Archive of Our Own

The ideas popped into Steve's head as Munson's coffin lowered into the ground.

It'd been for the best, really, holding the funeral long after the dust had settled. Most of the local businesses were back up by now, with genuine progress being made to cover up the ugly gash in the earth that'd ripped into existence. Even the schools had decided it was worth it to pick up lessons again, starting today, actually. Which meant that most of Hawkins had other things on their mind, hopefully, and wouldn't cause a scene during the ceremony.

It also meant that almost everyone who knew what had really happened was stuck in class. The kids had all begged their parents to let them skip, but none of them had been particularly excited over their children ditching school to mourn for a Satanistic murderer. Nancy and Robin were going to dip out right before lunch started to drive over for the end of the funeral, and there were plans for the others to bike over after school.

Except for Dustin, however, who hadn't even made it to his first period.

He looked wrecked, sitting on the back of Steve's Beamer. He'd shrugged on a black long-sleeve, the kind of thing that likely wouldn't have drawn his mom's attention. As the grave-diggers began filling the hole in the ground, he drew his shoulders tighter and tighter. Each clash of the shovel had him flinching.

And Steve thought to himself, Christ. I can't lose someone the way Dustin's losing Eddie.

Because don't get him wrong, it wasn't that Steve wasn't missing Munson. He'd liked the guy, even if their social circles had never mixed in quite the right way. Steve had certainly spent more than a few nights since Spring Break staring up at his ceiling and replaying that awful chain of events over in his head. Dead was dead, and Eddie didn't deserve that. Not when he was so new to this fucked up reality and all the horrors it brought.

But for all Steve felt messed up over that, Dustin was on another level of grief. Steve had heard him vomiting in the upstairs bathroom as soon as they had finished the fight. He'd been the one to gently pry Dustin's fingers open, scrape Eddie's blood off his skin with a kitchen sponge. The kid had been quieter than El for a whole day. Even now, Steve wasn't sure he'd heard him raise his voice to normal volume in months. This was the mourning that clung to you for years into the future.

Steve was a lot of things. An asshole, a dipshit idiot, a minimum-wage flop. But above all, he was deeply, truly selfish. So as he watched Dustin slowly hop down from the top of the car, drifting down the grass to kneel on the ground and press his forehead against Munson's tombstone, he thought, I'd do anything not to grieve someone that way.

And that was when the vicious, horrible thought hit him. It made is stomach twist painfully, vision blurring just a bit as he reached into his glove box and pulled out a pen. On a crumpled fast food receipt, he scribbled out, in big, black letters, Who I Need to Keep Alive. When he went to write down the first name, he froze. It wasn't for lack of inspiration, or even from the bone-deep fear he was already choking down.

It was because there wasn't a single person he could think of that wouldn't make it onto the list.

Hesitant, with every stroke of ink lingering long enough to stain his fingers, he scratched out, EVERYONE.

Then he took a breath and got down to it.

One.

Robin was first. Obviously. Clearly. It was one of the only aspects of the list (the list, the list, the List) that he never second-guessed. Maybe it was fucked up of him to be able to unilaterally rank his friends' lives so easily, but — but it was Robin. Robin, who pushed each one of his buttons like she'd personally engineered them herself, who stuck by him even when every force in the world warned her not to, who saw all the ugly sides of him yet still stayed. If he lost Robin, then there really was no reason to keep going.

After that, it got more complicated. Much more complicated. Every time he thought he had the order down, a new angle would present itself or another piece of information would appear, and he'd have to get to editing again. Revising the List became so common that, more often than not, he had a copy in his pockets at all time. White printer paper, neatly folded into fourths. Like a grocery list.

Currently, the first three names read, Robin, Henderson, Nancy. They typically remained at the top, though their order had the tendency to change on a daily basis. That was messed up of him, wasn't it? The fact that Nancy could give Jonathan a particularly gooey look, or Dustin could say something that pissed him off, and just like that, Steve saw their lives as worth less than they had a moment ago.

