Grief's a bitch, thank you all for sticking with me. Your comments have meant the absolute world.

Parts of this chapter come from my own life, Colorado and the birthday story most notably, and conversations with my brother reflecting on our father after his suicide. Anyway, it's not my greatest work but at a certain point it's time to just post!

August 1985

Steve lays on the horn.

He's been parked in the Hendersons' driveway for nearly ten minutes at this point, and while he's more than capable of marching up to the front door and knocking, he knows that Dustin knows he's here, so it's really the principle of the matter at this point that keeps him seated while Phil Collins carries on. Besides, it's hot out.

"Come on ," he whines, leaning back against the headrest. Not for the first time since Steve's driveway campout began, he catches Dustin peering at him through the front window before disappearing again and letting the curtains fall back into place. He begins drumming on the steering wheel with his open palms, honks slipping through at random in an irritating pattern. The neighbors are all cooped up inside their icebox houses anyway, it being one of those sweltering August days where the asphalt is tacky and mirages shudder up from the ground and otherwise quiet homes hum with the effort of an air conditioning unit or a strategically placed series of fans.

The incessant noise is enough, though; at long last, the front door swings open and - and Dustin is mad . His usual toothy grin is missing, and he's glaring through Steve's windshield as though he's trying to shatter the glass with his mind. He storms towards Steve's car, his bouncing curls only slightly lessening the effect of his expression. He yanks the passenger side door open with the hand that isn't holding his walkie, and clambers into the seat with all of his usual grace before slamming it behind him hard .

It's a quick thing, but when he turns to face Steve there's a quiet moment in which the two of them look one another up and down. Steve's always done it, quickly surveyed those around him for potential vulnerabilities or threats and adjusted himself accordingly, made minute changes to his personality or posture or line of questioning based upon what he learns in an autopsy no longer than a heartbeat. He is charming and frightening because of this.

With the kids, however, he's searching for scraped knees or purple eye bags or too-bony elbows. Dustin's picked up the habit of checking Steve over for damages at some point since they began fighting monsters together, and Steve doesn't know how to feel about it. Maybe guilty. Maybe cared for.

Right now, he feels grateful to be in the driver's seat. He knows he looks better than he had the last time Dustin saw him; his nose has set nicely, even if he has to breathe through his mouth most of the time now and his sleep has been shit, but the left side of his face is yellow-bruised and puffy two weeks out from surgery, his features distorted by swelling around his healing orbital bone just enough to have an uncanny quality when he makes the mistake of catching his reflection in the mirror. The disconcerting effect isn't helped by the gray film that's settled partially over that eye's field of vision in the last few days, recovery being non-linear and all that.

After the mutual appraisal, however, Steve remembers his annoyance, and Dustin his anger.

"What the hell?" Steve starts to say.

"What the hell?" Dustin says before he has the chance. The little shit.

"Um, 'hi, Steve, how you doing, Steve, thanks for the ride, Steve! ' would do just fine, thanks."

Dustin's eyes are hard, and Steve doesn't know what he did to earn the bite in his tone when asks, "what are you doing here?"

"Uh, picking you up?" Steve's confidence thins for a moment - his memory has been especially lousy since - well, since. But he knows he double-checked his own scrawled handwriting in his calendar before leaving the house: P/U DWEEBS 4 FN NOON . "We made these plans weeks ago, man, don't tell me you forgot. Fright Night ?"

While its tenure was long enough to shutter the Hawk Theater, Starcourt Cinema is no more - a short-lived place to be on a Friday night in a town that otherwise didn't have many of those. Steve learned quickly that his employment at the mall was not a condition of his responsibility to sneak the younger Party members into R-rated movies, even if doing so is no longer as simple as corralling a bunch of kids into back hallways reserved for employees and delivery crews. The drive to Muncie isn't too bad, though; he's had his fair share of first-but-also-technically-last dates start or end (or both) in the backmost row of a Rivoli theater.

