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By party agreement—and yes, Steve is now a veteran member of the party, more than he is anything else in life, and no, he wouldn’t change it for the world—Lucas needs a break. He’s starting off his shitty sophomore year with a typically ambitious number of extracurriculars (more than Steve had in his day, that’s for damn sure), he’s helping Mr. Sinclair on his grocery delivery duty, and he is always, in every Crawl-free moment, to be found at Max’s bedside.
That last one; that’s where Lucas needs a break. Nobody minds spelling him for a few hours here and there, although it takes some forceful convincing (mainly from Mike, and Joyce, who know a few things about waiting) to convince him to take his foot off the metaphorical gas.
Steve helps with the lift, not with persuading Lucas to do anything. The kids don’t listen to him much anymore, not that they ever did. He’s accepted his various roles in the quarantine day-to-day and the subterranean midnights; he’s accepted that he’s not a leader.
At best, he’s a friend. At least… at least he’ll sit vigil in Max’s room whenever he’s needed.
There’s a stack of books on the wheeled table-slash-caddy that the nurses allow for “personal effects.” Steve leafs through them sometimes, but the dyslexia that kept him a C-plus student for most of high school kicks in here, too. It’s crazy, that you can change so much as a person—that the world can change, literally locking you in a tin can of self-determination—but those little nagging flaws don’t ever leave.
Steve will always be a dumbass, to some degree, with poor impulse control and a load of baggage that is not interesting to anyone else. It fails to interest him. The fact that reading and writing don’t come naturally to him has hardly held him back from anything he needs to do in service of saving Hawkins, or if you want to put a finer point on it, the World.
Not that Steve takes personal credit for saving much of anything. These days, he can’t even save Dustin from an ass-kicking, or, to put a finer point on it, himself.
“And I certainly didn’t save you, did I, kiddo?”
Max doesn’t answer. She’d object—strongly—to being called “kiddo” if she were here. But she’s not here.
Not like that.
“Or maybe you are,” Steve presses on, deciding not to focus on how lame his voice sounds, echoing in the still room. He no longer lets himself dwell on old hangups: what makes you cool, what’s a good look. Ok, so maybe he still pays attention to his appearance, maybe a little more whenever he expects to be… perceived by certain gazes, but what the hell? Morale has to be maintained among the troops, and Steve will sacrifice fifteen extra minutes in front of his mirror to do it.
“Maybe you can hear every dumbass word I’m saying. I hope so. I hope it makes it like—a little more entertaining that I’m still a dumbass. You never doubted me, did you? On that score.”
He clears his throat.
“I never doubt that you can hear Lucas, you know. That kid loves you. I bet some people would say, oh, you two were too young to be sure. And yeah, time was, I’d have believed ‘em. But not anymore. Sometimes that’s the only thing you’re right about, as a kid. And Lucas—he’s a solid dude. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, Max. There’s a snowball’s chance I know anything about life that you don’t know.”
Her hair’s grown longer. It’s always neatly braided or laid in soft curls on the pillow. The kind of thing a mother should do, now left to nurses.
They never managed to make contact with Max’s mother after the Rift, never managed to find her—dead or alive—in the ruins of the trailer park. It’s not looking good, but few things are. There’s also a chance she’s a runner. Runners are people who can’t take it anymore: the quarantine or the death-scented air or the memory of all they’ve lost. They try to cross the boundary line. They don’t succeed. They’re taken into custody and committed to a temporary holding station staffed by Pennhurst folks. Or so the military says.
Steve doesn’t believe much that the military says.
“So Robin’s really taken to this DJ gig,” he says, searching for topics that are interesting but not upsetting. They try not to upset the Max they can’t see, the one who might be listening inside the frozen body of the girl they knew. “She’s got full run of the station. And that means I do, too. Privileges, y’know? Can’t say I’ve never moved up in the world.”
He imagines Max’s eye-roll. It would be epic.
