Chapter Text
~*~
Saturday, November 14, 1987
Steve is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, when he hears a quick knock at the front door. Before he can do more than wipe his hands on a towel, the door opens, and footsteps echo on the entryway’s hardwood.
“Steve?” Dustin’s voice calls through the house.
“In here,” Steve shouts back.
Dustin appears at the edge of the kitchen and seems to come up short when he sees Steve at the cutting board.
“What’re you doing?” Dustin asks, nose wrinkling in evident confusion.
“Knitting a sweater,” Steve deadpans before rolling his eyes. “I’m making dinner, what does it look like?”
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Dustin says, and it sounds almost like an accusation.
“I’d have starved back in high school if I couldn’t,” Steve says, and he tries not to let it come out bitter. His mom stopped caring whether he was fed sometime around his freshman year-- too many business trips, too much time away from home. Steve’s been buying his own groceries since he could drive.
It makes him love Claudia Henderson a little bit extra. Steve sometimes envies Dustin-- how he gets to take the ready availability of food in his house for granted, how he can trust that Claudia will make sure he gets fed.
“Your parents really are assholes,” Dustin says.
Steve wants to agree, but something like force of habit makes him say, “At least they still let me live here.”
“Have you heard from them since the quarantine lifted?”
Steve shakes his head, resuming chopping onions. “Nah, not a word.”
His parents had been out of town when the “earthquake” struck. The iron walls of the Hawkins quarantine had come down with them on the outside, and Steve had gone from living mostly alone to living completely alone.
At first, his mother called once a week, checking in and looking for news, but as time passed, the calls steadily dwindled. Steve knows they have a house in Chicago now, a new life that has nothing to do with him.
The knowledge that he could be left behind so easily aches somewhere deep in his chest; yet, somehow, the nineteen months without his father’s imminent pressure have made Steve freer, lighter.
Today marks day four since the quarantine was lifted, but he still hasn’t heard anything from his parents. He wonders if they even know-- wonders more if they even care.
Privately, Steve hopes they stay in Chicago.
Steve and Dustin lapse into silence. Dustin rests his elbow on the counter, watching curiously as Steve cuts up a carrot.
“What’re you making?”
“Beef stew,” Steve says, then adds unnecessarily, “It’s a good way to get rid of everything I have left before it goes bad.”
Dustin hums in acknowledgment. “Need help?” he asks.
Steve can only blink. Dustin is in his house, offering to help cook. It feels a bit otherworldly after months of rocky friendship. They’ve bled together, pledged their willingness to die together, but somehow making dinner together feels intimate in a new way.
“Um, sure,” Steve says, trying to gather his thoughts. “You can wash the potatoes, if you want.”
Wordlessly, Dustin moves further into the kitchen. He’s in old jeans and a worn Metallica t-shirt. The shirt is a bit loose on him, and Steve can’t help wondering if it used to be Eddie’s. Steve knows Dustin helped Eddie’s uncle after Eddie died, knows he helped clean out Eddie’s room when it became too much for the older man to bear.
Dustin grabs a potato off the pile and dutifully begins washing it under cold water.
“So, do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” Dustin asks without looking up from the sink. He asks like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t matter, but the sheer level of nonchalance makes Steve pay attention.
“I figured I’d order Chinese food,” Steve says, because there’s no point cooking for the day when it’s just him, and his plans haven’t gotten any further than calling Jade Palace to make sure they’ll be open.
Dustin nods, as if this is what he expected, setting a cleaned potato on the counter next to Steve. He shuffles his feet, and Steve can tell he’s nervous.
“I have an alternate suggestion," Dustin says, and his voice is tight. “How about you come spend the day with Mom and me. She always cooks enough for six, anyhow.”
The suggestion catches Steve off-guard. He bites his lip, thinking it over.
“I don’t know, man,” he says slowly. He doesn’t know if he’s ready-- ready to resume life as usual, ready to go over to the Henderson house and play normal. On the other hand, the invitation feels like a rekindling of their old friendship, and Steve wants to hold on to that however he can.
Dustin turns off the water and faces Steve fully.
“Please,” he says, and there’s an edge of desperation to it. “Steve, please. I don’t think I can do this on my own.”
There’s earnestness in Dustin’s words, and he’s moving like there’s an itch under his skin, clenching and unclenching his hands. Seeing his distress, Steve sets down the knife, wipes his hands, and crosses the kitchen in two steps.
“Hey, hey,” Steve says soothingly. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s--” Dustin starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. It just all feels like too much-- having to sit and eat Thanksgiving dinner and pretend everything is fine, like I didn’t watch one of my friends sacrifice herself eight days ago. Like you and I didn’t fight the Mind Flayer together with nothing but spears, like all of us didn’t almost die together on another planet."
Dustin’s shoulders have hunched up around his ears, posture going defensive as the speed of his words increases.