"Exactly - weeks ago - where the hell have you been?"

Something twists in Steve's gut but he rolls his eyes. "I've been sitting in your driveway since noon while you dicked around inside and pretended not to hear me. We're gonna have to book it if we don't want to be stuck breaking our necks to see in the front row - are we picking up Lucas and Will or not?"

Max had broken things off with Lucas for the umpteenth time before her stepbrother's body was in the ground, and Mike had balked at the thought of wasting any of his remaining days living just a bike ride away from El silent in a movie theater with Steve Harrington. Not that Steve is heartbroken over little Wheeler opting out and sparing him the attitude, though it seems that Henderson has taken up the reins in that department.

" No , and you'd know that if you hadn't disappeared off the face of the Earth. Now stop dodging my question: where the hell have you been?"

Something must flash across Steve's face because Dustin's own softens and he mutters a "sorry." They don't linger on it, though.

"For your information, I was grounded, asshole. Three weeks." Steve shakes his head to clear it. "Okay, so no movie then. You wanna get the hell out of my car?" The door's still unlocked but he jabs twice at the child lock button for emphasis anyway.

Dustin doesn't make a move to leave, just tilts his head, thoughtful, before buckling himself in. "Nope," he pops his P with a flair, "Will and Lucas are busy today but I'm not , and I want popcorn. You owe me popcorn."

Steve doesn't necessarily agree but he doesn't respond either, just blinks and heaves out a sigh. It's hollow, they both know he isn't exactly being put out, doesn't exactly have a lot else to be doing, doesn't exactly have anyone else demanding his attention. Robin is out-of-town visiting a great aunt, or great-great aunt, or some relative along those lines, and doesn't "do horror movies," besides. He throws the car into reverse and by the time they're out of the driveway Dustin has already opened the center console and is digging through the meager cassette collection inside, making dissatisfied faces as he silently reads off album and artist names. As they make their first turn out of Dustin's cul-de-sac, he slams the console shut with a sigh of his own.

"Not playing DJ today?" Steve tries. Dustin stays silent; he's trying to break the windshield with his mind again. It's no more effective from inside the car.

Steve's stomach turns. He knows Dustin Henderson, knows the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs, deep-set as though he'd done so much smiling the wrinkles came early, just as well as he does the sound of his scream when it's the only way the terror can escape his little body. As much as he tries to shake the memories, he recognizes the vacancy in Dustin's stare, even disguised by anger, the faraway look that comes over him when the worst has happened and there are no more plays to be made. Steve is gripped by fear because it's been only a month they only got a month this time it's back it's back he doesn't know what exactly but it's back and what if he doesn't make it out this time and-

But Dustin is here, so he plucks the thought that he should veer off the road and wrap his baby around a tree and never hear the words "Upside Down" - or any other words, for that matter - again, and shoves it in a box in the back of his mind.

"Hey, what's up? What's this all about?" His tone misses the mark on casual by a longshot, but if Dustin notices he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Since when do you need to know where I'm at at all times, huh? What's this really about?"

"Nothing." Dustin clamps his jaw shut resolutely.

"Oh yeah?" Steve waits. Silence is an effective tool when it comes to Dustin - give the kid some space to fill with sound, and eventually he'll do it.

"I got a letter from my dad."

"O-kay."

"I got a letter from my dad, and I read it, and for some reason I wanted to call you, so I did. And you didn't answer." Hurt is radiating off of Dustin's skin in waves.

"Henderson, man, I'm sorry, I-"

"And you didn't answer the next day, or the next day, or the day after that, and I kept calling and you kept not answering, and I kept thinking to myself, 'why do I want to call Steve Harrington so bad?'" Steve's name drips venom, Dustin says it the way he would have before before the mall fire, before the junkyard, before the Byers' living room, and it's a dagger in Steve's heart. "And the person I wanted to call and complain to about you not answering was you ."

