Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hallway is loud the way only a school hallway can be – boiling with end-of-the-day chaos, lockers slamming all around, sneakers squeaking, a thousand conversations stacked on top of each other until it all becomes a single, meaningless roar.

Dustin keeps his head down, moving through the hallways in a way that’s become second nature to him.

There was a time – not long ago, though it feels like another lifetime – when he moved through these halls with loud steps, Hellfire flyers in his hands, laughing obnoxiously at something Eddie said.

Eddie always made these hallways feel bigger. Brighter. Better.

But that version of Hawkins is gone. It died with Eddie.

Now the goal is simple: blend in. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t attract anything or anyone you can’t outrun.

He has learned how to move at the exact speed that says I’m the most uninteresting thing you’ve seen all day. Not too fast — fast looks scared. Not too slow — slow gets you cornered. Somewhere in the middle makes you the most invisible.

He’s nearly there. Just a few more turns.

He adjusts the brim of his cap to make himself look smaller, fingers steady from years of practice rather than actually being calm.

Someone laughs behind him and his shoulders draw up before he can stop them.

He doesn’t look. Doesn’t need to. That laugh has a face. A history. A familiarity he wishes it didn’t have.

He knows that laugh. Knows it like the screech of a Demogorgon. Like the sound of Demobats ripping flesh. Like the sound of Eddie-

His stomach clenches. That memory’s still an open wound.

It’s been months since… Since Vecna. Since the gates split the world open. Since Max and Eddie-

Since… it all went to shit and stayed there.

It was bad before, but that night… just poured gasoline on fire. And this time, Hawkins didn’t recover.

People needed a story to explain the unexplainable, so they wrote one with blood and blame. And they made Eddie the monster and Jason the martyr.

And anyone who says different? A threat.

(Dustin’s one of those threats.)

Dustin picks up his pace by a fraction. Just enough to get away without looking like that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

Footsteps start to sync with his anyway.

Close.

Closer.

Too close.

Shit.

He adjusts the strap of his backpack and makes the turn – he’s almost there. This last stretch of hallways separates him from the side entrance.

Steve usually meets him there, leaning against his BMW like it’s just another normal day.

He’s always there. Even on days Dustin insists he doesn’t need a ride. Robin had joked once that they might as well attach a leash, but Steve just shrugged and said, “Better safe than sorry,” like that didn’t have a thousand meanings now.

He’s almost there. Almost outside. Almost with Steve. Almost with the closest thing to safe Hawkins has left. Almost-

A hand slams down on his shoulder.

Shit, shit, shit.

Everything in him goes still, all instincts to bolt firing too fast for his body to follow.

Just a predator and its prey. It’s that simple.

“Where you headed, Henderson?”

The voice is right behind him — close enough that he can feel the breath against the back of his neck. Warm and moist in a way that feels like he’s a side character in a horror movie who’s about to get killed. Too close to be mistaken for casual. Too close to be anything but haunting.

The air suddenly smells like an entire bottle of cheap cologne mixed with cafeteria grease. It coats Dustin’s tongue.

Every part of his body wants to recoil, but he forces himself to stay still, because moving is just going to make it worse.

It never helps to move first, unless you know you can escape.

Steve told him that during one of their car-ride talks, when the moodiness and unexplained bruises piled up and Dustin finally had to admit what had been going on at school. Steve’s hands were clutching the wheel a little harder than normal, knuckles white like he was holding himself back from punching something.

If you show them you’re scared, they’ll get bolder, Steve had said.
If you get angry or talk back, they’ll get meaner.
You just gotta … let them burn it out. Wait, breathe, and let them burn themselves out.

Dustin had nodded, mostly because Steve looked like he needed him to. And for a while, it sort of worked. Sometimes.

Most days it’s just words – the kind of garbage meant to stick under your skin and live there forever. Sometimes it’s a shove into the lockers or getting tripped in the cafeteria. An “accidental” elbow in gym class. It hurts, but it’s survivable.

He’s learned how to absorb the humiliation the way one might absorb a sudden downpour. It’s uncomfortable, but temporary. He knows the routine by now. He knows how to bite his tongue and breathe through it.

He can do it again.

And then he can go to Steve and they can pretend like it’s nothing.

He just has to let them burn themselves out.

So he locks his jaw and keeps his hands at his sides. Keeps his eyes on the exit door – the door he wasn’t fast enough to reach. He swallows, steadying himself with that familiar, almost pathetic hope that maybe it will just be insults, just some shoves, just the usual.

Andy lists off his usual insults, but Dustin bites the inside of his cheek and stays quiet.

Silence turns out to be the wrong move.

The hand on his shoulder tightens, and in one fast motion, he’s spun around. His back hits a locker with a metallic crash that echoes louder than it should. It doesn’t knock the wind out of him, but it shocks him. It’s sharper. Harder. Not like the usual shove meant to humiliate. This one has force behind it. A different kind of purpose.

It should draw attention, but it doesn’t. No one comes around the corner. No one turns. No one even looks.

Noise like this just blends into the background now, like nothing unusual is happening.

Hawkins as a town has learned to ignore the sound of someone being in danger.

Someone brushes past on their way to the exit, laughing at something their friend says. A locker door slams closed down the hall. A teacher’s voice calls after someone to walk, don’t run. Life keeps going.

The sick part is – he knows better than to expect help, even from the people who aren’t afraid of Andy and his friends. Even if someone did notice, they’d probably just pretend they didn’t. It’s easier that way. Safer.

The one person who wouldn’t play safe, can’t hear this.

Dustin swallows hard.

He’s staring straight at Andy, the violent sidekick turned into group leader after Jason died.

Andy has always looked like he’s two seconds away from breaking someone’s nose, but today… there’s something different about him. His expression lacks his usual smirk. There’s something raw and mean behind the eyes, like a fuse has been burning inside him long enough that it’s finally about to explode.

He looks dangerous. Or… more dangerous than normal.

His jaw is clenched too tight. His pupils are blown wide. His breath is quick, like he’s already angry before anything has even happened. And he’s not alone — he never is — two boys stand on either side of him like the angel and the devil, there to watch, encourage, or help restrain if restraint is ever required.

Shit.

Dustin’s heart is hammering in his chest.

This is not the usual routine.

This isn’t going to be shoves and insults.

This is the moment the script changes.

Andy looks at him like he’s not a person — like he’s a punching bag for grief and rage and loss that no one in this town knows how to carry.