“I can’t just eat turkey with my mom and pretend to be okay. I can’t do it, Steve. I can’t look at my mom’s concerned face and keep lying to her-- because she knows something’s wrong; of course she knows, and she wants me to tell her, and I can’t. She thinks it’s girls or school, and she wants to help, wants me to trust her, but this isn’t normal teen shit; it’s interdimensional monsters. And I think I might explode if I have to sit smiling through Thanksgiving on my own.”
By the end, Dustin is almost panting, face raw. His voice is high and pleading, like he’s still that kid with a demodog in his cellar, and Steve is still capable of taking on the world with a bat full of nails.
Steve moves on instinct, stepping closer to Dustin until he can grip the younger man’s shoulders with reassuring pressure. He squeezes lightly, letting his thumbs rub soothing circles.
“When I’m out running errands--” Steve starts, quiet. “When I’m, like, in the grocery store, or whatever-- sometimes it doesn’t feel real.”
It feels awkward to talk about, but he forges ahead, thinks maybe Dustin needs to hear.
“It’s like ordinary life is a dream, and reality could snap back at any moment,” he continues. “Like if I trust it, if I let my guard down, I’ll wake up one morning, and we’ll be back to fighting Vecna.”
Dustin nods, then leans forward to rest his forehead on Steve's collarbone.
“It’s so exhausting,” Dustin says, muffled. “I feel tired no matter how much I sleep-- when I can sleep-- and it feels like I'm floating through the day.”
“It sucks,” Steve agrees. He moves his arms to wrap around Dustin’s shoulders, holding him in a loose almost-hug. “If you want me over for Thanksgiving, then I’ll be there.”
Dustin glances up at him, eyes shining just a little too bright in the fluorescent light of the kitchen. “You’ll come? Really?”
Steve can’t help the thought that he would do just about anything for Dustin to keep looking at him like that-- like his old adoration is back, like Steve is his best friend and the coolest person he knows.
Steve shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like this return to their old friendship doesn’t make happiness swell in his chest. “Not like it’s a chore; your mom’s a great cook.”
There's more to it than that, and they both know it.
Steve chafes his hands up and down Dustin’s arms, a brisk reassurance.
“Why don’t you go pick something to listen to?” Steve offers. “The records are in the living room now.”
Dustin nods before loping off in the direction of Steve’s sound system.
Last week, in the cloying aftermath of ending the Upside Down once and for all, Steve finally took steps to claim the house as his own.
He rearranged the living room furniture, and it felt a bit like spite when he made the sofa face the TV rather than the fireplace. He emptied the living room bookshelves of his father’s presence, political memoirs and antique spyglasses shoved unceremoniously into a cardboard box to make room for Steve’s record collection.
“Why do you only have pop music?” Dustin calls.
“Because I don’t like being sad all the time!” Steve yells back automatically. He tries not to read too much into the assertion.
There’s a pause-- and Steve can practically hear Dustin overthinking his words-- but then there’s the crackle of the record cueing up before Rick Springfield starts singing several decibels louder than is probably advisable. The house nearly vibrates with the volume of Human Touch, pop beat filling the rooms that used to hold only his father’s silence.
Steve smiles, bobbing his head in time to the music as he goes back to the cutting board.
~*~
Tuesday, November 24, 1987
Two days until Thanksgiving, anticipation settles into Steve’s stomach, and he decides to call the Henderson house.
Claudia picks up the phone with a distracted, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve says, straightening his posture automatically.
“Steve!” she says, tone transforming. “I keep telling you, it’s ‘Claudia’. Dusty isn’t in at the moment. I think he’s out fooling with that antenna of his.”
Steve clears his throat awkwardly. “That’s okay. I was actually calling to speak to you.”
“Me?” she says, sounding taken aback and flattered all at the same time. “How can I help you, Steve?”
“I just wanted to check in; Dustin invited me for Thanksgiving, and, well, I wanted to see if I could bring anything.”
Claudia coos in that way of hers, like Steve is a sweet miracle that’s landed on her doorstep. “Oh, how thoughtful! But there’s nothing we really need, unless you want to pick up pop for you boys.”
Steve smiles, wishing his own mother were half as enthusiastic about speaking to him.
“I can totally do that,” he says. “But I can also cook. I promise, I won’t give us food poisoning if there’s anything you want me to make.”
“Well,” Claudia hesitates, static holding the line, “is there any chance you could make green bean casserole? I’ve made three different recipes over the past three years, but none of them seem to turn out right. Dusty loves his Aunt Bedelia’s, but she won’t give up the recipe. I know he’s just trying to make me happy when he says mine are good; they’re always too runny.”
Steve agrees confidently, and the call ends after a bit more of Claudia’s doting.
Only once he’s set the phone back on the cradle does the panic set in.
~*~
“Robin!” Steve calls into the empty radio studio. He trots around the corner, knowing that she has to be here somewhere. Her last official day as DJ had been the day after the quarantine lifted, but she’s still been hanging around, helping with the transition.
