Chapter Text
July 20th, 1985
Steve looks around at the pile forming in the center of his room. His clothes are already packed neatly away in an assortment of boxes stuffed into the trunk of his car. This is his attempt to take as many household items as he could before his parents notice. Some of it really is his. The bedding, shampoo and conditioner. In all honesty, just about anything in this house that could run out, he restocked with his own damn money. He should be able to take as much as he pleases.
With that in mind, he thus far has managed to accrue all of the things in his bedroom, including the aforementioned bedding–not the mattress, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it– several perishables to get him by for maybe a week, and an assortment of toiletries. They’re never even here to check, how could they notice? The food would rot anyway. He’s doing them a service.
He stares at the pile for a few minutes. It’s just so…big. Half of it sits in turned-over boxes, spilling everything out. The rest just. Sits there.
Steve faintly hears shuffling downstairs. The sound of arguing, at first muted, then growing louder. They want him out. He still has another week to get his affairs in order, but it's clear that was just a courtesy. He’s graduated! He’s almost eighteen! Time to get out of the house and do something with your miserable life.
He lets out a sigh of relief once he catches a car pulling out of the driveway in the corner of his eye. It’s fine. He’s got a few places that fit into his budget. He can figure something out. He’s almost an adult, practically there. The upside-down bullshit should give him a boost.
He has maybe a minute to breathe before he hears a knock on his door.
Fuck. Not now. Please not now. He’s been avoiding most of the Party for days, and while he knows a confrontation is imminent, he’d at least like to be moved in somewhere by then.
“Are you dead in there, jackass?!”
Oh, good. It’s not Dustin at the door. Max…Max, he can handle. She’s confrontational and perceptive to a fault, but she usually doesn’t bring the entirety of Hawkins at the slightest concern. Plus, she knows how to keep things to herself.
He tries not to drag himself downstairs at the speed of molasses, and just as he’s about to start spouting excuses, he finally looks at Max face to face.
Bruises. There are bruises.
“Don’t.” She says firmly, before he can even force his jaw off the floor. “I know, ok? I just–can I come inside for a second?”
He doesn’t know why she even needs to ask. He’s already moving out of her way halfway through her request.
Max paces in circles for a bit, likely debating whether she wants to dirty his parents’ pristine, never-sat-on couch or not. She stands still, tapping her foot furiously for another few moments before finally huffing and plopping down.
“I’m asking a lot. I know I’m asking a lot, but I mean–I could probably start doing those odd jobs Lucas does to make up for it, and if not, I can see if someone will hire me…early, but–”
“Whoa, Max. Slow down. Why do you need a job?”
“My mom skipped town.” She says quickly. “And my dad’s a piece of shit, so…”
Steve pauses for a moment, just to process. Deep down, he always had an assumption that one day things would come to a head for her. Just like they are for him. Doesn’t make the idea hurt any less.
“Your mom left?”
Max nods and moves over on the couch to give Steve room when he sits next to her. “She um…she took Billy’s death pretty hard. He was only like, 10 when my mom married Neil, so…they’ve known each other for a while. He didn’t really like her, but she liked him. Plus…”
She stays silent for a moment, letting her breath slow down.
“Neil always took his anger out on Billy. Without him there, it’s sort of a toss-up on who gets the brunt of it, and being the older one there, her odds were worse, I guess.”
Steve takes in a deep breath. “And…if you’re gone. He won’t…hunt you down or anything?”
“Nah. He’ll probably fuck off to Vegas or somethin’ and ruin some other family.”
Max starts fidgeting. Pulling at her sleeves, lightly twisting her fingers a bit, anything to take her attention off the conversation. Steve waits patiently for her to continue. He doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to pry. Max isn’t like Dustin, who expects a constant rapport. Take one step too far with her, and she’ll run off like a frightened animal.
“I’ll get a job. I know there’s no such thing as a free lunch, but I can’t go back there. Please.”
“You…want to stay here?”
“Please.”
“Look, Max, I…”
The girl almost immediately stands up. “Right, it’s stupid. I’m sorry I asked.”
“No!” Steve pauses, then sucks in a breath. “You can’t stay here. Not because I don’t want you to, but because I can’t even stay here.”
“What?”
“I’m an adult–”
“In like, several months–”
“Close enough!” He’s raising his voice. He can’t do that. Shit, he isn’t prepared to tell anyone just yet. “I um…I have a place I’m looking at. It’s got two rooms, but it’s not exactly um…a house. It’s over in Forest Hills, and I’m ok with it, but I’d never want to force you to–”
“I don’t care.”
Steve looks at her in disbelief.
“I’ll be completely unobtrusive. We don’t even have to acknowledge each other.”
“Max. That’s not the issue.”
“Ok, well, if you’re fine with me existing around you, I’m fine with wherever you decide to exist.
Steve huffs out a laugh. “Look, I still have a few days until I’m given the boot. I can be out in two, but I can’t…my parents are home right now. They’d notice.”
“I can stay over at the Byers? They all move in a few weeks. I’m sure El wants the company. I’ll just…say I ate shit on my skateboard.”