The noises fade and the hallway disappears into complete silence.

Dustin feels something go cold under his skin.

Because he is very suddenly, very clearly aware, that he might not get to walk away in one piece this time.

To be continued?

Chapter Text

Andy’s hand is still fisted in the front of Dustin’s jacket, knuckles pressed so close that Dustin can feel the scrape of bone through fabric. But it isn’t the grip that scares him — not really, anyway. It’s the stillness.

Andy’s always been loud rage, messy rage, the kind that explodes and fizzles just as fast.

But this feels different. Controlled. Like he walked down this hallway with a clear purpose in mind, and Dustin just happened to be exactly where he wanted him. Cornered with nowhere to go.

Dustin can hear his own pulse in his ears, tripping over itself when Andy leans closer.

This is going to be bad.

It can’t have been more than five minutes since the final bell rang, but Hawkins High empties fast these days. Nobody lingers longer than they have to — not with the town the way it is, not with fear settling into the walls like mold. The hallways around them are deathly silent now. Lockers closed, doors locked, footsteps gone. No sign of kids or teachers anywhere. Which means there’s no one left to intervene. No one left to stop this from going wherever Andy decides to take it.

So Dustin bites his cheeks and stays quiet, hoping Andy just needs to let the steam out. He lets Andy spit out his daily dose of garbage insults and twisted stories to him – the kind of crap Steve sighs about while checking him for bruises afterwards and making him promise he’d tell him if they ever actually hurt him.

(He might have to make good on that promise today, because while Steve looked skeptical that the black eye he currently has came from “walking into an elbow in gym class”, Dustin has a feeling he won’t be able to lie his way out of anything after today.)

Andy’s eyes sweep across his face like he’s searching for something — fear, guilt, a reason to punch or do something. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. There’s a wildness under his skin that Dustin hasn’t seen before — not even on the worst days. A grief-soaked, directionless fury searching for a target.

Unfortunately for Dustin… it seems to have found one.

“You know what pisses me off most?” Andy says, voice low and close enough to Dustin’s face he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. “You walk around like you’re the victim. Like you’re the one who lost something.”

He yanks Dustin half a step from the lockers only to slam him back again — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to rattle his ribs and send a clear message. A warning. A threat. A promise that this could get much worse.

Dustin’s breath catches as his fingers curl reflexively at his sides.

Steve’s voice pops into his head, the same soft-but-dead-serious, slightly exasperated tone he always uses when giving one of his classic “how to survive a fight you can’t win” pep talks — the kind that are half personal experience from getting his ass kicked on a regular basis, half some off-brand “no be there” Mr. Miyagi teaching method.

“Don’t give him what he wants. Don’t make it worse. Breathe.”

Which is easier said than done, but also… not actually bad advice.

“You didn’t lose jack shit,” Andy snarls, shoving Dustin backwards again. “Jason’s dead,” he says, voice breaking around the name. And Dustin gets it. He does. Because grief always recognizes itself. He knows what it feels like. “First Chrissy, then Patrick and Jason. They’re all gone… That freak murdered them. And you – you’re still here running your mouth. Acting like you know better than the entire town.”

Dustin’s chest tightens. He hates the way that sentence feels like a blade, slashing him into pieces.

His mouth opens before he can stop himself. (Sorry, Steve.)

“Eddie didn’t do anything,” he spits a little too honestly. “He wasn’t— Eddie was good. He was a good person. The best. Don’t talk about him, because you don’t know anything.”

Andy’s jaw flexes, as one of his friends mutters “here we go” under his breath.

“Oh, I know enough,” Andy says so low it’s almost a whisper. “I know what Jason saw. I know what the cops said. I know what the news showed. A freak murdered a girl and dragged our friends into his satanic crap. He’s the reason they’re all dead, and you still defend him like you’re brainwashed.”

Dustin feels anger spike in his chest — real anger, rare, sharp and honestly kind of frightening.

“Jason was wrong.”

And yeah… that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Dustin knows that as soon as the words leave his mouth. Because Dustin knows what it’s like to be told your grief is misplaced. That your hero wasn’t who you thought he was.

Andy freezes for a fraction of a second.

Something familiar flashes in his eyes, like Dustin hit that one nerve that hasn’t healed at all, even though it’s been months.

Dustin swallows.

Shit.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry about your friends,” he says, looking at his feet. “I’m sorry about… About Jason. I… I wish it didn’t happen. But he was wrong.”

Andy’s eyes flash with anger this time, his fist twisting into Dustin’s shirt a little harder. But he keeps going.

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see what we saw. Eddie saved us. He died trying to protect—”

He cuts himself off. His throat feels dry and his eyes are burning.

Andy’s face twists like Dustin just slapped him.

“Don’t you dare say his name like you care,” Andy snaps, the rage spilling with every word. “You think defending that freak changes anything? We all know what happened. Eddie murdered them. And why are you defending him anyway? What do you get out of it, huh? Feeling like you belong somewhere? Feeling like you matter to someone who’s gone?” He leans in, teeth clenched. “You know what it makes you? A liar standing up for a murderer.”

Dustin’s stomach drops. The words cut deeper than any shove or punch ever could. It feels like a knife twisting in a place he didn’t even know was vulnerable. His chest tightens, breath shallow, and for a heartbeat he feels like the world has tilted on its axis.

He wants to look away, to run, to be anywhere but here, but his fists ball at his sides, trembling. His jaw aches from clenching it so hard, and the old bruise near his eye throbs, a reminder of how fragile he actually is. His mind races, scrambling for calm, for something steady — Steve’s voice, Eddie’s smile, Mike, Lucas, Will — anything to anchor him.

And yet… he can’t find it.

Not this time. Not when Andy’s snatching at his grief the shattered pieces of himself he’s desperately trying to hold together. It stings and it hurts, and for a second, Dustin’s fury spikes, raw and unfiltered, hotter than the fear curling in his gut.

His voice comes out before he can stop it, more forceful than he thought he’d be capable of. “He wasn’t a murderer,” Dustin says, and the words carry every ounce of defiance, grief, and stubborn loyalty he has left. “Eddie was the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“You shut your mouth,” Andy snarls. “You shut your mouth about him. You want to talk brave? Jason went after a killer. Jason died trying to protect people like you,” he says, poking a finger into Dustin’s chest.

“That’s not what happened! I told you a million times. You’re believing the wrong story—“

“It’s the only story that matters,” Andy hisses. “Because it’s the one that left my best friend in the ground.”