“Ro-bin!” he shouts again, this time elongating her name into a whine.
Robin appears from behind a shelf of records, making a hurried motion for him to lower the volume.
“What, what?” she hisses. “We’re on air, Dingus.”
Steve rolls his eyes, knowing the new-- old?-- DJ is safe behind soundproof glass.
“I need a green bean casserole recipe-- a good one.”
Robin looks at him like he’s sprouted an extra head. “And what, exactly, do you want me to do about it? It’s two days until Thanksgiving, and every meal I touch burns.”
“I don’t know,” Steve says, gesturing wildly. “Have one of your brilliant ideas.”
“Steve, we have one rule in our friendship, and that rule is Robin doesn’t cook. We made that rule after I almost set fire to your house.”
“I know, I know,” Steve says, “But I’m desperate. You’ve gotta help me.”
“Why does it matter so much?” she asks, not unkindly.
“Because I’m spending Thanksgiving at Henderson’s, and his mom apparently can’t cook green bean casserole. Everyone’s been through so much-- I just wanna make something the kid will like.”
Saying it out loud, he doesn’t know why it matters so much, why he should care if he can make a dish Dustin likes. It sounds lame, even to his own ears, but Robin visibly softens.
She casts around, looking for some form of inspiration.
“I don’t know,” she starts, biting her lip, before she brightens and exclaims, “Nancy!”
Steve’s brow furrows. “Nancy? What about her?”
Robin holds out her palm, clearly waiting for Steve to see the brilliance of her idea. "Didn't you say her mom made, like, the most amazing meals back when you two dated? Why not ask her? Even if she doesn’t know a thing about cooking, I bet she could ask her mom.”
“Her mom just got out of the hospital," Steve protests.
“Yeah, and I bet she’d kill for a distraction,” Robin argues.
Steve runs his hand back through his hair.
“That could work,” he agrees slowly.
“Of course it could! It’s my great idea.” Robin slaps his arm playfully. “Now, why don’t you leave me be and go take the excuse to call her?”
“I don’t want an excuse,” Steve protests.
Robin ignores him, desensitized by the staggering volume of girl-drama she’s had to listen to over the years.
“It’s not like that,” he insists, because he wants her to understand.
For too long, Nancy has been nothing more than a fantasy. In his mind, she became a bland shadow of the woman she really is. Steve tried to shove her into his plans for the future, regardless of whether those plans could ever actually fit the life she wanted for herself. He needs to let her go before he hurts them both.
This time, Robin seems to actually listen.
“Good,” she agrees, kindness in her eyes. “I think that’s better for both of you.”
Steve reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, a quiet gratitude.
She doesn’t acknowledge the moment, instead says, “Guess what?”
“What?” he asks obligingly.
“Jimmy ‘Fast Hands’ might be kicking me to the curb, but he at least had the decency to get me a gig at Faust Records first,” Robin says, bouncing on her toes nervously. “I start on Monday.”
“That’s awesome!” Steve enthuses, but it also takes effort not to mourn his own unemployment. He’s starting to wonder how he’s ever meant to build a resume when every job he gets ends with a natural disaster.
~*~
Thursday, November 26, 1987
Steve still feels conflicted about his new car as he drives to the Hendersons’ for Thanksgiving. It’s a good car, a Toyota Corolla-- speedy, comfortable, perfectly… fine.
He doesn’t know what he expected when he drove the Beamer into the Upside Down, but it getting sucked into a wormhole was not on the list. After the gate closed, his most immediate problem-- other than some broken ribs-- was his need for a car. Trouble was, new cars had become a scarce commodity thanks to the quarantine.
The town circulated the same pool of used cars, charging outrageous prices for mechanical time-bombs-- because no one in Hawkins sold a car that worked properly, not anymore. Only personal connections could get you a good car.
Thankfully, he knew a guy.
“It’s not new,” Murray had said out of the driver’s window when he pulled up, “But it’s as close as you’re gonna get. I have it on good authority that the owners won’t be needing it, and it’s not meant to get auctioned with the house.”
And the car is good-- not many miles, handles well, faster than it has any right to be-- but Steve misses the Beamer.
The Beamer had been his father’s car for a few months before something faster came along. It had passed to Steve, fifteen and still learning to drive, and had been pretty much the most reliable thing in his life since.
The Beamer had been one of the few trappings of King Steve that still remained, and even though he knows it’s a waste of energy, he misses it.
He parks under the Hendersons’ carport next to Claudia’s car. As he turns off the engine, a nervous flutter of butterflies catches him off guard. It’s not fear, not the insistent scratch of past trauma climbing up his throat like it sometimes does. He’s just-- nervous.
He tries to shake it off as he climbs out of the car.