“Having a radio station ain’t too shabby for… well, walls have ears, Max. I’ll leave it at that. But we’re doing all we can. I don’t want you to think for a second that we’re giving up. Not even Dustin,” he adds, raising his voice slightly. A door, swinging open and shut at the end of the hall, suggests his tardy change of guard is finally here.
Only when footsteps ring closer does he realize that they don’t sound like Dustin’s rapid shuffle.
Instead—
Steve has two seconds to run his hands through his hair and hope he doesn’t looks hopelessly bleary from lack of sleep and maybe tearing up a bit at the sight of Max.
Two seconds, and then Nancy’s in the doorway.
“Hey,” she says, knuckles curled against the doorframe like she was about to knock but then thought better of it. The cold, overhead lights glitter on the thin rings she wears. Not on that finger—not that ring. But Steve’s thought about it. Had a nightmare or two about it, incurable heartsick shit. There’s never getting over you, and then there’s laid it on the line in another dimension, in case I didn’t make it out, and then there’s six months of cabin fever and your boyfriend’s back, but I still feel like the weather changes every time you walk into a room.
“Hey,” he says. “I thought you were Dustin.”
Nancy smirks. “Is it the hair? I think he’s going for a full perm.”
“No—uh.” Steve’s embarrassed. “Just, he was supposed to take this slot.” I’m happy to see you, though. I’m always happy to see you, Nance.
“He radioed.” Nancy shrugs. “Something’s up with that kid.”
Steve’s sigh feels bone-deep. “Tell me about it.”
“What about this kid?” Nancy’s tone softens. She steps further into the room, tentative somehow, like she’s visiting for the first time. Maybe it hits Nancy differently, losing a girl who was like a little sister when she’s known all her life what it’s like to have a sister.
If anything happened to Holly …
“She’s hanging in there,” Steve says, brushing a hand lightly over one of Max’s braids.
“Were you reading to her?” Nancy nods towards the stack of books.
Steve shakes his head. He should say, thanks for coming, I’ll be on my way, and maintain the friendly distance they’ve been holding since the end of the world simply wouldn’t end. Instead…
“Just talking to her.” He hopes she doesn’t think it’s weird. He wonders how much she heard. “I know we all read to her, but sometimes I bet she misses conversation.”
Nancy smiles in that way that always stabs at him, soft lips and softer eyes.
“I know. I talk to her too.”
“Yeah?” He’s got to stop messing with his hair every time he’s nervous; it will look like he’s posing. “I bet whatever you have to say is more… to the point.”
“Girl-talk?” Nancy raises one eyebrow, and Steve grimaces before she lets him in on the joke. “Kidding. Yeah, so maybe I do indulge in a little girl-talk. How hard it is to get hair products that do anything these days. Max will have to hit me with her stored-up eye-rolls once she wakes up.”
Steve swallows the lump in his throat. One of Nancy’s many talents is blending the serious with the seemingly superficial; levity shimmering like moonlight on dark water.
He tries to match her. Levity is something, after all, that he’s supposed to be good at.
“I’m afraid I’ve been hoarding the hair product, Nance.”
That gets an impish grin. “Yeah? So that’s why it looks like that.”
“Busted.” God, it’s not the kind of thought you have in somebody else’s hospital room, but he wants—
—to kick back this flimsy chair, cross the space between them, take her upturned face in his hands and hear her say, do it.
Do it, Steve. Kiss me.
He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He’s barely slept, the past week. Weeks. Even when they’re not launching Crawls, it’s hard to rest knowing what lies beneath them. What lies all around them.
What lies they’re telling.
“I’ll let you get going,” Nancy murmurs. She’s picked up on the cue he didn’t want to send. “Thanks for staying late.”
Steve gathers up his jacket, doesn’t bother searching for his dignity. It’s folded, coward-small, with his back-pocket hopes.
“No problem,” he says. “I told Lucas, I’m happy to fill in whenever I’m needed.”