Dustin turns and Steve turns and holds Dustin's gaze maybe a moment longer than he should while operating a moving vehicle. But Dustin's anger is gone and the vacancy has been filled and his eyes are wet and shining and he looks devastated . Steve doesn't aim for a tree, just the shoulder of the road, but he pulls the Beemer off to the side and throws it into park, knocks down the volume of the radio so that only the unspoken accusation rings between them. Or maybe that's the ringing that's always there nowadays, he's not sure.

"What did the letter say?" It's not the perfect response, he knows, but Dustin's eyes widen in a way that makes him think it might be exactly what he needed to hear.

"Nothing. I mean, not nothing, but not something. I mean, it's - he says he moved to Colorado and that's why I don't see him anymore but I know he's just in Indy 'cause my mom still talks to my Aunt Colleen sometimes. Just all about his life out there, which is bullshit, and how much he misses me, which I guess is also bullshit because plenty of kids have divorced parents who still see them." Steve is used to the runaway train of Dustin's ramblings, so he's halfway-braced for the pulling of the emergency brake. "And you didn't answer the phone." He can't help sucking in a breath of air at the impact, regardless.

"Dustin, I was grounded, I-"

"I know , Steve, just. Ugh. I just needed you to pick up." Shame is an odd look on Dustin, makes him look almost sickly, has the same effect of a fever sweat sheen.

"Okay. Okay . I understand" Steve says. And he does. "I'll try to give you a heads up, if I can, if I think I might be off-grid, okay? Like I said though, I was grounded, it had absolutely nothing to do with you, alright?" Steve doesn't know much about Dustin's family situation, apart from that Mrs. Henderson is a saint and her ex-husband is out of the picture, maybe thankfully so by the sound of it, but he adds, quieter, "I mean, me not being around, but also, you know, the thing with your dad. That's not on you, got it?"

"Stop- stop saying that." Dustin throws his head back in exasperation, speaking directly to the roof of the car now. "Everyone always says that - 'it's not your fault' - you know my mom even made me talk to somebody for a while after they divorced? A shrink . And her and my mom and just about everyone is always saying it's not my fault and I know that, I'm not worried about that. My dad was into drugs and running stupid scams for cash and I was a fucking kid , of course I didn't cause a divorce or whatever, I'm not a goddamn idiot. It's not my fault."

Steve doesn't know where to go from here if Dustin doesn't need convincing of that singular truth. "Yeah… well…"

"But I still feel like shit," Dustin says, words still sent skyward.

"Oh. Yeah." Steve nearly laughs, an ugly, defeated thing, but swallows down the urge. Sometimes dads just do that , he thinks; isn't that what they're here for? , he thinks; maybe you should be grateful yours isn't ar- , he starts to think, then stops himself with a flinch. There's a truth to his thoughts, but a truth that he's certain doesn't apply to the boy sitting beside him.

Dustin squirms in his seat, extends and retracts the antennae of his walkie a few times with restless fingers. "You know he used to do weird shit, like… I don't know, like one year Mrs. Byers was gonna surprise Will by taking the day off work on his birthday, and drive him to the arcade where we'd be waiting with cake and streamers and all that, right? But it was my dad's weekend, or whatever, back when I still saw him, so I called him up, said I wanted to stay in Hawkins for Will. He gets all quiet and mopey-like, but it's whatever. Then tells me he was planning my birthday - which isn't even in March , mind you! - for that same day. He throws a whole party, goes to the zoo and everything without me there just so I'd feel bad about not coming over. This is the only birthday party he's ever thrown me! Next time I'm there he's got pictures on the fridge with his other family blowing out the candles on my cake and riding a donkey and whatever. He gave my toys to his other kids and didn't let me touch 'em."