When he knocks on the front door, green bean casserole tucked safely under one arm, he thinks the feeling has passed. Then, hurried footsteps approach as Dustin calls, “I’ll get it!”, and something like anticipation lights up Steve’s nerves.
The door is jerked open to reveal Dustin, a toothy grin showing off his braces. The smile is wide and open, and something Steve has missed dearly. He’s grinning back without even deciding to.
“You came!” Dustin exclaims, taking a step back to let Steve inside. He’s in socks and a science pun shirt that Steve doesn’t get.
“I said I would,” Steve says, almost offended, as he steps into the house.
“Mom’s still cooking,” Dustin explains, leading the way.
Sure enough, when they round the corner into the kitchen, Claudia appears to be juggling about five different recipes. Still, she takes the time to look up at Steve, and a smile breaks over her face, so much like her son’s.
“Oh, Steve! It’s so lovely to have you over,” she enthuses.
“Thanks for having me,” Steve says politely. He sets the casserole down on a free bit of counter, out of the way enough not to cause any issues.
“What’d you bring?” Dustin asks, lifting the edge of the tinfoil to peer under it.
Steve shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just green bean casserole.”
Dustin bounces on the balls of his feet, and Claudia claps her hands in a show of excitement. “Oh, that’s just perfect! Does it need to be cooked or just warmed up?”
“Just warmed,” Steve says. “I, uh, figured you’d have enough on your hands without having to fully cook one more thing.”
Nancy, to her credit, had only paused for a few seconds before taking his recipe request in stride. No, she didn’t know how to make it, but she was more than willing to hand the phone over to her mother.
Mrs. Wheeler, seemingly bored with her own recovery, had happily shared her technique with Steve. The key, she’d insisted, voice rough, was fresh green beans-- “But, you can’t just throw them in raw; you have to lightly saute them in soy sauce, first,” she’d instructed.
Steve clears his throat, feeling awkward just watching as Claudia works.
“Do you need any help?” he offers.
"You're so sweet, but no, honey. I’m just fine,” she says. “You and Dusty go play.”
Steve feels like he should protest; after all, he’s twenty-one, not six, and fully capable of helping make dinner, but Dustin rolls his eyes and catches Steve’s elbow.
“Come on,” Dustin says, pulling Steve down the hall towards his bedroom. “She kicked me out of the kitchen hours ago-- says she’s got a plan and is too busy to delegate.”
Dustin’s room is clean but cluttered, with electronic components Steve can’t recognize littering the desk in small piles. LEGO scenes war for space on the bookshelf with physics books and fantasy novels. There’s a pile of clothes spilling out of a hamper, and the comforter is pulled up on the bed half-heartedly.
Dustin hesitates just inside the door, like he doesn’t know what to do now that he has the older man in his space. The moment threatens to turn awkward, so Steve forges ahead, kicking off his shoes and flopping down on Dustin’s small bed like he belongs there.
The move hurts his ribs, but it’s worth it for Dustin’s amused huff.
The scent of Dustin clinging to the sheets envelops Steve, masculine and distinct. It’s familiar, like the smell of Dustin’s hair when they get close, and Steve is surprised by how pleasant he finds it. The butterflies are back-- and again, Steve can’t place why.
Dustin’s eyes are wide as he looks at Steve on his bed, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls out the desk chair and turns it to face Steve before sitting.
Silence hangs between them, both a little unsure of this return to their old dynamic. Once, Dustin would have filled the space effortlessly, but now, he looks unsure of himself.
The faint yellow of old bruising is still visible on his skin, and it’s a reminder of everything they’ve been through-- how much they’ve survived. Dustin seems older now, both in years and lived experience, and it’s a stark contrast to the kid Steve had originally befriended three years ago.
“How’s the nose?” Steve asks.
“Definitely broken, but at least it’s healing straight,” Dustin says before asking, “What about you-- you said your ribs felt fucked.”
“They’re not keeping me awake anymore, so we’ll call that a win.” Steve glances at the open bedroom door, lowering his voice. “So, what’s the story-- with your mom, I mean? Like, what did you tell her?”
Dustin looks away and shrugs. “Same thing I told you-- bike crash.”
Steve looks at the ceiling in exasperation. “Yeah, but like, what does she think happened?”
“Most of my injuries happened before the Upside Down,” Dustin says softly. “She’s probably guessed how. I mean, at least it makes a good excuse to cover up the rest.”
Steve resists the temptation to lecture him again on being safe, on keeping his head down and not provoking morons. He thinks maybe that’s not what Dustin needs to hear anymore.
So, Steve says the only encouraging thing he can think to say: “Next time you set yourself up to get jumped, call me. Least it would be a fairer fight.”
“Hey, I held my own,” Dustin says, almost proud. “There were, like, four of them.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “And two on four would be better odds.”
“No offense, Steve, but have you ever actually won a fight?”