Sometimes — no, that was a lie. All the time, multiple instances a day, Steve would stare at the List in his hands until his gut ached. But sometimes, specifically, he'd think about how just a few years ago, Nancy would have landed square at the top. Without hesitation. She'd been his girlfriend, his only real friend after he'd dropped Tommy H. and Carol. Sure, he probably had never ranked as high for her, what with her little brother so often throwing himself into the line of fire, but that was okay. It was fine. It wasn't bullshit.

(Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.)

One day, he and Robin were cooking casseroles in his kitchen. Well, Steve was cooking casseroles, since he knew the difference between the oven and the stove, while Robin drew shapes in the flour littering the countertops. There were still plenty of people in town with empty stomachs and empty hearts, what with all the casualties that the crack had caused, and staring at all the food stacked in his pantry had made his heart hurt, so he'd decided to do something about it.

Except the type of cooking Steve had picked up through watching his mom was more focused on French cuisine and tiny sandwiches that looked pretty on silver platters, so he wasn't doing all that great of a time. Which was fine, which was great, because he knew enough not to get people sick, and that was what mattered. It was the thought that counted, that was what Ms. Byers said.

So when Steve peeled the lid of the cream of mushroom soup back, only for it to overturn in his hands and spill all over the counters, it was okay. He wasn't pissed at all, and he didn't kick the cupboard doors before scrambling to clean up.

Unrelated, but his big toe hurt.

"Oh, shit!" Robin dove over to the stack of mail and bills balanced on a nearby coffee table, picking them up in one swoop and slamming them down on the mess. The soup soaked into the papers, turning them soggy and disgusting. Steve wrinkled his nose as he grabbed the actual paper towels, which were only on the other side of the kitchen. "Gross, gross! Steve, hurry! It's getting all over my hands."

"I'm going, I'm going!"

He cut his losses and hopes that none of the letters Robin had grabbed were important, scooping them up in one motion to toss them into the trash. Steve tried to wipe the rest of the soup off from the counter, but Robin was still flapping her hands like she was trying to achieve flight.

"I'm going to barf. Who the hell puts soup in a corningware?"

Steve rolled his eyes as he wiped the last of the mess off of the counter. "Martha Stewart, I guess."

"Well, she can huff paint. Jesus, don't you have any other towels?" With another gag, Robin plucked a folded napkin off from the far counter, only to pause before she even got to cleaning. She squinted at it. "Wait, why's this one have my name on it?"

Steve froze. In a flash, he hurled the rest of the dirty paper towels into the trash and snatched the List from Robin's hand. Or, he tried to, at least. Except Robin just shuffled away, and was an awkward enough mess of gangly limbs that she was able to dodge past his attempts. "It's nothing. Just — a birthday list."

Birdlike, Robin tilted her head to the side. She studied him with an intensity that never seemed to leave her. Her face was pinched. Not buying it. She looked down at the List again, but she'd stilled enough that Steve was able to yank it away this time. "What do you mean, birthday list? There were people on there."

In an instant, Steve was thirteen again, being asked by his father where he'd been last night. Tommy H.'s, Freddy's, Nathan's. Anywhere except for the bedroom of a girl he couldn't remember the name of, sucking face in that awkward way all freshmen were doomed to do. So, without blinking, he lied through his teeth to his best friend.

"I'm heading up to Indy next weekend to check out the nice stores. I wanted to get lots of people's birthday gifts done in one go, so, you know." He waved the List, folded closed again, in the air. "I mean, I've got a shit memory even without the brain damage over the years."

At that, Robin untensed a little, though her eyebrows were furrowed deeply enough to show that she wasn't sold just yet. "But my birthday was in March."

To that one, Steve had an actually honest answer. "Yeah, you don't have to pretend you liked that gift. I told you I'd get a better one, and I meant it."

Robin just rolled her eyes, finally marching over to scrub her palms in the kitchen sink. "And I told you that it was just fine. Seriously, I could be a fedora person! If I was, like, forty and divorced!" As she was drying her hands with a dish towl, she snapped the cloth edge at his wrist. He just batted it away and flipped her off, content with letting her ramble away at whatever topic had captured her interest this time.