Dustin looks exhausted, whether it be from telling the story in as few breaths as possible or from carrying it around all this time. The kid isn't always the most tactful, but Steve is sure he'd never shared this particular story with the rest of the Party, with Lonnie Byers' son, and he can imagine why. The tired feeling is contagious - Steve drags his hand down his face, rubbing his eyes on the way. "That's… shit, man."

Dustin shrugs, uncharacteristically self-conscious all of a sudden. "We never talked about it or anything. It just sort of was . I screwed up and there were consequences, whatever. I wasn't getting grounded or anything, just… mindfucked."

"Language," Steve mumbles. Out of habit, or maybe for the sake of levity, he's not sure.

"Fuck off, man." Dustin chuckles, but it's watery. "I don't know, mom says some people aren't meant to be parents, and sometimes I think maybe he's like that. And he's my dad , so it feels impossible, but at the end of the day he's just some guy, right? And maybe it's not exactly fair to judge some guy who got stuck with a kid, a job he didn't want, or thought he wanted but wasn't really right for. I don't know." Dustin never says "I don't know," and now it seems he can't stop himself from padding every thought with uncertainty.

Steve wants to fill the cracks in the shaky foundation under Dustin's words so that he can hear them voiced with conviction, because he gets this particular fear, a fear of the reality that his father is just a man trying somewhere between his worst and his best with the lousy hand he's been dealt. If his tries are landing somewhere closer to his worst than his best, if that housy hand happens to be his own kid, oh well.

"Dude that's… that's shitty," is what he manages. Dustin's already rolling his eyes at him. "You were just a kid-"

" Steve -"

"No, hear me out though. You know the divorce wasn't your fault, was a good thing, whatever. But you still had this grown man pinning his emotions on the choices of a ten year-old kid. That's not fair. That's not normal."

"Your dad doesn't… isn't like that?" And Steve regrets whatever he's said to lead the conversation exactly here.

"My dad…." He coughs once, though he doesn't need to. Every day it hurts a little less than the day before, the stupid, human, functions of his body, and he's thankful for that. "He's different." It isn't an answer, but it's the best he's got.

"He grounded you though?"

Steve groans. "Yes, Dustin." He pulls the car back onto the road. They'll miss the previews, which would be fine only he knows the kid'll pitch a fit over it. Maybe they can kill some time at one of the shops across the way and catch the next showing.

"Why?"

The answer gets too close to all the things Steve can't say. He's no stranger to brushing off Dustin's "why?"s, though, when they poke at old bruises. "Does it matter? I have a habit of getting myself into trouble." He shrugs, and throws Dustin what he hopes is a mischievous grin but feels more like a grimace, a hunch that's confirmed by the frown he gets in response.

"Can they even do that? Aren't you, like, an adult?"

Steve shrugs again and drums his fingers on the steering wheel with something like impatience, but not quite. "Technically, sure, I'm 18. But they're still my parents, and I still live under their roof. Their house, their rules, you know?"

The logic is sound enough. Dustin nods. After a moment, his face contorts into a show of mock horror. "Does that mean you had three weeks of family time ? Did you have to sit around and talk about your feelings or whatever?"

Steve snorts. "Nah man, although thanks for sharing Ma Henderson's methods." He spares a look at Dustin, whose cheeks and ears go pink. "They weren't even around the last two weeks, so there was definitely no sharing of feelings going on."

Dustin frowns. "They haven't been in town the last two weeks?"

"No, Dustin."

"So how were you grounded ? Like, just walk out the front door! You have a car for christ's sake! It's not like they would know!"

Dustin is smart, he's so smart , but Steve is dumb and missing words and his brain's been knocked around in his skull one too many times, and he's tried and failed to explain these things to Nancy Wheeler, brilliant Nancy, in a way that didn't inspire only further confusion, so he's not inclined to share more than he has to to escape this particular line of questioning.

"But they would ," Steve half-whines. "I couldn't just- I couldn't do that."