Dustin’s vision blurs for a heartbeat Eddie’s smile flashes through his mind — the goofy, crooked one, the one that made Dustin feel like the world still had room for good, even in the chaos. He remembers how Eddie never backed down, never cowered when it truly mattered. He made mistakes, sure, got in over his head more times than Dustin could count, but he always did what he thought was right. Always.

God, he misses him.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath despite the burning in his chest.

“I’m not going to pretend Eddie was something he wasn’t. I’m not going to lie to make you feel better. He was a good person. He was trying to protect people too.”

Andy lets go of his shirt, taking a slow step back. For a moment, Dustin sees something break inside him. But then he whispers, voice shaking with a dangerous, exhausted fury:

“Then I guess you’re just as guilty as he was.”

That’s when Andy snaps.

A heavy blow connects with Dustin’s cheekbone, right against the bruise that never fully healed. His head whips sideways, vision flashing white.

It’s a hard hit, and Dustin’s stomach drops, because he finally understands.

This is no longer about teasing or intimidating or blowing off steam. The line between bullying and violence without limits has officially vanished.

This is personal. This is grief with no place to go.

This is another kid, who lost a friend. A kid who’s convinced he’s looking at the person responsible for it.

And Dustin — loyal, stubborn, grieving in his own way — won’t back down. Not this time. Even if it buries him.

“Eddie Munson killed my friends!” Andy shouts loud enough it echoes through the hallways, before grabbing Dustin again. “He. Murdered. My friends.”

“And Jason almost got us killed!” Dustin spits back, dizzy, but meeting Andy’s eyes anyway. “You’re mad at the wrong person!”

Something breaks. In Andy. In Dustin. In both.

Andy swings again, but this time Dustin moves on instinct. He ducks like he did when he and Eddie were joking around, grabs the front of Andy’s shirt like he’s seen Steve do countless times, and shoves him back hard enough to send them both sprawling to the floor.

The thud echoes in the empty hallway, bouncing off lockers, and for a heartbeat, everything freezes.

Then the shouting starts.

One of Andy’s sidekicks lunges at Dustin, wrapping arms around his chest from behind, pinning his arms tight against his sides. Another grabs his shoulders, holding him steady, forcing his back into the lockers. Dustin struggles, twisting, kicking, but the grip is ironclad, unyielding.

He’s trapped.

Andy gets to his feet, fists clenched, shaking from the storm inside him. His eyes are wild, grief and rage at war with each other, and Dustin knows – this isn’t going to stop until someone takes it too far.

Shit.

“Hold him,” Andy snarls at his friends, and they tighten their grip, jerking Dustin upright when he tries to pivot or resist. His vision swims, adrenaline and fear tangling together. He can feel the hallway tilting, the lockers pressing against his back, and for the first time, he realizes just how hopeless this is.

He’s about to get his ass kicked and there’s very little he can do about it.

He briefly debates screaming for help, but he doesn’t get a chance to.

Andy steps forward, slow and deliberate. His knuckles glint under the fluorescent lights. Every step closer makes Dustin’s stomach tighten, every exhale a shudder of anticipation.

“This is what you get,” Andy mutters quietly, voice low but heavy with all the fury and grief that’s been building inside him, “for standing with a monster.”

And he swings again.

Dustin’s head snaps to the side, a stinging, burning crack that makes his ears ring. He tastes blood, bitter and metallic, and his knees almost buckle.

Before he can recover, another punch follows, faster, harder. He isn’t holding back. Each hit lands with precision.

The hallway is empty. There is no one coming. No one to stop it. Dustin’s own strength can’t free him. He’s pinned, battered, yet still defiant, eyes locked on Andy, chest heaving, every nerve screaming—but still refusing to back down.

Dustin tries to twist away, tries to block the punches, but the grip on his arms is like iron. Fists thud against him — cheekbone, jaw, ribs. His ears are ringing. He can’t breathe.

Somewhere in the haze of pain, he thinks:

Steve’s going to kill me for lying.
And he is never going to forgive himself for not being here.
I can’t— I can’t let it get worse, I can’t—

His head throbs with each heartbeat, a drum of warning behind his eyes, and the dull ache in his ribs makes every breath a struggle. His stomach twists in knots, nausea clawing at him, but he can’t afford to pass out. Not now. Not when Andy’s grip on him feels like he could snap his neck at any moment.

His knees wobble, a hot spike of dizziness making him stagger, and he’s slammed against the lockers again. Pain blooms behind his eyes and it sends a sharp jolt through his skull. Stars dance across his vision, and his hands clench uselessly at his sides, fingertips scraping the fabric of somebody’s jacket.

Another punch lands somewhere and his knees buckle. The hands holding him finally drop him and he tumbles to the floor, gasping for air he can’t seem to get.

His limbs feel like lead. He can’t move. He can’t run away.

Please, stop.

Andy looms over him, a shadow larger than reason, eyes burning with grief and fury. One hand clamps around Dustin’s collar, the other gripping his shoulder like a vice. He shakes him hard, jarring Dustin’s head back and forth against his own chest. “Say it,” he snarls, teeth clenched, voice raw. “Admit that he killed them.”

“No,” Dustin croaks, barely audible, voice rough and raw as he swallows back the nausea. “He didn’t.”

“Say it!” Andy yells, slamming him against the floor underneath him. “Say it, you freak.” 

Dustin shakes his head, barely able to form words anymore. “No.”

Andy pulls his fist back, every second stretching like a drawn-out nightmare. Dustin’s vision blurs, colors smearing into one another. Pain spikes in his side, in his ribs, behind his eye.

He’s sure this is it. They’re gonna kill him.

And then Andy disappears.

Literally. Doesn’t step back or leave. Just… vanishes off him mid-punch. His brain registers it as impossible, and for a heartbeat Dustin wonders if he’s imagining it.

All of the hands disappear, leaving a strange hollow ache in their place.

Dustin slumps back, trembling, too weak to hold himself up. His ears are ringing with disjointed shouts, footsteps pounding, things slamming against lockers and people groaning.

Nothing makes sense. Everything is muffled and distant, like he’s sinking underwater. He can’t even tell if this is real or if it’s just his brain messing with him as he takes his last breath.

And somewhere in that dark, blurry quiet, a voice slips in — soft, warm, familiar.

“I love you, man.”

Eddie.

