Chapter Text
VERMONT, 1996
Steve’s alarm wakes him up at 6:00.
The sun is just starting to peek through the blinds. The golden glow kisses across his eyelids, barely bright but bright enough to pull him the rest of the way out of his restless sleep. His head throbs in tandem with the blaring beeps of the alarm, and he reaches blindly for the alarm clock, knocking over a few empty beer cans before he is finally able to slam his hand against the top, smashing at the buttons until it finally stops chirping at him.
He sighs and buries his face in the pillow to block out the rising sun. It’s summer, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting to the school. But, then again, it’s summer, so he sighs again and gets out of bed. He doesn’t bother to take a shower to rid himself of the stale stink of beer; the weatherman had predicted a hellish kind of heat all week long, and he doesn’t need to run up his water bill by taking two showers a day if he can help it. He brushes his teeth and glances again at the clock, resolving to make it to Mrs. Dobson’s house and finish her lawn first. If he can get her mowing done before she gets out of bed, she won’t keep him to talk his ear off about her grandkids when he’s done, and he’ll be able to make it across the neighborhood to do Mr. Jefferson’s lawn before the heat becomes too unbearable.
He spits his toothpaste into the sink, rinses the brush and his mouth, splashes water on his face. He looks up at the bare wall above the sink where the mirror used to be. It hadn’t lasted more than a day when he moved in. He doesn’t look at his reflection anymore if he can help it. Not since -
He runs his hands through his hair to get at least some of the tangles out, then dresses in shorts and a t-shirt and throws a hat over his greasy hair. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. He hasn’t cared about that in a long time.
His plan works out just as he’d predicted. By noon, he’s sitting in the cab of his truck on the farthest side of a Walmart parking lot, eating a lousy sandwich he’d picked up at the gas station. He’s not picky anymore though, so he just scarfs the food down and leans his forehead against the steering wheel, trying to focus on the air blowing out of his air conditioner and not the sour taste in his mouth and the uncomfortable twist in his gut. He rummages around under his seat for a minute before he finally finds what he’s looking for. He glances around, but there’s no one nearby.
He takes a long pull from the bottle of whisky. He grimaces as he swallows the hot liquid, but he can feel the burn in his throat and stomach start to settle, and it makes him feel better. One smaller sip, then he stashes the bottle back under the seat and sits back to wait for his stomach to stop doing flips so he can get back to work.
It’s a hot summer. He’s dealt with hot summers before, but he’s never felt old like this before. His body feels tired all the time, and it’s harder every day to get himself up and out of bed.
It’s easier during the school year because he likes the routine of it; he likes the bells that signal when the kids will be in the halls and when they won’t, likes the way most of the staff don’t really bother to talk to him or get to know him. Teachers don’t care about the custodians, after all. They’re too busy trying to corral a bunch of snotty nosed kids with too much energy and sticky hands, trying to teach them reading and math and manners despite the fact that the kids are still too young and wild to be able to sit still for long enough to learn something.
The kids are mostly sweet, too, and they ask a lot of questions. Sometimes it’s easy to talk to curious kids about mopping and washing windows and changing trash bags. Sometimes he hates the little pukes who make messes on purpose because they know he’ll have to clean it up. It had been hard, at first. Every curly haired kid had reminded him of Dustin. Every redhead was Max. It had gotten easier, though. Somehow, it had all gotten easier.
But there’s no work in the summer, so he has to supplement his income somehow. He mows lawns and waters flowers, walks dogs, does odd jobs around town. With a high school diploma and no college degree, he’s limited on options, but he makes it work.
He finishes the day by fixing the stairs on the back deck of a new family in town who had gotten his information from a neighbor. People in town know him as someone who can always help, but they don’t really know him. They don’t know anything about his past, and he doesn’t offer anything up. He’s just the weird guy who lives alone in the trailer park, who never talks to anyone and doesn’t have any friends. He’d made peace with that a long time ago.