“There was that one Russian guy!” Steve defends before stretching, letting his head loll back on Dustin’s pillow. “Besides, doesn't matter if we’d win. The point is that I’d get the shit kicked out of me right alongside you-- ‘If it fails we both go down’.”
Dustin’s face does something complicated before ultimately settling into a soft, pleased look.
“I missed you,” he says softly, looking down.
Steve shifts, propping himself on one elbow so he can see his friend better. Gently, he says, “I never went anywhere, man.”
“I know,” Dustin says sadly. “I know you didn’t. I just-- I didn’t know how to handle everything, so I shut you out.”
“The way you lost Eddie-- That’s enough to fuck anyone up. Just--” Steve hesitates, searching for the right words. “I’m still here, okay? Always will be.”
“Thanks,” Dustin says, stilted but earnest.
Silence falls between them again, more comfortable this time.
It gives Steve too much time to take in his surroundings, the feel of Dustin’s comforter on his skin. It stirs a languor in his limbs that he doesn’t understand, an urge to sink back into Dustin’s sheets.
Steve forces the thoughts away and casts around for something-- anything-- to say. His eyes land on the soft glow of the tank on the other side of the room.
“That’s one big turtle,” Steve observes, almost absently.
Dustin scoffs. “That’s because Yurtle is a tortoise."
“What’s the difference?” Steve asks slowly.
“Tortoises have feet instead of flippers, and they’re way smarter. Well, I guess a different kind of smart. Wanna meet him?” he asks, already standing.
“Um, sure,” Steve says, sitting up on the bed to watch Dustin remove the tank’s cover and reach inside.
“Liftoff time, Yurtle,” Dustin warns before picking up the tortoise.
Yurtle, perfectly trusting, doesn’t even retreat into his shell at the movement.
Dustin deposits him on the carpet in the center of the room, and Steve moves closer to watch. Yurtle reaches his neck up for attention, and Dustin obligingly rubs his head.
“You can pet him,” Dustin says.
Curiosity wins out, and Steve drops down next to Dustin on the floor. Slowly, he reaches toward the tortoise, but Yurtle immediately tucks his head into his shell. Steve tries not to be disappointed.
“Hey, buddy; it’s okay!” Dustin coos. “It’s just Steve, Steve’s a friend. He won’t hurt you.”
Yurtle sticks his head back out, but only glares warily at Steve’s extended fingers.
Dustin scrambles up and reaches into the drawer under the tank. “Try this,” he says, holding out something dried and leafy to Steve.
Steve takes it and slowly offers it to Yurtle, who stares for a moment longer before sticking out his neck to eat it. Dustin raises his eyebrows encouragingly, so Steve tries again to pet the creature. This time, mouth full, Yurtle seems to take the attention as his due, leaning his head against Steve's fingers as he munches.
“Huh,” is all Steve says, oddly fascinated with the little guy. His head is cool and smooth, nothing like petting a typical housepet. On instinct, Steve scritches lightly with his nails, and the tortoise arches into it.
Dustin grins that toothy grin again, open and easy, and Steve’s stomach flips.
Before he has time to think about what that means, Claudia’s voice rings through the house.
“Boys! Dinner’s almost ready,” she calls. “Time to get washed up.”
When Yurtle is safely returned to his habitat, Dustin nods for Steve to follow and leads them to the small bathroom.
They stand hip to hip at the sink, playfully slapping at each other as they fight over the soap. It’s easy and normal, and then Dustin’s elbow brushes Steve’s, and a frisson of something warm and wanting shoots through him.
The feeling sharpens the moment.
And then Steve’s stomach drops, because while he can’t quite put a name to what he’s feeling, he knows it goes beyond normal platonic friendship.
He knows burgeoning attraction when he feels it.
The running water is static in his ears as Steve’s mind goes blank, like a TV set someone has unplugged.
“Uh, Steve?” Dustin says slowly. “You gonna finish washing your hands, buddy?”
Steve’s attention snaps back outward, and he realizes he’s just standing in front of the sink, soap covering his hands, while Dustin watches him with a bemused expression.
“You good?” Dustin asks, brows furrowed.
“Uh, fine,” Steve says lamely, even though he knows he’s very far from fine.
He follows Dustin towards the dining room on autopilot.
Steve’s mind wants to shy away from the feelings, to bury them deep and pretend they don't exist, but try as he might, he can’t seem to shove this new awareness of Dustin back down.
It’s so much like the draw he’s always felt towards Dustin, but suddenly, so very different. He’s always wanted to spend time with the younger man, almost from the very beginning, but now that desire has morphed into an insistent tug.
Claudia gestures expansively towards the array of dishes spread out on the counter, and Steve forces a smile.
“This looks amazing,” he says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t crack.
The world around him is a blur.
He must fix a plate, because the next time he tunes into reality, he’s seated at the table across from Claudia with Dustin at his right.