He knows he isn’t really there. He can’t be… Right? Or maybe he is…

The memory wraps around him like a blanket anyway, easing the panic in his chest. If this is it… if he’s really dying… then getting to see Eddie again isn’t the worst way to go.

Eddie’s here.

It makes the fear loosen its grip just a little. Makes him feel less alone. He lets his eyes fall shut. Maybe this is what peace feels like at the end.

Then another voice slices through the fog, sharp, urgent, impossible to ignore.

“Get off of him!”

Dustin jerks, heart hammering, confusion clawing at his mind. His body aches from every punch, every slam into metal, and yet…

A glimmer of hope stirs in his chest.

He knows that voice. He knows what it means. He’s safe.

“Steve.”

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Steve’s felt off all day.

Not the normal kind of off, either. Not the forgot my keys, forgot my lunch, forgot something, but I have no idea what kind of thing, but the heavier, gut-deep, babysitter-instinct kind of dread. The kind that makes his skin crawl.

The kind he’s learned never to ignore.

It’s gotten worse since Vecna. The sudden spikes in alarm that come out of nowhere, the gut-instinct that something bad is happening, his own half-formed version of trauma or whatever the hell people call it.

Most of the time, he can live with it. Today, he can’t.

He tries to, at first. Tries to convince himself this is one of those rare times when his gut-feeling turns out to be wrong. It’s happened before… like… once or twice. Good things happen in threes, right?

He tries to shake the feeling while waiting in the parking lot, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he stares at the double doors like maybe he can will Dustin to appear.

Dustin’s usually quick to come out. Normally, the kid is practically launching himself through the door the second the bell rings, barreling down the pavement with that casual wave like he isn’t speed-walking towards the car like someone’s chasing him.

That’s what makes this a million times worse.

Because Dustin’s never late. Never.

So where the hell is he?

Steve’s chest tightens, the dread settling even deeper, threatening to drill a hole straight through his stomach. After two more minutes of watching groups of students go by, he can’t sit still anymore. The car suddenly feels too small, too hot, too suffocating, so shoves the door open just so he has something to do for the fifteen seconds it takes him to get out.

He paces along the side of his car a few times, before realizing he probably looks like a lunatic, so he forces himself to stop and leans against the hood instead. He crosses his arms, tucking his shaking hands into his jacket, and pretending he’s relaxed.

What’s taking him so long?

He tries to be rational about it. He really tries. Maybe Dustin stayed behind to talk to a teacher. Maybe he left through another exit. Maybe they somehow missed each other in the crowd.

But the feeling doesn’t ease.

He’s overreacting. They’re gonna laugh about this when Dustin walks out and Steve ends up feeling like an overprotective idiot.

Any minute now…

Any minute…

The parking lot is almost empty at this point, the after-school rush long gone. There are only a few cars left, groups of teens lingering beside them, doing “normal things” that Steve used to do not too long ago. A couple of younger kids are messing with a skateboard near the bike rack and someone’s blasting music from a half-busted radio. It’s the perfectly normal end-of-day at Hawkins High.

But the longer Steve stares at those doors, the worse that feeling gets.

Maybe it’s because of the conversation they had a couple days ago, when Dustin walked out of the school with a black eye. Maybe it’s because Dustin told him – in his Dustin way, with a half shrug and way too casually – that things at school were “fine-ish”.

Which, coming from Dustin, is the equivalent of him saying I’m being harassed on and off, but I don’t want you to worry, so please pretend it’s fine.

And Steve let it slide. Or… tried to.

Because he gets it. He understands wanting to handle it on your own.

Besides, Dustin getting bullied isn’t new. It’s been happening since long before they were even friends.

But Dustin lying about it? That’s new.

And this feeling… this heavy, crawling, awful feeling creeping down his spine, settling deep in his chest, making it hard to breathe?

Yeah, no.

Something’s wrong.

He finally snaps.

One second he’s leaning against the hood, pretending he can wait this out, and the next he’s pushing himself off the car so fast the metal squeaks under his hands.

Screw waiting.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s already halfway across the parking lot, striding across the pavement, then outright jogging toward the entrance.

He always parks close, half because he likes the convenience and half because his self-appointed babysitter duties demand efficiency. (Safety is an added bonus.) Today, he’s extra grateful for it.

He’s just going to check. Just to make sure.

He’s just going to walk inside like a normal person and not like a panicked ex-king of Hawkins High about to bust through the doors like a maniac just because he had a strange feeling.

People definitely notice him.

A group of juniors lounging on the low brick wall near the walkway pause mid-conversation. One of them straightens, eyes tracking him like he’s about to storm the place – which, honestly, he kind of is. Someone actually steps aside to give him room as he barrels forward.

He doesn’t even care how it looks anymore.

The dread is a full-body thing now, buzzing under his skin.

He finally reaches the entrance and yanks the door open with so much fore it bangs against the wall and-

He freezes.

For a split second, his brain refuses to process what he’s looking at.

Because Dustin’s on the floor. Just… laying there.

He’s flat on his back, one arm splayed uselessly on the floor, the other curled weakly against his chest as if he was trying to protect himself and then just… gave up. His chest is rising in quick, shaky breaths that make Steve’s stomach lurch.

He’s hurt. He’s definitely hurt this time.

His curls are a mess, his face is red, and there’s this… terrified, cornered look in his eyes Steve has never seen directed at anyone but monsters.

And what’s perhaps the most horrifying part is that he isn’t fighting back. Isn’t scrambling to defend himself. He isn’t even trying to crawl away.

For a split second, Steve genuinely thinks he’s unconscious or–

No, no, no–

His stomach drops, chest tightening, a cold rush running through him. But then he realizes his lips are moving. He’s talking.

He’s alive.

Relief surges like a wave, but it’s laced with panic. He’s alive, yes, but he’s still in the line of fire. He needs to get him out of there. He wants to move, to throw himself between them, to rip Andy – because of course it’s Andy, who else would it be – off him, but his legs feel like lead. His body is frozen, caught between instinct and disbelief, and all he can do is watch Dustin get beat up in slow motion.

Andy has a fist twisted in the front of Dustin’s shirt, hauling him up just enough to slam him back down again. He’s breathing hard, sweat beading at his temple as he screams in Dustin’s face.

He’s breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading along his hairline. His face is filled with adrenaline and rage as he leans over Dustin like he’s about to crush him with anger.

