from under the blankets like he’s trying to reach for something, someone. His face tells the story, of a deep nightmare Jonathan is all-too familiar with. Since Will went missing, even if he isn’t that same little kid anymore, scared of his own shadow and missing for a too-long few weeks.
Jonathan, through how tired he feels from working too late, understands Steve when he’s like this. When he’s asleep, and can’t talk back.
Maybe it’s pity for himself, then, that has him stepping closer, and kneeling by Steve’s side and staying far enough out of reach incase Steve did spring up in his sleep.
Jonathan understands, and levels with Steve whilst he’s unconsciously thrown through this nightmare, that being woken from a nightmare isn’t the best feeling. So, he carefully pulls back each blanket until there is only one across Steve’s twitching body. The rest are balled in a heap by his feet.
Steve’s face continues to pull, like he’s watching something terrifyingly disgusting happening before him. After all they’ve seen, Jonathan doesn’t particularly want to theorise in Steve’s horrors. He has enough of his own.
What he can do instead, is level with Steve.
He can talk, quietly, and apologise now. So, maybe Steve will remember it, and Jonathan selfishly won’t have to do it in person.
“Steve,” He starts quietly. “You’re going to be okay.” He says instead.
“It’s just a nightmare, Steve. It can’t hurt you. I know, they suck. And it feels like… like the scariest thing ever, because you can’t get out. But… you’re okay. It’s not real. None of it’s real anymore, Steve.” Jonathan hovers his hand over Steve’s where it has kept reaching, for something to hold. “You’re going to be okay.” He holds Steve’s sweating palm lightly between his own, not wanting to wake Steve out of his nightmare, incase he becomes frightened further.
He rubs the pad of his thumb against the back of Steve’s hand, a gentle reassurance the land of the moderately awake.
It seems to work wonders, because although Steve’s body stays tense in his sleep, his face relaxes out of the biting wince, and his body stops twitching. Jonathan doesn’t try to theorise what Steve’s going through, because he’s too tired, but he’s awake enough to keep holding his hand.
His tired enough not to be confused, or ashamed, that he’s holding Steve Harrington’s hand in his sleep.
Besides, it’s a few minutes later when Jonathan starts to feel Steve relax, and Jonathan’s eyes to start closing for longer periods of time on each blink he takes; It’s not like Steve will remember any of it.
Apparently, Jonathan has never been a man with fate on his side. Because a crash comes from outside, rattling the windows and the thin walls of the small little house. Rain starts to splatter, and Jonathan isn’t sure it’s because of how tired he felt that he didn’t notice the rain before, or if it just started alongside the thunder crashing.
As Jonathan startles, sitting up and listening to the heavy rain against the roof, Steve sits up too with a full jerk of his body.
And Jonathan nearly screams.
As he settles, the rain still hammering at the roof, Jonathan watches Steve open his eyes, and his face flushed at the idea of the sight of him. Jonathan, on the floor, looking as if he had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Is that going to become a running gag in their relationship, Jonathan acting off and Steve punching the shit out of him for it?
He prepares himself for the hit, for the harsh words Steve will call him. Freak, just like his dad, fag…
Nothing happens.
Jonathan opens his eyes, where he didn’t realise he was wincing away from the incoming blow. He opens his eyes, and finds tears streaming down Steve’s face.
Steve grips the side of the couch cushions, looking around frantically as if he was yearning for something, for someone. Like a kid desperate for comfort as the entire house seemed to shake. Jonathan opened his eyes, and found deep fear in Steve’s own.
Jonathan watched as Steve throws fists up to his face, not towards Jonathan’s, and practically paws at his wet eyes. Clumsily trying to wipe the uncomfortable wet off of his cheeks, and when he does close his eye again, he winces away like images flooding back to him, and scared him to shit.
Steve seems more preoccupied with being afraid, of the nightmare or the storm outside, than he does with beating the shit out of Jonathan for… comforting him? What was he doing, really? He felt bad, maybe that’s pity…
A sob wracks Steve’s frame, deep from his chest and spilling more tears down his face, and Steve’s hands move as if they can’t keep up with wiping away his tears.
And that pity feeling sets in, and Jonathan doesn’t think before he starts shuffling forwards, sitting on his knees with his hands out as if he were placating a scared little animal.
“Hey, Steve?” Jonathan speaks quietly, because he’s closer to Steve now, and he’s definitely startled by something that isn’t just the storm raging outside, and he doesn’t want to risk waking the others down the hall. And he’s also tired. Like, really tired. But he can’t just leave Steve like this alone.
He knows, when he loosely puts his arms around Steve’s sobbing form, that something’s not quite right. Not that Steve Harrington had ever seemed ‘right’ in Jonathan’s mind. He seems, out of it. He knows if Steve wasn’t tired, and scared, he’d rather be caught dead than be comforted by Jonathan Byers. So, Jonathan knows something up, and he hopes it isn’t another concussion making Steve act this way.
Jonathan can’t use any excuse, other than exhaustion, for why he starts rubbing Steve’s back gently, letting Steve come closer in his arms. One hand kept wiping at his face, the other wet and gripping onto the back of Jonathan’s uniform shirt. It’s awkward, and Jonathan’s knees are starting to hurt, but it fits.
Something in Jonathan’s chest settles, like this is something he should be doing. As if comforting Steve Harrington after a nightmare, on his couch, isn’t odd.
“Steve,” He says gently, because he’s right by Steve’s ear where he holds him. “I get it.” He keeps rubbing at Steve’s back, and he thinks he starts hearing less of Steve’s sobbing over his shoulder. “It’s okay, I get it.”
They stay like that for a moment, and it’s Steve who pulls away first. He sniffles as they part, Jonathan sitting back on his legs before he noticed Steve has moved his long legs to the side, to give Jonathan room to sit beside him. He shuffles up, and suddenly feels very awkward in himself.
His shoulder is wet. With Steve’s tears. Steve, who’s leaning over to grab a glass of water to sip on.
Jonathan glances over, and notices Steve’s face is flushed red too. At least he’s not the only one embarrassed.
Steve takes a few more sips, and Jonathan fiddles with his hands on his lap. Steve speaks first.
“Thanks.” He says quietly, voice hoarse from the crying before. “Sorry.”
“Hey,” Jonathan looks over, braving it. “Don’t apologise.” Anything was better than Steve beating his ass.
“I should.” Steve sniffled again, taking a sip of his water. “I made your shirt wet.”
Jonathan shrugged. “It’s my woke uniform, I couldn’t give a shit.” He jokes hoarsely, and he knows he’s never been that funny, but Steve’s laughing. Quietly, as to not wake the others, but he’s laughing.
And, suddenly, Jonathan’s laughter follows. He blames the exhaustion, because he knows he’s not funny, but after what just happened; he isn’t sure he knows anything anymore.
They laugh for a moment longer, and then Steve is offering him some blankets, and they curl up on each end of the sofa and fall asleep across from one another.
<~>
Steve wakes up with his thumb in between his lips, and doesn’t panic at the thought of being caught with it there by Jonathan.
Jonathan, who’s still asleep across from him.
Jonathan, who stayed.