“Now, I’m not usually one for prayers or speeches before dinner,” Claudia starts, and Steve doesn’t know where this is going, but his nerves jangle.
Dustin must have a similar sentiment, because he ducks his head and rubs a hand across his face, muttering, “Mom--”
“All I was going to say is that today I’m thankful for the family we choose. Steve, thank you for being part of Dusty’s life--”
“Mom--!” Dustin squeaks, higher this time.
Steve doesn’t know what his expression is doing, but he feels a bit like he’s drowning, his lungs burning as he tries to remember how to breathe. He can barely meet her kind gaze, not when he’s having some sort of epiphany about being attracted to her teenage son.
Claudia ignores both of them. “Thank you for being the kind of friend and role model he deserves.”
Dustin covers his eyes with both palms. “I am begging you, dear mother, to end my suffering and let us eat.”
A sound like a strangled squeak escapes Steve, and his emotions are a jumbled mess.
“That’s all I had to say,” Claudia says, holding up her hands as if in surrender. “Time for dinner.”
Steve stares down at his plate, and really, the last thing he feels like doing right now is eating, but he takes a bite, anyhow.
Claudia is watching him, so Steve forces a smile and says, “It’s really good.”
Dustin bypasses everything else on his plate, going straight for Steve’s green bean casserole. His face lights up at the first bite, and he goes in for second and third bites without slowing down.
“This is great,” he says, still chewing. “Remind me why I didn’t know you could cook?”
Despite Steve’s war of emotions, the praise-- and more than that, the pleased expression on Dustin’s face-- makes something warm swell in Steve, but he simply shrugs and says, “It never came up, I guess.”
He wonders if Dustin will start finding excuses to have him cook, but the prospect doesn’t annoy him as much as he thinks it should. Steve doesn’t often get the opportunity to share food he’s made with anyone else, and he likes the idea of putting that pleased expression on Dustin’s face again.
Steve reaches for his glass and nearly knocks it over. He knows what friendship is, and it doesn’t feel like this. He knows, in a sort of abstract way, that there are guys who like guys the way that Robin likes girls. It’s never bothered him, but he’s also never thought of himself as one of those guys.
Now, though, he doesn’t get time to think about it.
Claudia gets up from the table for something, and Dustin nudges Steve.
“You’ve been quiet,” he whispers. “Is it my mom? I know she can be a lot.”
“No, no,” Steve protests, because it’s not Claudia’s fault, not really. Any other time he would have found her words endearing, if a little embarrassing. Now, though, he feels something akin to hypocrisy.
“Everything’s fine,” Steve lies. He hesitates, then adds, honestly, “Not sure I’ve got this whole acting normal thing licked quite yet.”
Dustin gives a wry huff and nods like he knows exactly what Steve means.
“So, Steve,” Claudia starts once she’s retaken her seat. “Dusty tells me that you don’t get to keep working at the Squawk now that the quarantine has lifted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve agrees. “Apparently, the station's owner doesn’t want it hosted by two untrained weirdos now that there’s a better option.”
“Do you have anything in mind for a new job?”
Steve winces. “Nothing in particular. I need to start looking.”
“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Claudia says, “But one of my good friends is the manager of that new pizza place downtown. She’s hiring for all sorts of positions.”
“You mean at Pizza Hut?” Dustin asks. He turns to Steve with an excited expression. “You have to apply! That would be so awesome. Just think about it-- perpetual access to pizza!”
Dustin’s face is so open, like the weight of everything they’ve been through has lifted for a moment. Steve can’t help but just stare at him, taking it in with a fond smile.
Claudia watches the exchange, and there’s something like relief on her face. Steve thinks he gets it-- suspects Dustin has been even more unreachable to his mother since Eddie’s death. He wonders if maybe he’s not the only one thankful to see some of Dustin’s old easiness returning.
“I’m sure Fran would hire you if I told her what a kind, hardworking young man you are,” Claudia offers. “She’s been having trouble keeping the place staffed since the earthquake. I can give her a call tomorrow to let her know you’ll be stopping by.”
“Umm, sure-- That would be amazing,” Steve replies.
Dustin smiles lopsidedly at him over a bite, and Steve’s breath catches.
He still doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, not really. He hasn’t had a quiet moment to stop and process the emotion sprouting in his chest, just knows that whatever it is, it shouldn’t be directed at the younger man.
The rest of dinner passes in a haze of small talk. Steve focuses on being charming and funny and normal, and smiles like his mind isn’t spinning in circles.
Dustin tenses every time his mother opens a new topic of conversation, as if he expects her to try wringing the truth about the past eighteen months out of Steve-- or, just as likely, like he expects something embarrassing to come out of her mouth.
Towards the end of dinner, Dustin miscalculates a bite and ends up dripping gravy on his shirt. He wipes at it, frowning, but the dark spot remains.
“I like this shirt,” he mutters, perturbed.