His two buddies lurk behind him, which doesn’t surprise him, because guys like Andy never go into fights alone. Not even when they’re fighting someone who clearly isn’t fighting back.

The one on the left looks… uneasy. Maybe even a little pale. He keeps rubbing his hands on his jeans, shifting from one foot to the other like he wants to say something, but can’t find the courage to open his mouth. His eyes keep flicking down the hallway, like he’s making sure no one’s coming. Making sure there are no witnesses. Steve can’t tell if the kid’s doing it because it’s his assigned “job” in this particular situation or because he’s genuinely terrified of someone catching them. Either way, he doesn’t say anything.

And Steve almost feels sorry for him. Because he recognizes that half-guilty look. He’s worn that look. Back when he was still hanging out with Tommy and Carol, doing things he isn’t proud of just because it was easier to go along with the crowd than to stand alone. Easier to be the guy doing wrong thing than the guy stopping it.

The other guy, in contrast, seems to be the cheerleader of the fight, practically feeding on every move Andy makes. He looks genuinely entertained, like he’s watching an action movie. He isn’t here to make sure they don’t take it too far. He’s here to egg Andy on. He keeps laughing and clapping at every yell, letting out little whoops of excitement, clearly enjoying this like it’s some kind of a twisted game and he wants to see it escalate.

It makes Steve’s blood run cold. For all the wrong things Steve’s done back in the day, for the times he went along with the wrong crowd, he’d never actually enjoyed it. Not like this. This kid is either morally lost or just stupid. It makes him feel sick that anyone could watch this happen and think it’s a joke.

“Say it!” Andy snaps him out of his thoughts, voice echoing down the hallways. “Say it, you freak!”

Dustin mumbles something Steve can’t make out, but apparently it’s the wrong answer, because Andy’s expression somehow turns even more furious. He draws his arm back, fist tightening like he’s winding up to put his whole weight into the next punch.

They’re gonna kill him.

The dread in Steve’s stomach ignites, shooting up his spine until his vision tunnels.

And his body finally remembers how to move.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

“Get off him!” Steve snaps as he lunges forward, grabbing the back of Andy's team jacket and yanking him off Dustin so hard Andy nearly loses his footing.

For a second – literally a single second – he hopes Andy will actually back off without things getting ugly. But Andy whips around instantly, eyes blazing as he swings on pure instinct, not even looking who he’s aiming for. Steve barely manages to duck fast enough for the fist to miss his face.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Steve blurts, one hand up in surrender while the other stays fisted in Andy’s jacket, trying to keep him from turning right back to Dustin. “Knock it off!”

Andy finally freezes, like snapping out of some kind of tunnel vision, chest heaving as he tries to process the interruption and actually registers Steve for the first time.

“Harrington?” he spits, breathless and a little confused, like Steve appearing out of nowhere has short-circuited whatever adrenaline-fueled trance he’d been in. He glances down, finally noticing Steve’s hand gripping his jacket, and shrugs him off angrily. “What the hell?”

Before Steve can say anything, his friend – the one who’s been clapping like a seal at a circus – lets out a delighted bark of laughter and steps forward, rubbing his hands together like he’s warming up for his turn.

“Ohh, this just got interesting.”

For a moment, all three of them just stand there in a strange, three-way standoff where no one seems to know whose move it is. Andy’s breathing like a bull that’s been yanked off its target mid-charge. The hype-man kid looks thrilled, like he’s watching a bonus round he didn’t know he was getting, and the nervous one hovers behind them, wringing his hands and looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Then Dustin lets out a low, pained groan. It’s barely more than a rasp, but it’s enough to snap all three jocks’ attention downward. Andy shifts his weight immediately, like a dog that just heard its prey twitch, already leaning forward to finish what he started.

Steve moves before he even realizes he’s moving, shoving himself into the narrow space between Dustin and the three of them, planting his feet like he’s some kind of human barricade. He spreads his stance wide enough to look like he could take all three of them if he had to – even though he absolutely, with one hundred percent certainty knows he can’t – but he also lifts one hand a little in a non-threatening gesture that says hey let’s not murder each other, okay?

It’s this weird, contradictory posture: half “I can fight all of you,” half “please, for the love of God, take pity on me”.

He wants to look down so badly. Wants to check on Dustin, make sure he’s living and breathing, make sure that groan wasn’t the last sound he had in him. But he forces himself to keep his eyes locked on the guys in front of him. He’s been in enough fights to know looking away right now would be the same as handing them an opening to attack.

“Knock it off,” he says, low and steady, voice firm in a way he hopes sounds more confident than he feels. “We’re done. Walk away. It’s over.”

“The hell it is,” Andy’s friend snorts.

Steve feels his stomach sink – not with fear, but with the kind of exhausted, long‑suffering disbelief he usually reserves for when the kids decide to go into the tunnels or break into a base or… other things. Again.

A tired, frustrated sound slips out of him before he can stop it.

Do we really have to do this?

Because it’s painfully clear these idiots aren’t walking away. They’re not even considering it. They’re puffing up, rolling their shoulders, exchanging that look guys exchange right before they decide to collectively do the stupidest thing possible in any given situation.

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic,” Steve mutters mostly to himself, sarcasm dripping so hard he could mop it off the floor.

“What was that, Harrington?” the hype-guy asks with a smirk, taking a cocky step forward like this is the opening scene of the next Rocky movie. “I didn’t catch it.”

Steve already knows this is not going to end well. Because of course they’re going to turn this into a whole thing. Of course these idiots can’t just take the win and walk away without getting caught.

Great. Just great.

This is exactly the kind of nonsense he used to get into with Tommy and Carol – stupid, pointless declarations of dominance where nobody even remembers what they’re fighting about by the end of it. Back then he would’ve thrown the first punch just to get it over with.

He straightens his shoulders anyway, jaw clenching.

“I said it’s over,” Steve says, looking him straight in the eye. “You need to back off.”

“And I said,” the kid mocks, stepping even closer, “the hell it is.”

Andy takes one slow step forward too, his jaw set, nostrils flaring. His buddies widen their stance like this is all a warm-up round and they’ve just been waiting for permission to start.

“This has nothing to do with you, Harrington,” Andy growls. “So move.”

“That’s funny,” Steve shoots back before he can stop himself. “Cause from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’re trying to make it about me.”

“Aww,” the hype-man kid laughs, gesturing at Steve like he’s a performing monkey. “Look at this hero complex. You hearin’ this, Andy?”