The topic tucked itself away from even him as he finished the last of the cooking, sliding the big pan into the oven before long. As agreed, Robin took up her half of the work and got to washing the dishes. Steve took a seat at one of the bar stools, keeping an eye out to make sure she didn't mistake the bleach for soap. As he sat back, he let his mind wander. Surprise surprise, it lead back to the List.

(The List, the List, the List.)

Last time he'd mulled it over, he'd been weighing Ms. Byer's life with Will's, because Steve was a horrible, awful person who considered things like that. It was almost like one of those moral quandaries, like the trolley cart thing. Do you prioritize the older life or the younger one? Was it worse to leave a son without his mother, or to force a parent to outlive her child? Then Steve had to factor in Jonathan, who clearly would lay down his life for either of his family members, but Nancy would definitely want to keep him around.

Not to mention that trauma of Will's that could be seen by a man on the moon. Although Steve could claim good intentions, prioritizing Ms. Byer's life above her sons' essentially had the end result of shooting the bullet into their heads himself. In practice, he was the one with blood on his hands, like always. Could placing Will lower be justified as putting down a suffering dog?

Except no, Will wasn't suffering. Not all the time, at least. Even though that kid had literally been to hell and back, he still had decades and decades to live past that one critical moment of his life. Steve saw the way he lit up whenever Mike or one of his other little friends entered the room. It wasn't right to steal his chance at happiness after all the shit he'd been through. Steve was a lot of things, but he really did try to be less monstrous then the Demogorgons.

He thought of the look on those kids' faces upon losing Will again, after this whole mess had started with him getting snatched in the middle of the night, and suddenly he was back to square one. With a sigh, he bumped baby Byers up a couple of spots, only to feel nauseous at the new set-up.

When Robin accidentally dropped a spoon into the garbage disposal, though, he was forced to stuff the List back into his pocket and make a mad dash towards the off button.

Two.

With the Sinclairs, it was much more complicated than it'd been with the Byers family.

All cards on the table, Lucas really was one of Steve's favorite brats. Second only to Dustin on one of his better days. Not to knock any of the quiet ones. Sometimes, the only thing keeping Steve sane was the knowledge that the flurry of commotion would inevitably be undercut by El or Will's calmer voices. Or, really, Steve's favorite tended to be anyone but Mike, the jackass. Even years later, Steve was still pissed off over how much of a pain he'd been back when he was dating Nancy.

But back to the Sinclairs, Steve really, really wanted Lucas to be one of the ones walking away from the final fight, whenever the fuck that rolled around. He was a good kid, what more could Steve say? Kind and reasonable, yet fiery when it came to his friends. Someone who Steve would've benefited from having in his life, back when he was around their ages.

But when Steve thought of the sight of Lucas witnessing little Erica Sinclair's end, he knew where Lucas would stand on this issue. Which left Steve with the issue of weighing Lucas's wishes against Steve's. Steve honestly didn't know if he cared enough for Lucas to do what he'd want instead of what he needed. Because Steve was selfish. Steve was so incredibly selfish that he was okay with having Lucas hate him, so long as it meant that he was alive enough to do so.

It didn't make the reality any easier to live with, though, especially as Steve sat in a crappy hospital chair, watching Lucas grip Max's hand and whisper softly enough that no one else in the room was able to hear him.

Kate Bush was echoing out of the little music player they'd brought. Dustin had thought to mix the usual track up with other songs by the same artist, though so far it wasn't having any effect. No one had really figured it would, except for maybe Lucas, if that. Anyway, it gave them time to get their hands on a new cassette. The old one was unusable by now, with all the repeat plays and that scuffle at the Creel House.

After a minute, Lucas slowly set Max's hand back onto the bed. He stood, wiping at his eyes. "I'm gonna go ask one of the nurses to open the window," he mumbled. "She probably hates the way it smells in here. All stuffy with rotting flowers." He nodded toward the vases upon vases of sympathy gifts that'd been brought over the weeks. More than Steve would have figured, what with how full the rest of the hospital seemed to be.

"Go for it." After a moment's consideration, Steve opened his wallet and took out a bill. "Here. Get yourself a soda or something. You look like you need the caffeine."

