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It’s been three days since white spores began falling from the sky. Three days since Steve and all the other Party members dropped everything to meet and plan.
It’s been two days since they collected all their weapons and scouted the entire town from sunrise to sunset with no success. Two days since they regrouped at Jim’s cabin and patched the roof, dubbing it the new base of operations.
It’s been one day since they decided to wait for Vecna to make his next move and survey from the cabin. One day since they all agreed to stay hulled up in the cabin for the time being for safety.
Steve is washing the plates in the sink, the cold water rippling over his sore fingers. Lucas stands next to him with a towel, drying the dishes and handing them to Dustin who puts them away. Will, Mike, El, and Erica are cleaning up the rooms to make space for more sleeping bags while Jim, Joyce, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Murray look over Hawkins maps in the living room. Maybe their proximity is why Lucas is so quiet when he asks, “Steve, are you okay?”
Steve has to blink Lucas into view, the confusion furrowing his brows. “What?”
“Your hands…” Lucas whispers.
Steve looks down to see his fingers tremoring against the plate he’s clinging to. All at once, he feels anxiety sweep over him like a bucket of ice water. “I uh…”
“Steve?” Dustin joins, looking equally as nervous, “You okay, man?”
He turns off the water, scrunching up his eyes and bracing his hands on the edge of the sink. His head ducks, but the boys can see his back expanding stuttering breaths. “I uh…fuck–” he mutters.
Lucas tries to duck to his level, but only sees eyes screwed shut. “Steve? What’s wrong?”
“I–I can’t–” Steve gasps, “Robin–get Ro–b-bin.”
“Robin!” Dustin shouts, “Help!”
In mere seconds she’s at his side, the rest of the adults following close behind. She speaks as calmly as she can, but her words still rush out of her like an open faucet. “Hey, Steve, it’s alright I’m here.” She puts a tentative hand on his back, rubbing circles with her thumb. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
His hyperventilating only quickens. “C-Can’t–” His knuckles go white where they grip the sink. “Feel like…m dyin…g”
“Steve, I know it feels like that, but I promise you’re safe, okay? I’ve got you,” she rushes out in a hushed voice. “This is a panic attack, remember? We know what to do with those, right?”
Steve stiffly jerks out a nod, then brings a trembling hand to his chest. Robin smiles sadly, her voice sweet when she says, “Good job, Steve, good job.” She brings her own hands to rest on the front and back of his torso, pressing gently right below his sternum and rubbing the other hand under his shoulder blades. “Let’s breathe together, Steve,” she hums.
The others share worried glances as she leads him through breaths. It feels so private that viewing Steve in this moment feels almost disrespectful. Jim catches Murray’s wide-eyed laser-beam gaze before turning his own gaze to the floor. Jonathan and Nancy keep exchanging glances, as if having a silent conversation. Dustin and Lucas occasionally catch each other’s eyes over Steve’s trembling form, but it’s only ever a mirror of their own confusion and worry before they glue their gaze back to him.
They all want to back away, but what if it’s Vecna? What if this is his new plan?
The quick, shallow breaths have become longer, deeper ones. Though he’s still shaky, with Robin’s help Steve is able to uncurl enough to turn and sit on the floor in front of the sink. He hikes his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his hands. He’s still trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he pushes out.
Joyce kneels beside him, placing a warm hand on his knee. “Sweety, you have nothing to be sorry for. It happens to the best of us.”
“Yeah man,” Lucas jumps in, “these are stressful times–I’d be more worried if one of us didn’t have a breakdown.”
“It’s not that,” Steve croaks, “I need my meds...I’ve missed a couple doses.”
“Your meds?” Jim parrots, getting closer.
Robin meets the Chief’s curiosity (and slight panic), asking, “What meds, Steve?”
Steve presses his palms into his eyes, “My anxiety meds…I’ve missed a couple doses.”
“I didn’t know you take anxiety meds,” Nancy squeaks.
“I don’t advertise.”
Joyce rubs soothing circles into his knee. “It’s alright honey,” she coos, “Like Lucas said, this is stressful stuff.”
Jim musters up as gentle a tone as he can with the increasingly sensitive situation. “What exactly are you on?”
“Klonopin,” Steve sniffles.
The adults’ eyebrows all shoot up in tandem. “Klonopin?” Murray exclaims.
Steve’s fists move behind his head and he tugs at his hair to feel the pressure.
“What’s klonopin?” Dustin asks, his voice small with worry.
Murray almost chuckles with the absurdity. “It’s only one of the strongest and most addictive benzodiazepines on the market.”