Dustin lets out another strained wheeze, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like Steve’s name and for one terrible, dangerous heartbeat, Steve feels something he hasn’t felt in years. For one terrible second, he feels like the old him. The version that would’ve swung first just to shut someone up. The version that would’ve loved to clock that smirk right of his face.

His hand twitches and for one terrible second, he actually thinks he might hit him. Because honestly? He wants to. Not because it’s fun, not because he thinks he’ll win, but because they hurt Dustin. Repeatedly. And because they were going to keep hurting him. He wants to punch these smug little assholes right in the mouth for everything they’ve said to Dustin these past couple of years. He wants to punch them for thinking this is all a game. For laughing. For enjoying it.

But he’s not that guy anymore. He’s older now – older and (somehow) a little less stupid most of the time – and he didn’t come here to fight. He’s here with exactly one goal: get Dustin out.

So instead of rising to the bait, he takes a deep breath and shuts down the desire to start throwing fists.

“Last chance,” he warns, keeping his voice deadly serious, despite the exasperation still buzzing under it. “Walk away.”

Andy cuts him off with a scoff. “Don’t pretend you’re some hero, Harrington. I already told you to move.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Steve fires back, stepping forward slightly, just enough to show he’s not bluffing. “I’m telling you to back off so we can all walk away without anyone getting suspended, arrested, or punched in the face. Preferably in that order.”

Andy’s cheerleader friend pipes up with a snicker. “Ooooh, look at Harrington, acting all tough.”

Steve swallows the urge to roll his eyes.

“What happens when it’s three against one, Harrington? Still wanna play the babysitter?” the friend adds, leaning a little too close, grinning.

“Look,” tries again, knowing he has nothing to lose at this point. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for him,” he says, gesturing towards Dustin. “Make it about me all you want, but you’re not touching him. So I suggest you leave.”

Andy steps forward, slow and deliberate, and Steve catches that tiny flicker he’s been dreading in his face. That moment his brain stops reasoning and the instinct to fight wins.

“This has everything to do with you now.”

Steve doesn’t even have time to brace, before Andy’s knuckles crash into his face with enough force to send a burst of white across Steve’s vision. His head snaps sideways, teeth rattling, cheek already going hot and numb in that awful way that means yeah, that’s gonna bruise before dinner.

He doesn’t fall – pride or reflex or pure stubborn Harrington wiring keeps him upright – but the punch definitely rocks him.

And the worst part?

It pisses him off.

“Ow!” he groans, blinking hard, hand flying up to his cheek. “Okay, awesome. Fantastic. We’re doing this.”

Andy doesn’t wait. He barrels forward again, swinging fast, messy, like a guy who never gives their opponent a chance to fight back.

Steve dodges the second punch, barely, feeling the wind of it brush past his ear. The hype-man kid laughs like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week, circling in from the side like he’s about to tag himself in.

Steve blocks a hit with his forearm, absorbs another across his shoulder, sucking a sharp breath between his teeth. But he doesn’t hit back. Not once. He’s not risking it — not with Dustin behind him, not with two (three, if the scared kid gets involved?) against one. Not with the very real possibility that these idiots will escalate this to the point of no return if he so much as taps them.

Still, the urge pulses through him like muscle memory. A clean punch right to the smirk would feel so satisfying.

But the need to do anything but make this worse for Dustin is louder than the desire to rearrange this guy’s face.

So he clenches his teeth and fights to keep himself upright as the hits keep coming, moving only enough to intercept and shield Dustin. The hype-man finally gets his five minutes of glory at some point, when he decides to join in on the fun.

The nervous friend in the back keeps wringing his hands anxiously, stepping from foot to foot. His eyes keep flicking between Dustin’s slumped form and Andy’s fist flying at Steve’s face.

“Guys,” he tries, voice cracking. “Guys, maybe— Maybe we should—”

Andy ignores him completely and swings again, this time connecting with Steve’s cheekbone.

Stars explode behind Steve’s eyes. His ears ring. His vision blurs.

And Andy’s already gearing up for another.

Steve realizes he might actually attempt to fight back if they don’t stop, because he can’t afford to get knocked out. Not when Dustin’s…

This would be a spectacular time for Hopper to waltz into the school.

This isn’t just reckless anymore. It’s getting dangerous. His reflexes, honed over years of smaller scrapes, kick in, but he knows he won’t be able to keep dodging their hits. Not without someone getting seriously hurt.

If they don’t stop soon, he’s going to have to fight back. Or try to, at least.

Steve braces himself, clenching his fist and hoping he’s still conscious enough to do enough damage for these guys to pull a raincheck on this fight, when the nervous friend yelps.

“Someone’s coming!”

Everything stops.

Andy freezes mid-step. His hype-man buddy whips his head around, scanning the hallway. Andy’s chest heaves like a cornered animal, adrenaline still pulsing, but fear – real fear – flickers in his face.

Steve’s heart jumps into his throat too on instinct (years of getting busted for picking fights and fighting demodogs will do that to you). He strains his ears, listening.

Silence.

He hears nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing but the buzz of the lights and the blood pounding in his ears.

“What?” Andy says sharply, eyes narrowing.

The nervous friend refuses to meet anyone’s gaze, glancing down the hallway again. “I—I heard something. Down the hall. Someone’s coming. We gotta go.”

He’s lying.

Steve knows it instantly. This kid wants out and he’s too scared of his own friends to say so. Thankfully, they’re way too concerned about getting caught to pick up on the lie.

“Shit,” Andy curses. “We can’t get caught,” he says, already backtracking towards the nearest exit.

The hype-man curses under his breath, clearly unsatisfied with the sudden end to the fight. “Dude, come on—”

“I can’t get caught,” Andy snaps.

He isn’t worried about Dustin. Or Steve. Or either one of his friends. Just himself.

Shocker.

Both of them bolt, sprinting toward the exit at the hall. The one that leads straight toward the parking lot. Straight toward where Steve’s car happens to be parked. Which is an unfortunate choice for Steve and Dustin, because it means they could cross each other’s paths again, but that’s a problem for later.

They run away from the thing they’ve chosen to do. Away from the consequences of their actions. And Steve watches them go.

But the nervous kid hesitates, half-turned towards the exit and pale as a ghost.

His eyes flick to Dustin, then to Steve. There’s guilt in his face now, a small stab like he’s just been confronted with what they’ve done. He opens his mouth — maybe to call after them, maybe to say he’s sorry — then he closes it. He takes another look at Dustin, and then he runs.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

The hallway is suddenly painfully quiet.