Lucas took the cash somberly, unlike the way any kid his age should look upon receiving free snack money. "Thanks. I'll be ready to go in ten, if you can drive me back."

"Sure thing."

With that, he stepped out, leaving Steve with Max.

The others said he should try talking to her. Or, talking at her, really. Not like there'd be much on her end of the conversation. Steve never really understood how comas worked. He'd had an aunt who'd taken a fall, and he remembered spending a summer in a Des Moines hospital with his family. He used to read her picture books the way Lucas did now. He'd never been able to tell if it did anything, though.

Steve opened his mouth. Then he closed it just as quickly, his throat going dry. Don't be a coward, Harrington, he thought to himself, then tried again.

"I always thought it was really cool of you, how you got dealt the same shitty hand as your step-brother but weren't an asshole about it." At that, he winced. "That's — probably not okay to say. Sorry." He wasn't entirely sure if he was apologizing to Max or Billy here, to be honest. The whole deal made him want to cut out his tongue. "But anyway, you came off from it as a really good person. That's not easy to do."

Too still for his own tastes, Steve got up and left his jacket draped on the back of his chair. He wandered over to the window, still locked tightly shut. He remembered coming here when he was younger and visiting Carol's grandmother, joking around with his dumbass friends about how they bolted the windows shut to keep the crazies from jumping. Christ, he'd been such an awful little jerk. Sometimes he wondered how he'd been able to look in the mirror without it cracking.

"I didn't have it nearly as bad as you. I mean, my parents are…" Absent. Missing. Gone, gone, gone, the town had split down the middle like a cracked egg and they hadn't even phoned home, hadn't even checked in if he was okay or safe or alive. "Well, you know. But it wasn't as rough at all. And I couldn't even get over myself to see past my own bullshit. So yeah. You're really strong for coming out the other side without letting them change you."

He thought about little Max Mayfield and El running throughout the mall, comped ice cream in hand and devilish little identical grins on their faces. Within seconds, the memory warped into the sight of Max's body hovering ten feet in the air, limbs in corpse position, eyes white enough that he could see them even from the ground. Steve had to screw his eyes closed and shake his head until the image disappeared.

"If it was me as a teenager facing off against Demodogs or soldiers or a goddamn curse, I would've turned and run away. No hesitation. But you've been fighting for a spot on the front lines since day one. It's goddamn commendable."

"Commendable is admirable?" whispered a soft voice.

Steve looked over to see El poking her head through the doorway, ratty ball cap perched on her head. The minute he spotted her, her eyes drifted toward the floor, and then to Max's bed a moment later. Something in her gaze hardened.

"Jesus, get inside!" Steve rushed her into the door, shutting it as unobtrusively as possible. Last thing he needed was a nosy nurse calling the cops. "What are you doing here? The street's crawling with government lackeys."

El just frowned, nodding over to the bed. "I wanted to visit Max. I think I can fix her this time."

Steve just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's what you said last time. And the time before that. Hopper only let you risk coming here when the situation was new, but nothing's changed now. Don't tell me he won't be pissed that you snuck out again."

"My business. Not yours."

"It's my — " Steve had to cut himself off and start again, quieter. Well, more of a whisper-shout than a panicked scream. "It's my business if he buries me six feet under for letting you get shot by a soldier grabbing a roll of bandages!"

But because all of these shithead kids were far too used to getting yelled at by older, more reasonable people, El just waved him away, settling in a chair facing Max. "Quiet. Don't ruin my concentration."

"Quiet?" he hissed, albeit pretty silently. "You want me to be quiet? Are you serious?"

"Yes." Then she shushed him and closed her eyes.

Huffing, Steve turned to pace back and forth within the tiny space. "Unbelievable. Each one of you kids is just unbelievable." Still, he kept his mouth shut as El leaned forward, brow creased in concentration. He was just able to pick up the white noise of the AC unit rattling in the wall. After a minute, El wiped at her nose and opened her eyes. They both waited a beat, staring at Max wordlessly, until El sighed.

"It did not work," she said.

Yeah, no shit. Steve didn't say that. He had enough tact not to kick a man while she was down. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and nodded. "At least you gave it a shot. That gives us one more thing we know now, right?" Unless she hadn't tried anything new at all, and had only come here to throw more spaghetti at the wall. It was probably that, actually.

