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Steve’s house is too big for the amount of noise it’s holding.
Not in the way it used to be—empty rooms echoing with nothing but his own footsteps—but full, overflowing. People everywhere. Shoes kicked off by the door. Joyce insisting someone put a coaster under Murray’s drink. Eddie draped over the back of the couch like gravity is optional. Robin sitting sideways in an armchair, boots on the cushion, Nancy beside her with her knees tucked up, their shoulders brushing like it’s an accident that keeps happening.
The kids—no, not kids anymore, Steve thinks distantly—are sprawled on the floor with pizza boxes and soda cans. Dustin’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing. Lucas is mid-story, hands flying, Max heckling him without mercy. El watches them with a small smile, chin resting on her knees. Mike and Will sit close enough that no one comments on it, because no one needs to.
It’s warm. Loud. Safe.
“—and then,” Dustin says, pointing dramatically at Steve, “this idiot swings the bat and misses completely.”
“I did not miss,” Steve says automatically.
“You missed,” Robin and Eddie say at the same time.
Steve groans. “Okay, first of all, it was dark. Second, I still saved your life.”
“That is not the point,” Dustin says. “The point is you looked stupid.”
Laughter ripples through the room, easy and familiar. Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed, letting it wash over him. He doesn’t mind being the punchline. He never really has.
Stories keep coming—mall mishaps, bike crashes, near-death experiences retold like inside jokes instead of trauma. Hopper tells a story Joyce has heard three times already and still laughs at. Murray interrupts constantly. Argyle offers commentary that no one asked for but everyone accepts.
Eventually, someone—Max, Steve thinks—says, “Okay, Harrington. Your turn.”
Steve blinks. “My turn for what?”
“To share,” Max says. “Something from when we were smaller. You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
He hasn’t. Not really. But Steve shrugs anyway.
“Alright,” he says, thinking. He scans the room, the faces, the warmth. He smiles, easy. Automatic. “Uh… okay. This one time, I was like—ten, maybe? And I tried to cook dinner for myself.”
Robin perks up. “Oh no.”
“I set the kitchen on fire.”
“Yes,” Eddie breathes.
Steve chuckles. “I thought if you turned the heat all the way up it would cook faster. Burned the pan, set off the smoke alarm. Fire department showed up.”
Dustin snorts. “Wait, where were your parents?”
Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Not home.”
The room laughs.
“So the firefighters are like, ‘Where’s your mom, kid?’” Steve continues, still smiling. “And I just—I don’t know. I told them she was busy. Which was true. She was always busy.”
The laughter fades—not all at once, but unevenly. A few smiles linger before slipping away. Nancy’s expression tightens, just a little. Robin tilts her head. Hopper frowns.
Steve doesn’t notice.
“They made me sit on the curb with a blanket around my shoulders,” he says, casual. “Gave me hot chocolate. One of them asked if I was scared and I said no, because it wasn’t the first time something like that happened.”
Silence.
Steve finishes with a small laugh. “Anyway. Learned how to cook after that.”
No one says anything.
The quiet is thick, uncomfortable, like the air before a storm. Steve waits for the laugh that usually comes late. It doesn’t.
“…okay,” Dustin says finally, uncertain. “Uh. Who wants more soda?”
Conversation restarts, stilted at first, then smoother. The moment passes. Or at least, everyone pretends it does.
Steve doesn’t question it.
—
Later, Eddie suggests playing Truth Or Dare.
“We survived literal hell,” he says. “We can survive honesty.”
“Absolutely not,” Nancy says immediately.
“Truth or Dare,” Max says anyway, already grinning.
They circle up on the living room floor. Murray insists on playing and everyone regrets it instantly.
It starts light.
“Truth or Dare?” Dustin asks Lucas.
“Truth.”
“Who was your first crush?”
Lucas groans. Max smirks. Joyce pretends not to hear.