The Byers, El included, won’t believe that excuse for a second. He hopes they won’t, that they’ll step in. Having at least one adult weigh in on this would be great. Then again…Joyce has so much on her plate. Fuck, he can’t put this on her. How selfish could he be?
“I can tell them the truth, too,” Max says, somehow knowing exactly what his mental freakout is about. “It’s not like he’d be a problem to me anymore. I can tell them that.”
“Ok, ok. I’ll pick you up Sunday night. I should have everything moved by then.”
“I can help you if–”
“No. No, I…I got it.”
“You’re still injured!”
“Max,” He tries to give her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. It’s not that much, and besides. You and El will probably miss each other like a limb once she’s gone. You deserve to spend some time with her.”
Max frowns, and it’s clear she hates his reasoning, but she doesn’t fight it. Steve lets out a sigh of relief and makes his way to the door before she can come up with an argument.
“Here, I’ll drive you over.”
–
July 22nd, 1985
Steve feels like he’s dragging a corpse across the floor—his body aches. There are still injuries long left untreated from the ‘fire’, aggravated and burning from their fight.
The palm of his hand digs into shattered glass, forced into the skin from the sheer force of him trying to move. He pulls back, gives himself a moment to process the pain, and continues.
Evidently, his parents are disappointed by his housing prospects, despite only having a few hundred dollars to his name to work with. Apparently, he should have pulled thousands out of his ass and landed a down payment on a nice little house in the suburbs. Just a two-bedroom house, Steven. Not even two floors!. A trailer? What has become of you?
His phone continues to ring. It stopped for a few seconds before picking up again, likely the person calling him again once the time ran out. The idea of Robin or one of the kids running in to see this…he shudders at the thought.
Eventually, after an embarrassing amount of effort, he manages to get himself to the phone, celebrating that he didn’t have to get up too high to tug the thing down to him by its cord.
“Steve. Where are you?”
“...Max?”
“It’s almost ten, and you said–are you okay?”
“Yeah,” He lets out a muffled hiss. “Fine. Just uh…had a migraine? I fell asleep.”
“Oh sure, real believable–” Max jumps, evident from a thud and a bit of crashing on the other line. “Shit shit shit–”
“Max?” Suddenly, his ability to sit up is no longer called into question. He might be able to run if there’s enough concern. “Max, are you okay?”
“Who is this?”
A deeper voice, from a guy his age. And, if the snide, annoyed tone is any indication…
“Jonathan, I uh…sorry, this is Steve. I said I’d pick Max up and well…”
“You’re late.”
“Yep.” He says as casually as he can, popping the ‘p’ at the end.
“Where are you? Your house still, right? I’ll drop her off and head your way.”
Steve sputters, the phone slipping out of his grasp for a moment. He stumbles around a bit to grab it again before replying. “What? Byers, it’s fine, I’ll be–”
The only thing he hears on the other line is the dial tone. Damnit.
–
“Seriously, I can just skate there! I know the way!”
Jonathan rolls his eyes, not even bothering to pay any attention to her protests as he snags his keys and a coat. “It’s way too late for that, and way too far to go on a skateboard by yourself. I’d like to see you get past Joyce with that reasoning.”
Max doesn’t even want to consider the possibility. Still, she can’t have him drop her off at her house, or Steve’s, or the new place…
“You have all your stuff?”
She glances down at the stuffed duffel bag by the door, already packed since seven. Neil…he has to be home. She’s only tried to sneak back once–for her clothes–and that…the idea of going back again for any amount of time makes her sick to her stomach.
Max sighs and tosses her bag in the backseat of Jonathan’s car.
“So, remind me where your house is again?”
“...Forest Hills.”
–
Steve spends the time between his hung-up call and Jonathan ringing his doorbell frantically trying to find a way to get to the door and appear as normal as humanly possible. Ideally, he would already be in his car, racing over to wherever Max is and explaining the situation away.
Luck, as it seems, is never on his side, because Steve is only halfway between the kitchen and the door when Jonathan arrives. He’s still dragging himself across the damn tile. Not exactly something he can deflect.
“Harrington? Are you in there?”
Steve huffs. Screw it. Maybe Jonathan will lose interest. He can tell Max he tried and be on his merry way. Steve flops over onto his back and catches his breath. Yeah, that makes the most sense anyway. They’re not friends, they’re barely even friendly–
Jonathan starts banging down the door.
“Steve! Are you ok?! You–” The two meet eyes, Steve craning his neck back to see him. “Holy shit.”
“Did you break it? The wood’s probably expensive.”
“Who cares about the fucking door, you moron.” Jonathan quickly kneels and helps him up, leading him over to the couch. “Do you have any sort of first aid kit?”
“Damn, I think I’ve already got blood on this.”
“Steve. Focus.”
“I am, I am. Just…give me a second to get my shit together and clean this mess up and–”
Suddenly, Jonathan is gripping both of his shoulders with a frankly terrifying amount of force. He doesn’t even need to say anything.
“It’s in the trunk of my car.”
“Keys?”