By the time he’s done building the deck, it’s well past 5 o’clock, so he heads down to O'Donnell's Pub like he does almost every night for a round or three or five or six. Conrad is behind the bar tonight, and he’s happy to see his favorite employee. Conrad has always treated him kindly and even drove him home on occasion, when he’d let himself drink too much and couldn’t get home on his own. He only has three or four drinks because it’s hot and he doesn’t have enough energy to sit in a sticky bar for too long. He’s got a pleasant buzz when the sun starts setting, and he’s in a good enough mood that he ignores a couple of guys he’s never seen before when they throw insults his way and jeer at him from across the bar.
He pays out and goes outside to smoke before he heads home. He’s standing next to his truck, trying to enjoy his cigarette and wondering if he should take a nap in the cab before going home when the two guys appear next to him.
“What’s up, fellas?” he mumbles around his cigarette. He blows his smoke away from them because he’s a nice guy like that.
“We were just thinking that a respectable place like this -” Steve interrupts him with a snort. He loves O’Donnell’s, but it’s far from respectable. The guy’s face starts turning tomato red.
The second guy shoves his shoulder. Steve puts his hands up placatingly.
“Easy,” he says. It’s more of an ask than a demand.
“A place like this shouldn’t allow fairies and fags inside,” the first guy finishes. He looks half ready to start blowing smoke out of his ears.
“Fags and fairies,” Steve says slowly, flicking his cigarette onto the concrete. “Seems redundant. Kind of the same thing, aren’t they?”
“Watch your mouth,” the second guy says as if he’s the one that said something offensive. He’s less red in the face and more muscled, but obviously has less brains. He’s wearing a muscle shirt and a baseball cap and looks like he’s in far better shape than Steve’s ever been in. It doesn’t help that these guys are probably ten years younger than him.
Steve knows some of the people in town look at him differently and assume things about him. In truth, Steve hasn’t dated or even slept with anyone in years. But he’s an eligible bachelor who lives alone and never tries to pick up any of the girls at any of the bars, and he knows how rumors go.
“I don’t want any trouble, guys. It’s been a long day, and I’m headed home anyway,” Steve says.
It doesn’t end up matter that he doesn’t want trouble and doesn’t have the energy for a fight. He’s never been one that was really capable of avoiding them. Whether these guys were new to town or he’s just never noticed them around before, they’re itching to fight. Muscle shirt guy throws the first punch, and Steve’s reflexes aren’t what they used to be, nevermind the fact that he has a few drinks under his belt already.
The next hit bloodies his nose. Muscle shirt guy shakes his hand out, his knuckles painted red with Steve’s blood, and Steve laughs. “Didn’t split open your knuckles, did you? Don’t want to get any of my fairy blood in those cuts, you know?”
It’s not a fair fight, two against one, and he takes a couple more good hits and manages to deal out a few too before Conrad the bartender comes outside and chases the guys away with the shotgun. Conrad checks on him in a polite sort of way, not getting too close, and Steve waves him off while he tries to stem the flow of blood from his nose by pressing the neck of his t-shirt over his nostrils. Conrad insists on giving him one of the rags from the bar at least, and Steve is quietly grateful to at least be able to get most of the blood off of his face.
The last stop on his almost-daily excursions is to pop into the corner store a few blocks away from his trailer. He’s at the Quick Mart every other day, usually, to grab a six pack or cigarettes or both. The fight had sobered him up far too quickly for this personal liking, so he grabs a sixer and pays the scared looking teenager behind the counter. He doesn’t blame the kid for looking scared when he’s all beat up and covered in blood.
He’s got the beers, double bagged and hanging from his wrist as he wrestles his lighter into commission. The cigarette dangles precariously from his lips and he attempts to juggle the bag and the nearly empty lighter. He curses at the damn thing until it finally lights. It takes him some time to realize someone is watching him from across the parking lot.
He’s wearing a plain black shirt, the same battle vest Steve remembers from all those years ago, and black jeans torn at the knees. His hair is as dark and wild as ever. He looks exactly the same, and, at the same time, for some reason he looks nothing like Steve expected at all. His face looks as shell-shocked as Steve feels.
“Steve? Is that… you?.” he asks. Steve lowers the lighter, lets the heavy bag hang limply from his wrist. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales the smoke toward the sky.
“Hey, Eddie.”
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