Robin’s hand comes to rub Steve’s back. “I had no idea,” she murmurs, “Steve, how long has this been going on?”
Steve winces, the shaking in his hands becoming more noticeable. “I um-I kept having panic attacks in seventh grade…the school contacted my parents, so they took me to a doctor and got it prescribed.” Murray steps away to do a slow lap around the living room, scoffing and shaking his head to himself. Jim drags a hand down his face, considering all the ways he’s gonna kill Steve’s parents. Joyce just shuts her eyes. As if sensing their disappointment, he adds, “It used to be a lower dosage–” as if that changes anything. “I started out taking it every other day, but then…well…I got involved in all of this and I needed to up the prescription.”
Joyce tries to swallow the lump in her throat. It doesn’t work. “So now you take it every day?”
“Twice a day.”
Dustin’s mouth hangs open. “Twice a day?”
“That’s the usual,” Jim says, contemplatively.
“And when’s the last time you had it?” Joyce continues.
“Sunday morning…” He takes a stuttering breath, and continues anxiously, “When all hell started breaking loose, I dropped everything to meet up with your guys. I didn’t get the chance to go back home and restock–I keep a few pills in my car just in case, but I ran out last week and forgot to refill it. I was gonna sneak back to my place to pick them up but then one thing led to another and I didn’t–I couldn’t–I–”
“Steve, it’s okay, just breathe,” Robin hushes. “It’s not your fault, it’s okay.”
Murray has since rejoined the group, adding things together and trying to recall everything he knows about benzodiazepines like Klonopin. “Jim, he’s going through withdrawal–we need to get him those pills now.”
“I’m not going through withdrawal.”
“Kid–”
“I’m not a junkie–I’m not addicted.”
“We’re not calling you a junkie, kid,” Jim says slowly, “You may not be an addict , but you are dependent–you can’t be taking Klonopin for the better half of your life and not become dependent on it. When we get out of this mess, we’re easing you off of it, but for right now, you’re going through withdrawal which is a nasty business–trust me. We need to get you what your body needs before you get seriously hurt.”
Steve’s shaking only intensifies and he buries his head in his knees again. His breathing is growing sporadic. “I’m not a junkie,” he repeats, now muffled.
“No one thinks you’re a junkie, Steve,” Robin comforts.
The room fills with a chorus of assurances. Steve buries his head even deeper, reminded that so many people are witnessing him crumble into the floor.
“Steve, it’s okay we just want to help,” Lucas says.
Jim clears his throat, moving to put a broad hand on his trembling shoulder. “Steve, Murray and I are going to take you to your house so you can grab your meds–and whatever else you need–okay?”
“And I’ll come too,” Robin adds.
Steve nods quickly. Murray goes to start the car while Robin helps Steve get up off the floor. Meanwhile, Jim gets as much information as he can. “When did you start feeling off?”
Steve scoffs. “When the vines tried to drown me.”
“Fair enough,” Jim groans. “When did the anxiety get notably worse?”
Steve sobers, and the Chief can now see the thin layer of sweat collecting on his skin. “Yesterday maybe?”
“Is that when the shaking started?” Jim asks, his voice more hushed. Steve nods, ashamed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I…I thought I was just exhausted–and everyone’s exhausted–so I didn’t want to bother anyone with it.”
Robin sighs and rests her head against his shoulder. “Next time, tell me–I don’t care how small it is.”
Steve nods noncommittally. Then he’s being ushered into the truck. It’s about a 15 minute drive, but with the earth split open like this, it’s feeling like a lot longer. Murray taps his fingers on his knees in the passenger seat while Robin taps her fingers on her knees behind Hopper.
Bill and Cheryl Harrington’s faces are turning over and over in Hopper’s mind. And what kind of doctor would prescribe this kind of stuff for a 12 year-old? Jim unconsciously cracks his knuckles on the steering wheel. “You think I could talk to your parents when we get there?”
“They won’t be there,” Steve answers, his breath clipped.
“Did they get scared off by the earth-quake?” Hopper asks in his roundabout way of getting the answers he wants.
“No, they were already out of town.”
“That’s lucky for them, I guess,” Jim prompts further, “being on vacation when shit hits the fan.”
“They’re usually gone,” Steve admits, an apathetic tone seeping into his words. “My dad’s firm has a lot of branches that they need to check in on. It’s been like this for a while.”
The air has seemingly been sucked out of the vehicle, stilling all the tapping fingers and leaving only the conversation. “When’s the last time you saw them?” Hopper asks calmly, trying not to make a big deal out of this.
“They were home for New Years,” Steve responds.