"Why not? I don't understand!" The kid is relentless. Knowledge is divine, from Dustin's perspective, and a lack of understanding is something agonizing to him, even if Steve thinks there's truth to ignorance being bliss. So he tries.

"They just- they would know. It's… they're not in town, but they're still here dude. They're rich." He knows he's not making any sense. "It's hard to explain." When Dustin opens his mouth again to argue, he motions for him to wait, to give him a chance to think through his next words. "With enough money… with enough money you can buy a lot of people's loyalty. Neighbors, cops, school receptionists… you give them a good chunk of money and they'll keep an eye on your kid for you while you're gone. Let you know where his car's parked or not parked or who he's talking to or what time the porch lights went out or if that kid answered the door when you dropped by for no reason. Got it?"

It's the best he can do, and while he can tell Dustin doesn't quite get it by the way he slowly blinks and shakes his head, curls bouncing around his face, he doesn't press for a better explanation. Steve ignores his suspicion that the kid know he isn't capable of doing much better. "Why didn't you tell me? I was worried about you."

"Lost phone privileges, too."

"Your walkie?" Dustin wiggles his own in the air between them.

"Contraband."

Some of the frustration drains from Dustin, but what remains isn't relief. He's chewing on his lip, chewing on his next question.

"Does he ever hurt you?"

The question slams into Steve's chest like a physical blow, knocks the wind out of him along with a response so quick it can only be a reflex: "My dad would never hurt me." They both startle at the fierceness in his quiet voice.

"Oh." Dustin's picking at a peeling bit of leather on the dashboard, though his nails are cut too short to do too much damage, so Steve doesn't say anything. Dustin's hands are so small , uncalloused and soft, which Steve knows from experience because the kid has grabbed for his hand before, in that shameless way that kids do when they're scared. Steve grew out of that a long long time ago.

Dustin is practically whispering when he asks, "Do you ever wish he would?"

Steve imagines his skin as the leather on the dashboard, being pick-pick-picked at. "What?" he asks, and that's the last of the air in his lungs gone.

"Sometimes I used to wish my dad would hit me, so I could stop loving him. Like - if I don't love him, I can't miss him. It's like this irredeemable thing, you know? You say 'oh, my dad hit me,' and everybody knows what that means and I know what that means and I don't need to feel so… so confused all the time."

When Steve was small, and his parents spent more time at home than away from it, the Harringtons would go to mass together on Sundays. He didn't get much out of it - doesn't think his mom and dad did either - but he remembers sometime in the second grade, him and Tommy joining the older kids in their Sunday School cohort for the first time in lining up for confession. These things were promised: that the worst of him could be sieved through an aluminum screen, that God would hear his sins over the cacophony of prayer, that in His grace all of Steve's ugly thoughts and misdeeds would be forgotten and washed away.

Steve had himself tumbling out of the dark oak booth for the first time feeling cleaner than he ever had, sin scrubbed away like dirt from under his fingernails and behind his ears and his very soul lathered up with forgiveness. But he'd come out just the same - as stained as ever, if not moreso by disappointment in the lack of transformation. He recognizes in Dustin the same desperation to finally be clean .

He is still so young .

"I don't know if it works that way, bud."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Steve wants so badly to say the perfect thing, to offer words of absolution, but nothing comes to him. His own penance is overdue. Instead, he reaches over to knock down the passenger side visor to shield Dustin's pasty skin from the midday sun.

After a moment, he says, "for what it's worth, he's the one missing out." It's truer than any confession.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks, Steve." Dustin doesn't look at him, but he's made peace with the windshield, at least.

"Don't mention it, asshole."

"Aaaand, you had to ruin it."

Oops I'm allergic to plot!

Also Steve had surgery to for an orbital blowout fracture but since then developed retinal detachment (he does not know this yet).

Next up is Robin, but if you're dying for some Steve/Robin hurt/comfort in the meantime, my fic i'll feel the sickness less and less technically exists in the same "universe" as this one.

Take care of yourselves!