Steve stands there for half a heartbeat, chest heaving, head throbbing, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. His cheek pulses where Andy’s fist connected, but he barely feels it. Not compared to the fear slicing straight through his ribs.

As soon as he’s relatively sure they aren’t coming back, he drops to his knees.

“Dustin?” he breathes, hands hovering over his bruised body, terrified to touch anything to cause more pain.

Dustin looks… awful. His eyes are open, but unfocused, staring up at nothing. They’re wide and glassy in a way that makes Steve’s skin crawl, already going through every potential unprofessional diagnosis. One cheek is already swelling. There’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth and a thin smear on his temple where he must’ve hit the floor if the bloody spot on the ground is anything to go by. His face is mottled with splotches that will darken into bruises, mixing with old ones and for a moment, the sight knocks the air out of him.

He looks so young.

Still so much like that little kid that wondered into his life and made himself at home. Someone who should be arguing about snacks or yelling about campaign notes, not lying beaten in a school hallway. Way too young to be dealing with any of this.

Way too good of a person to be dealing with any of this.

“Dustin? Hey, buddy, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Dustin makes a noise that’s neither a yes nor a no, but it’s something.

“Thank God,” Steve exhales shakily. “This is probably gonna hurt, but I have to check for injuries, alright? Just— Just don’t move yet. And tell me if it hurts.”

He works quickly, gently pressing along Dustin’s shins, knees, thighs. Dustin flinches once but doesn’t scream, which is… not bad. He checks his wrists and arms next, then hovers along Dustin’s ribs, watching his face closely.

“Anything feel broken? Anything sharp? Any stabbing pain?” he asks.

Dustin mutters something that might be “no,” or might be “ow,” or might be literal nonsense. Hard to tell. His breathing stutters, but nothing feels broken under Steve’s hands. Bruised, yes. Fractured, possibly. Hurt, absolutely. Broken? Maybe not.

“Alright, nothing feels broken. Bruised to hell, yeah, but you’re okay. You’re okay…” Steve murmurs, swallowing hard and glancing toward the exit. “Think you can stand up?” He tries to sound calm, but there’s a tremor under it, threaded with urgency. “We gotta get out of the hallway. Just in case they’re idiots and decide to come back.”

Dustin gives the barest nod.

“Good. That’s good, bud. Okay, let’s get you up. Nice and slow.”

He hauls Dustin upright, taking most of the weight himself, as Dustin’s knees buckle.

“Easy,” Steve mutters, tightening his hold. “I got you. Can you walk if I help you?”

It ends up being more dragging than helping. Dustin leans into him heavily, legs shaky, one foot catching on the linoleum as Steve half-guides, half-carries him to the nearest door. Steve shoves it open with his shoulder.

They end up in a small, dark room. Must be some kind of storage closet or something. The lights are off, only a thin line of daylight squeezes through a narrow, high window. There’s barely any furniture and it smells like dust and forgotten textbooks.

It’s not the safest place in the world, but it’s inside and not in plain sight, which will have to do for now.

Steve closes the door behind them and turns back to Dustin, giving him a once-over, not giving a shit that this is exactly what he gives Hopper hell about when he’s the one with a concussion.

“Alright,” he sighs, brushing Dustin’s hair back from his forehead to check his eyes again. “Talk to me, man. Are you okay?”

But Dustin doesn’t answer. His eyes keep wondering around, not really focusing on anything and making Steve panic more and more.

“Dustin?” he asks again, searching his expression. “Can you talk? Can you tell me your name?” Dustin’s face scrunches up in confusion, which does absolutely nothing to ease Steve’s mind. He puts his hand under Dustin’s chin, guiding it up until he finally looks at him. “Come on, bud, just say something. I gotta make sure your brain’s not scrambled.”

Dustin doesn’t answer. His face crumples instead, like he’s been trying to hold everything in for way too long and he suddenly can’t anymore.

And then he just… breaks.

His breath stutters, his shoulders start shaking, and before Steve can even process it, Dustin launches forward, collapsing into him. His arms wrap around him with an almost violent clutch as he buries his face into Steve’s chest, his whole body shaking.

Steve goes stiff with alarm.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Steve says quickly, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation, before they both topple over. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re— Shit, you’re not dying, are you? You’re not about to pass out? Dustin?! Dustin, talk to me.”

But Dustin just starts crying harder.

“Shit…” Steve whispers, pulling Dustin closer. “It’s okay… You’re okay, man. You’re okay.”

Steve keeps a stream of comforting words going until Dustin’s mouth finally moves. But what comes out aren’t words — not in any decipherable order. Just a frantic, flooded stream of sounds and half-formed syllables falling out of his mouth too fast and too broken to make sense.

Steve frowns in concern.

“What?” he asks softly, bending until his cheek brushes Dustin’s curls, trying to catch the pieces. “You gotta slow down, bud, I can’t understand you.”

“It’s—” Dustin gasps, voice cracking into a sob. “It’s— it’s— he— I— he—”

He gets caught in an endless loop of the same words, like his brain keeps hitting the same jumbled thought, trying to shove it out and failing every time, frustration growing sharper with each repetition.

His breath catches and he makes this tiny, furious sound in his throat, upset with himself for not being able to speak, for not making sense, for not being able to say what he needs to say.

Steve presses a steady hand to the back of his neck.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” Steve murmurs, voice low, careful. “Breathe. Just breathe for a second.”

He feels Dustin take a shuddering inhale that wobbles through his chest in a bizarre way.

“There you go,” Steve whispers. “Good. Again.”

Dustin’s fingers clench harder in his jacket.

“It’s—” he tries again before he gets a single decent breath, but Steve decides to let it slide, because whatever he’s trying to tell him must be important. “It’s— Eddie— I— I couldn’t— he— Steve, I—”

Steve’s heart lurches.

Eddie.

Of course.

“Okay,” Steve whispers quickly, tightening the hug just enough that Dustin can feel the pressure, the anchor. “Okay, what about Eddie?”

“This—” he tries again, “they said—”

“Breathe, Dustin,” Steve whispers. His heart is breaking right along with Dustin and he wants nothing more than to help, but he has a feeling these scars are something he can’t heal. “This fight… it was about Eddie? Is that what you’re saying?”

He feels Dustin nod against his chest.