Jim clenches his jaw so tightly, he thinks he may break a tooth. “How long have they been going on these business trips?”
Steve hesitates. In the silence, Jim looks at him in the rear-view mirror. His face is pale with a sickly sheen. Hopper can see those extra tremors in his shoulders that aren’t coming from the bumpy road. It’s those dazed, anxious eyes that meet his as he says, “Seventh grade.”
“Jesus,” Murray mutters under his breath, “I’m gonna kill someone.”
“It’s fine,” Steve says, shutting his eyes and taking a deep, wheezing breath. “It’s better when they’re gone anyways.”
Jim feels his stomach sink to his feet. “Steve…please promise me you’d tell me if your parents–”
“Jesus, Hop, can we table this for when I don’t feel like my lungs are in a trash compactor?” Steve wheezes. He’s tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.
Murray flips around in his seat, his eyes wide. “Tight chest?” he asks frantically.
Steve groans, “It…feels like someone’s…sitting on…mmmm–-my chest, yeah.”. His breaths have quickly become stilted and painful.
“What does that mean?” Robin cries.
Murray whips his head to Jim. “Drive faster.”
Hopper presses down on the gas as hard as he can, speeding down the streets of Loch Nora.
“Murray, what does that mean?” Robin repeats, more intensely this time. She’s clutching Steve’s hand which is, in turn, squeezing hers as hard as it can.
“It means you’re on seizure watch.”
“WHAT?” Robin and Steve both reply, eyes blowing wide.
Steve winces and squeezes his eyes shut again. The trembling in his hands has increased to full shaking. Deep panic begins to overtake him again, and he starts to hyperventilate painfully. “Sh-shit,” he stammers out.
“You’re okay, Steve, Murray has no idea what he’s talking about, okay?” Robin rambles, “You’re gonna be fine, I’m right here. We’re almost to your house–you’re so close, alright?” But she can see the quick, stilted breaths rattling through his chest.
“We’re here!” Jim calls, swerving into the driveway. Like a shot, Steve is clambering for the door handle and racing up to his house. The other three are quick to spot him as he fumbles with raising the mat and picking up the key.
Once it’s in his grasp, he’s shaking too much to get it into the keyhole. “I-I can’t–”
“I got it,” Robin mutters, grabbing the key and unlocking the door.
Steve bounds through the hallway towards the kitchen. Hopper catches up with him just in time to see him scoop the powder pill up into his mouth. The young man stands there for a minute–hands planted against the kitchen island, arms still quivering with anxiety. Slowly, the trembling dies down and his breathing levels out. After a few minutes, the effects of the drug seem to settle in.
Robin slowly walks up and rests a hand on his shoulder. “How about I make you an overnight bag while you chill for a bit? Hm?”
Steve nods softly in response. “You know where my duffel is, right?”
Robin chuckles sweetly, “I know where all your stuff is, Dingus.”
While she bounces up the stairs, Hopper motions Steve over to the breakfast bar stools. “How about you sit with us for a bit? We’ll get you some water.”
Steve nods and takes a seat, letting his weight sink into the chair back.
They mostly let him drink his water in peace, but there are a couple more things Jim needs to know. “How many days do you have left in the bottle?”
Steve rattles it softly, eyeing the little circular pills that slosh about. “Probably three weeks? I added a couple days of supply, I guess.”
Jim can’t help but huff out a chuckle, glad to see the color returning to the young man’s face. “Aside from your parents and that lunatic doctor, does anybody else know about your meds? Anyone you were able to reach out to for support?”
Steve’s eyes plummet to his fingers, picking at the tag on the orange bottle. “Tommy Hagan.”
Murray squints his eyes as he analyzes the body language before him. “We do not like Tommy.”
“He was my best friend from first grade to junior year,” he explains. “I told him about it when I got the prescription and he called me a junkie for a year. He would joke about how I was going to school high every day. And then when we got older he’d ask me for some. I never gave him any, which made him mad. He said he’d tell everyone. I mean, I was King Steve , if people found out how bad my anxiety was, they’d be all over me–and if the coaches thought that I was using? I could say goodbye to Team Captain, I would be kicked out of basketball and swimming entirely.
“Wow, we really do not like Tommy Hagan,” Murray mutters to himself.
“Steve, I promise none of us think that way about you,” Hopper assures, “and I promise , after this final round with the Upside-Down, we’re gonna get you off of Klonopin the right way. Not because it makes you a bad or broken person, but because it’s not safe for you. We care about you, kid. I care about you–and you know how hard it is for me to admit that.”
Steve cracks a smile at that. “Thanks, Hop. I appreciate it.”