“We’ll put some stain remover on it, and it’ll come right out in the wash,” Claudia reassures him, then a thought seems to strike her. “You know, years ago, Dusty had this favorite shirt with Japanese writing on it--”
Dustin’s eyes widen in panic, flicking between Steve and his mom.
“I hope the theater starts getting new movies again now that the quarantine has lifted!” Dustin says, loud and fast, like he hopes they can all collectively ignore whatever his mom was starting to say.
Steve is so curious about where Claudia planned to take that sentence, but he chooses to be a good friend and says, “Maybe it’s not too late for them to get Dirty Dancing.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that’s good,” Dustin says with a nod, and there’s gratitude in his blue eyes.
After dinner, Claudia takes Steve up on his offer to help with the dishes. He’s glad to be able to help in some way, even if the last couple of hours have been an emotional whirlwind, and exhaustion is beginning to settle into his bones.
He washes a plate before passing it to Dustin to dry.
“You wanna take your new car out for a spin once we’re done?” Dustin asks, like they haven’t just spent the afternoon together.
The worst thing is, Steve wants to say yes-- he wants more time with Dustin, wants an excuse to have Dustin at his side for a little while longer.
But specifically because he wants to, he thinks perhaps he shouldn’t. He needs to get control of these new feelings before they spill out.
Reluctantly, Steve shakes his head. “Nah, man,” he says. “I’m beat, and I feel a turkey coma coming on.”
Dustin’s face falls, and his disappointment stabs through Steve’s chest like a physical ache.
Steve’s mouth moves before he registers the decision. “Maybe just a short drive,” he offers.
Dustin fist pumps, like a directionless car ride with Steve is a prize to be won.
“Mom?” Dustin calls towards the living room. “It’s cool if Steve and I go out for a little while, right?”
“Of course,” Claudia calls back, “I know you boys will be safe.”
The ease with which she trusts him with her son makes something in Steve tighten uncomfortably, but he pushes it down.
Together, they make quick work of the remaining dishes.
Darkness falls early this time of year, and the cold carries the threat of snow when the pair step out of the house.
Steve unlocks Dustin’s side of the car, but he stands outside the driver’s side for an extra few seconds, feeling the brisk chill on his skin. The night is clear, and when Steve turns his face up against the breeze, he can see stars muted by the town’s light.
The moment is enough to ground him after the emotional upheaval of the day, and some of the noise in his head eases.
Dustin watches him as he starts the car, but says nothing.
“Where do you want to go?” Steve asks as he backs out of the drive. He slings an arm around Dustin’s seat so he can look behind them, easy and natural.
Dustin shrugs. “Anywhere. Got any ideas?”
Steve considers, then nods. He doesn’t volunteer his plan, and though Dustin raises a questioning eyebrow as Steve drives them further out of town, he doesn’t press for answers.
There are hardly any other cars on the road, and they settle into a peaceful sort of quiet. The radio hums low in the background, something soulful and jazzy.
Dustin leans further back into his seat, and Steve can see him slowly starting to relax.
“You doing okay?” Steve asks quietly.
“I’m good. Dinner was good. It’s just--” Dustin sighs, sounding tired. “My mom.”
Steve nods, understanding. Dustin’s mom is almost the polar opposite of his own mother in every way. Gale Harrington is sharp and exacting and impossible to please, so by contrast, the sheer genuine warmth Claudia exudes can be a bit overwhelming.
The headlights reflect off the asphalt, lighting Dustin’s face in a soft glow. There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’m glad you came over. It-- helped.”
“It was nice to spend Thanksgiving with a family,” Steve says honestly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.”
His last proper Thanksgiving was with the Wheelers, right after Will had been found. His parents had stopped bothering with Thanksgiving when he was a freshman. After that, they always had some trip-- some excuse-- to take them away from town around the holiday.
Steve feels his own tension starting to ease as they drive. In the cool dark of the car, there’s more room to think, to breathe. He can still feel the gravitational pull towards Dustin, but here, it feels less terrifying.
Steve watches Dustin in profile out of the corner of his eye. He looks softer in the low light-- unguarded, almost, as a passing streetlamp illuminates his curls-- and Steve can’t help watching him. He remembers the hopeful kid he dropped off at the Snow Ball, not a hair out of place. For a second, in the dim light, he looks like that kid again.
Eventually, Steve breaks the silence.
“Okay, so I gotta ask--” he starts. “What’s the deal with the old shirt your mom brought up?”
“Oh. That.” Dustin looks out the passenger window. “It’s stupid and embarrassing.”
“I’m just curious, dude. You don’t have to tell me,” Steve says, offering him a way out.
“It’s fine, I guess,” Dustin says, shrugging. “You can know. Just-- don’t tell anyone else; like the party, or whatever. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“It stays between us,” Steve promises, warmed by Dustin’s trust.