“Okay,” he says, closing his eyes. He knows there’s nothing he can do to fix this. Nothing he can say that would make this better… or easier. So he does the only thing he can do and keeps holding him.

“It’s my fault,” Dustin chokes out after a while. “I ruined everything— I made it worse— I made it so much worse, and he— It’s my fault—” he swallows, gasping through another sob.

 “No,” Steve says instantly, firmly, without a second of hesitation. “No, it isn’t. Hey, look at me, Henderson. It wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

Dustin shakes his head, curls dragging against Steve’s shirt in frantic little bursts, like he’s trying to physically push the thought away.

“It’s my fault he got dragged into this. It’s my fault. It’s my fault he went into the Upside down,” Dustin hiccups. “He wouldn’t have— He did it to protect me— It’s my fault—”

“Hey, no. Stop.” Steve pulls back just enough to grab Dustin’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the uninjured spots on his cheeks, forcing eye contact. “None of what happened with Eddie was your fault. Not one part. You hear me?”

Dustin’s eyes flood again, overflowing with emotions.

“He— he wouldn’t have— if I didn’t—”

“Dustin.” Steve’s voice drops into that soft, steady place he only ever uses when talking to one of the kids. “Eddie made his own choices. Big ones. Brave ones. You didn’t make him do anything. He loved you. You know that, right? He loved you. He would’ve followed you into hell and back just to keep you safe.”

Dustin crumples, face twisting in this heartbroken, disbelieving way.

“But he shouldn’t have… He should’ve come with me. He would’ve—”

“He saved your life, Dustin. And mine. And Nancy’s, Robin’s and everyone else’s. We all survived because of him,” Steve whispers, pulling him back into a solid, grounding hug. “And I know that doesn’t make it any easier, because it sucks. He should be here. He should be alive too. And it’s going to keep sucking.”

Dustin makes a quiet, broken sound – anger, grief, guilt all tangled together – and his fingers fist in Steve’s jacket even harder, desperate, like he’s holding onto the only thing keeping him upright.

“He should be here,” Steve says softly, voice thick but steady. “You’re right. He should. He deserved more time. He deserved… all of it. The stupid campaigns and the music and your dumb arguments about everything. He deserved to graduate. To grow up. To see how many people cared about him.”

Dustin’s breath hitches sharply, but Steve knows they should’ve had this conversation months ago. More than once, probably. Dustin needed to hear it.

“And listen,” Steve adds softly, voice cracking in a way he hopes Dustin’s too overwhelmed to notice, “I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t talked about him more. I should have. I didn’t want to make it harder on you, but maybe that just made it worse.”

“No, Steve—”

“No, let me say this, Dustin. I think about him,” Steve murmurs. “A lot. More than you probably think I do. And I— I feel guilty too.” He swallows hard. “I should’ve been there. With you. I should’ve helped him. I could’ve… I should’ve been there. So Eddie dying is just as much your fault as it is mine.”

Dustin jerks his head in a tiny, desperate shake, but he can’t find words yet.

“But I’m… I’m so damn grateful he was there with you,” Steve continues, voice low and steady. “I really am. I’m grateful you had him. I’m grateful he kept you safe when I couldn’t. That he stepped in when I wasn’t there. That’s the part I hold on to. That you’re still here.”

He closes his eyes, forehead tipping to Dustin’s temple as he holds him tighter.

“And I know you feel like you should’ve saved him, but he didn’t give you that option. He made his choice. He chose you. He chose all of us. And I promise you, he wouldn’t want you breaking yourself apart over this. You know he wouldn’t.”

Steve feels Dustin’s breathing hitch, another cry threatening to break free, and he rubs his hand between Dustin’s shoulder blades in small, grounding circles.

“You’re allowed to miss him,” Steve murmurs. “You’re allowed to hurt. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine for me or anybody else. I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Dustin lifts his head slightly, pressing his forehead against Steve’s chest just long enough to give him a goofy, incredulous look. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice trembling but full of disbelief. “Promise?”

Steve laughs softly, even as his own jaw aches from the fight, and presses a kiss to the top of Dustin’s curls.

“I promise,” he says, praying he doesn’t have to break the promise for at least another 60 years. “And hey,” Steve adds softly, trying to lighten the pressure without dismissing it, “if anyone ever says anything shitty about Eddie, you have my full permission to deck them.” He pulls back just enough to look down at the top of Dustin’s head. “But you gotta take me with you, okay? So I can punch them too. And to make sure you don’t die. You know the deal, right? If you die, I dies. That’s like… an established rule at this point. Promise?”

Dustin snorts against him, a tiny laugh breaking through the tension, and Steve feels the first real exhale of relief since the hallway exploded into chaos.

“I promise,” Dustin mumbles, and he buries himself right back against Steve’s chest, arms tightening.

Steve presses his cheek to Dustin’s curls, breath catching with its own kind of ache. “I love you, man,” he whispers.

There’s a beat, just long enough that Steve wonders if Dustin heard him, before Dustin breathes out, voice wobbling but certain, “I love you too.”

They stay like that for a while, before Dustin suddenly goes rigid and Steve’s heart does another flip.

“Wait,” Dustin says, pulling himself back. “You freaking idiot! You fought?!”

Steve can’t help a tired smirk. “Technically… I won another fight,” he says with a smug smirk, shrugging as best as he can with Dustin still holding him.

“You idiot! Did you get hit in the head again?! Oh my God, your cheek – you totally did!” Dustin screams, completely horrified as his hands scramble up to Steve’s face. “You’re such an idiot. The doctors said another concussion would be like… royally bad for you—”

“Says the guy with a concussion…”

Dustin gives him a look only Hopper’s ever given him before. “Steve. You could’ve died! They could’ve—”

Steve squeezes him gently, shaking his head. “Hey, hey, I’m fine. I promise. Totally fine. My brain’s fine – trust me, I’d know. You’re safe, and that’s what matters.”

Dustin’s eyes flick over the wound with panic still buzzing under them.

“We need to— we need to go home— or— or somewhere— somewhere safe— you need ice— we both need—”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, thumb brushing Dustin’s arm as reassurance. “Yeah, bud. We both need ice. We’re gonna get to the car, and we’re gonna patch each other up. Rainbow Band-Aids and all. Deal?”

Dustin nods, shaky and exhausted.

Dustin’s eyes narrow, still panicked, but a tiny laugh escapes despite himself.

“Deal.”

The end.