Robin gets dared to sing and absolutely refuses. Eddie chooses truth and admits something deeply unhinged about a tattoo he almost got. Hopper is dared to tell Joyce when he knew he loved her. He clears his throat and mumbles. Joyce cries. Murray comments too much.
Steve laughs through all of it, relaxed, legs stretched out, back against the couch. Eddie’s knee brushes his every so often. Steve pretends not to notice. Eddie doesn’t move away.
Eventually, the bottle—or whatever they’re using—lands on Steve.
“Truth or Dare?” Max asks.
Steve doesn’t even think. “Truth.”
The room hums, considering.
Nancy looks like she wants to stop it. Robin opens her mouth, then closes it. Eddie watches Steve carefully, like he’s already bracing for something.
Dustin, oblivious, asks, “Where are your parents?”
Steve freezes.
Not dramatically. Not obviously.
Just—still.
A minute passes.
The room goes so quiet it’s almost painful. Even Murray shuts up.
Steve stares at the floor. He hadn’t expected that question. He hadn’t expected it ever, really. He’s avoided it for years without trying. People assume things. He lets them.
Finally, he exhales.
“Dead,” Steve says calmly.
The word lands heavy. Final.
“What?” Dustin whispers.
Steve lifts his head, blinking once. “They died when I was eleven.”
No one interrupts him.
“They traveled a lot,” he continues, voice even. “Work. Concerts. Conferences. They’d come home like… once a month. A weekend, maybe. I’d leave notes on the fridge so I wouldn’t forget what they sounded like.”
Robin’s eyes shine. Nancy’s hand finds hers without thinking.
“I was used to being alone,” Steve says. “Started when I was eight. Younger, honestly. I could cook, clean, do laundry. Knew how to pay bills before I knew algebra.”
Eddie’s jaw clenches.
“When they didn’t come back one month, I figured they were late,” Steve goes on. “Then another month passed. Then another.”
He swallows. Barely noticeable.
“I found out because a cop showed up at my school. Pulled me out of class. Told me there’d been an accident months ago. Plane crash.”
El’s eyes widen. Will’s breath catches.
“They asked where I wanted to go,” Steve says. “I told them I lived alone. They said that wasn’t possible. I told them it was.”
Hopper shifts, face dark.
“I paid them off,” Steve adds, like it’s nothing. “My dad had accounts set up. Trust funds. Lawyers. I knew where everything was. I told them foster care would ruin me.”
His voice doesn’t break. That’s somehow worse.
“My mom’s family cut her off,” he says. “Italy. Didn’t want anything to do with me. Only person who ever really cared was my nonna. She died two years before my parents.”
Silence. Thick. Crushing.
“So,” Steve finishes softly, almost confused, “I stayed. Same house. Same life.”
He looks around, finally registering their faces.
“…what?” he asks. “Why does everyone look like that?”
No one answers.
Eddie moves first. He doesn’t say anything—just reaches out, wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulls him in like it’s instinct. Steve stiffens for half a second, then melts, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder.
Nancy’s crying openly now. Robin wipes her face angrily. Joyce stands and crosses the room, kneels in front of Steve, takes his hands like she has every right to.
“Oh, Steve,” she says, voice breaking. “You were just a baby.”
Steve laughs weakly. “I mean. I was eleven.”
“That’s a baby,” Hopper says hoarsely.
The kids are silent. Dustin looks devastated. Max’s jaw is set tight. Mike stares at Steve like he’s re-seeing him entirely. Will’s eyes are full of something aching and familiar.
“You didn’t have to do it alone,” Joyce says.
Steve blinks. “I know that now.”
And that’s the thing that finally cracks him.
Not then. Now.
Eddie holds him tighter. Robin scoots closer. Nancy presses against his other side. The house—too big, too empty for so long—feels full in a way it never has before.
Steve laughs, watery and broken. “Guess I’m really bad at knowing when something’s depressing.”
Eddie presses his forehead to Steve’s hair. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “We’ll work on that.”
And for the first time, Steve believes he doesn’t have to work on everything alone.
—
Fin.