“So, back when I was, like, twelve, I had this shirt, right?” Dustin explains. “It had, like, comic art on it and something written in Japanese. I thought it looked really cool, so I wore it basically any time it was clean.”
Steve nods encouragingly.
“Well, I guess I wondered what the words said, but I just figured it was something benign-- like ‘go team’ or ‘Tuesday’. At worst, I figured it said ‘teriyaki chicken,’ and I’d just look like an uncultured American if anyone could read it.”
Dustin sighs, an embarrassed squint twisting his features.
“So, this new guy started working at the hospital with my mom. He was Japanese, and Mom had, like, never actually met anyone who could read or write Japanese, so she started asking him about it.”
Dustin groans like it pains him to even remember, but he keeps telling the story.
“I guess Mom brought a picture of me wearing the shirt for him to see. Surprise; it didn’t say ‘Tuesday’.”
Steve gives it a beat, then asks, “So, what’d it say?”
Dustin rubs his face and mumbles something unintelligible.
“What?” Steve presses.
“It said ‘baby girl’!” Dustin forces out through gritted teeth, and even though it’s too dark to see, Steve knows he’s blushing.
Steve wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “I mean, I guess it could’ve been worse,” he offers.
“How?”
Steve shrugs. “It could have said ‘goat fucker’ or something.”
That surprises a laugh out of Dustin, and his posture eases, like he’s relieved Steve isn’t going to rib him for something that happened when he was twelve.
“Whatever happened to the shirt?” Steve asks, oddly curious.
“I think it’s still hidden at the back of my closet,” Dustin says. “I didn’t want to donate it and pass the curse on to someone else.”
This time, Steve does laugh, and Dustin’s smile is easy as they turn onto an old dirt road.
The road is bumpy, and Dustin begins to look skeptical as trees press in on them.
“Uh, Steve?” he starts. “You have a plan, right? Like, you’re not just going to get us lost out in the middle of the woods?”
“Trust me,” Steve insists as the trees open up into a clearing.
He guides the car to a stop and kills the engine.
“We’re here,” he says, opening his door.
“Where’s here?” Dustin asks.
Steve ignores him and gets out of the car.
“Steve, where is here?” Dustin insists, opening his own door.
Steve sighs, knowing Dustin won’t quit until he has an answer. “This is part of the old McAlister farm. It’s been abandoned for years.”
The McAlister farm used to be the makeout spot when Steve was a freshman, at least until the cops caught wind. That’s the primary reason Steve had popularized Skull Rock.
“Okay,” Dustin says slowly. “But why?”
In answer, Steve points up.
“What?” Dustin asks, clearly annoyed by Steve’s lack of an answer.
“Just shut up for a second and look,” Steve says, exasperated.
Dustin does, and his mouth falls open as he takes in the view.
Thousands of stars dot the sky, weaving a tapestry of light above them. The night is cold enough to be cloudless, and the sky stretches endlessly.
“Whoa,” Dustin says.
“Cool, huh?” Steve agrees. “This place is just far enough out of town that there’s not much light.”
“Holy shit,” Dustin breathes, pointing. “There’s Jupiter!”
Dustin continues to stare upwards, gaze fixed, until he almost off-balances.
“Come here, Copernicus,” Steve says, grabbing Dustin’s arm to steady him. He leads Dustin back until they’re both leaning on the hood of the car.
Together, they stare up at the array of stars.
Dustin looks absolutely fascinated, and Steve’s pulse quickens as he watches the younger man.
In the quiet of the night, it’s easier to let himself feel.
Standing here with Dustin at his side, he feels safe and comfortable and like some missing piece has slotted into place.
Steve feels an unfamiliar magnetism that makes him want to lean in and wrap an arm around Dustin’s shoulders, the same way he would if this were a date.
He wants to step closer-- to touch, to hold. He wants to press into Dustin’s personal space and learn what the heat of his body feels like.
Dustin turns to look at Steve and catches him staring, but instead of looking bothered, Dustin’s face splits into a familiar grin.
“This is awesome,” he says.
“Glad to oblige,” Steve says, and he hopes his voice comes out normal.
A shiver wracks Dustin’s body, and Steve realizes that he’s not wearing a coat.
“Here,” he says. It feels natural to shrug off his jacket and pass it to Dustin.
Dustin looks like he wants to protest, but he takes it with a wordless nod of thanks, tugging it on.
Steve is entirely unprepared for how seeing Dustin in his jacket affects him-- he feels warm and tender and maybe a little possessive. Steve’s jacket is too big for Dustin’s smaller frame, the soft leather enveloping him like an embrace. Steve knows it’s still warm from his body heat, and the knowledge stirs something deep inside him, like embers coming to life.
The feeling is enough to steal Steve’s breath.
It’s been long years since he’s felt anything like this-- intense and intent. It’s attraction and desire and something more he doesn’t know how to put into words, like tenderness and want all rolled into one.
That’s the moment Steve knows he’s in trouble.
~*~