Steve fumbles in his back pocket, then hands them over. He’s right, there is already blood on the couch. His mom doesn’t even let people sit on it; he has to practically hose it down anytime one of the kids decides to eat a bag of chips on it. Despite the thing likely being ruined, he still finds himself sitting stiffly to avoid anything else getting damaged.
“Alright,” Jonathan carelessly tosses the bag onto a table. “Hand first. Tell me what all happened.”
“I really don’t–”
“Injuries, at least. So I know what to deal with.”
Steve avoids his eyes. He watches the now careful way that Jonathan starts to clean and bandage his torn-up hand. He sighs. “I uh…had another thing of fine china thrown at my face. If there’s blood on my head, it’s not–it looks worse than it probably is.”
Jonathan gives him an unimpressed look, and once he’s done dealing with the hand, he starts checking his hair for shards.
His talk with Robin in the mall bathroom flashes into his mind—the reason why he takes every effort not to ponder.
“I uh–I think that’s it, honestly? I mean, I’m bruised up for sure, but that’s par for the course for me.”
“You can barely walk.”
“Yeah, par for the course.”
A few glass shards fall onto the couch, and Steve tries not to think about it, not to stare at it. Though in his attempt to avoid that, he ends up looking at Jonathan again, who is unbelievably frustrated.
“What?”
“Here just–let me help you get to your car.”
The two awkwardly stumble their way out the door. Jonathan gives him half a second to process that he’s being put in the passenger seat of his own car, then immediately jogs around to get in the driver’s seat.
“Didn’t you drive here?”
“Hm?” Jonathan adjusts a few mirrors, only half paying attention. “I parked a few houses down. Nance was going to pick me up at the edge of Forest Hills and take me back here.”
“...you both know?”
“She thinks I’m hooking you up with some weed after a nasty fight.” Jonathan sighs, starts the car, and pulls out of the house. “I know.”
Shit.
“Max is already at your new place. She gave me the bare minimum, if that’s any consolation.”
“And…where do you stand with it?”
“You’re sure neither of your parents will hunt you down?”
“We’ve both been functionally disowned, so…no. Not a concern.”
Jonathan shrugs. “Ok.”
“Ok?” Steve runs a hand through his hair, wincing the second he makes contact. “You’re just…okay with me snatching her up and acting like she’s my responsibility?”
“You say that like she has no choice in the matter,” Jonathan says with a huff. “Do you want my opinion?”
“Yes…?”
“If it were up to me, she would have moved in with us the second I found out about her home life. The same goes for you.”
“For me?--”
“What would happen if you did take the ‘smart’ route? Report Max’s situation to CPS, and try to live your own life? I’ve had CPS over…god, too many times. They did…nothing. No one ever does anything.”
Steve is silent at that. Years of being told just how incapable he is make him take the defensive at every opportunity, but Jonathan makes a fair point. He never had CPS, sure, but he’s had plenty of ignored or half-handled noise complaints to understand the frustration.
“Do you need me to grab anything on my way back? I never asked.”
“No, I–” Steve huffs. “Shit, Jonathan. You’re confusing the hell out of me.”
“Huh?”
“We’ve had maybe two conversations with each other collectively over the past two years. I was an asshole to you, and suddenly here you are going out of your way to pull my sorry ass out of a mess born of my own incompetence.”
“You–” Jonathan quickly pulls into the loose concept of a driveway by the trailer, tires squealing a little, then shifts it into park and turns to face him. “This whole thing? It’s not your fault.”
“I got my ass beat because I’m too stupid to get into college and too broke to get something better than a trailer. Argue all you want, Byers, but the fact of the matter is–”
“Oh I’ll keep arguing!” Jonathan gets out of the car, slamming the door slightly and making his way back around to help Steve out, making a point to ignore his efforts to do so on his own. “And I don’t exactly hate you anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently, under all that posturing, you’re a good person. Just because you didn’t get into some fancy ass school doesn’t mean your life is suddenly useless.”
Steve is leaning against the car for support, and Jonathan’s hands are on his shoulders again. This time, there isn’t nearly as much force. It’s almost…gentle. Reassuring, even.
“You’re taking on a lot. More than most people would, considering the circumstances. It’s not something I’d expect from you of all people, and I need you to know I kind of hate the fact that you don’t suck, but…” Jonathan huffs and lets his hands fall to his sides. “Just look out for her, okay?”
“Of course.”
“And if you need anything, you’re calling me.”
“I can’t exactly see what all you can do from fucking Lenora–”
“You call me. Got it?”
Steve rolls his eyes and lets out a dramatic groan. “Fine, fine. I’ll call you. You’re so damn pushy.”
Jonathan still fusses with him over the six full steps it takes to get to the front door of his trailer. Steve allows this only because he’s trying to be a nicer person, even if having the man go out of his way even more makes him queasy. The fussing gets worse when they open the door, greeted by Max.
The girl doesn’t say anything; she simply takes over the fussing and helps him inside, waving off Jonathan rather unceremoniously and all but slamming the door in his face.
The second Jonathan is out of sight, she tugs him into a hug.
“You freaked me out, asshole.”
Steve is slow to hug her back, careful, as if her skin were made of fire. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”