"I miss her. She never visited me in California."

Pursing his lips, Steve leaned against the wall, tipping his head back against the plaster. "She was going through a lot, this past year. I don't think she was up to it." When El didn't say anything in return, merely brushing Max's hair out of her face, he bit the bullet. "We really need to get you out of here. Lucas left to bring back a nurse, and we can't have anyone here see you."

"I can be Max's cousin. I am allowed to be here."

"She's only got her mom on file. Seriously, El. Don't make Hopper worry over nothing. You know his old man heart can't take it."

With a barely disguised disappointment, El got up, arms folded. That was okay. Upset meant alive. "It could if he stopped smoking."

Steve cracked a grin. "That one's a lost cause, I'm afraid."

El nodded seriously. Then she re-adjusted her hat, likely a handmedown from the Chief himself, before asking, "Can I borrow your jacket? I want the hood."

"Yeah, sure." Steve went to grab his keys, sitting on the bedside table. There was a little extra weight to it that he wasn't expecting. He studied it, then smiled softly. Linked to the ring was an interlocked chain of soda tabs. He wasn't sure who'd done it, probably Robin, but he liked it. It added personality.

"Why is Mike all the way on the bottom?"

Steve's blood froze.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. Shitty fuck.

"That — " he tried, whirling around to see El's fingers twisted around the List, her free hand in the jacket pocket she'd likely grabbed it from, "is private. I really need that back, El."

"But what it is?" She squinted at it harder, tilting her head curiously. "Am I supposed to have a list?"

"No," he snapped, before he could really think it through. El stepped back with a barely concealed flinch. She set her jaw right after, recovering quickly. Steve drew a sharp breath. "Wait, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. Just — please give that back. It's not yours."

"It has my name on it," she countered, and fuck, Steve could practically hear Max in her voice.

"So does an algebra worksheet!"

El flushed bright red, before spinning on her heel to march right out of the door. Panicked over anyone spotting her, Steve reached out to pull her back in, only to realize at the last moment what a horrible idea that was. He backed out right before his fingers skimmed El's skin, only for her to shoot out her hand and send him stumbling back, crashing against one of the monitors. It made a shrill sound.

They both met each other's eyes, then wordlessly threw themselves into the adjoined bathroom. Steve locked the door, cursing silently under his breath. Yeah, pick a fight with the one girl in the world who can hurl a tank with her mind. Great going there, Harrington. No wonder he'd needed Nancy to pull him through biology.

As soon as he clicked the door shut, a pair of footsteps came hurrying in. He pressed an ear to the wall, trying to pick up on what the nurse or doctor was doing. He heard some soft tutting and the adjusting of some furniture, but nothing sounded like the aide was particularly worried, so Max had to be okay. A few minutes later, the footsteps trailed away, and Steve risked cracking the door open.

While Steve was checking over Max's machines — not that he'd know if something was up — El murmured, harshly, "If it was not important, you would not care so much."

Steve winced. Yeah. Kind of a good point there. "It's a list of everyone in on it," he lied, careful to face away from El. Despite how she was raised to be unexpressive, El was damn good at sniffing out bullshit. Probably Hopper's doing. He could picture the old man pointing out tells during their trashy shows. "In on, well. You know. Sometimes, I forget who I can be honest around. It's a lot to keep track of. This helps me remember who's in the know."

El flipped the hood of Steve's jacket onto her head. "Mike is last."

Yep. Sorry about that one, Nance. "I wrote it in order of who I remembered. Mike and I don't talk very much, so I thought of him towards the end."

With a frown, El picked up a pen from the side table and handed both it and the List to Steve. He took it, hesitant. "He matters. Make sure he is not last."

Steve swallowed hard. He didn't think El knew what he was really talking about. If she dead, she sure as hell would have had more requests. But even though she didn't understand what she was asking of him, he couldn't bring himself to lie to her twice in one go. She'd had enough of shitty adults deciding to keep her in the dark.

"Okay. I'll figure something out."

El slides up next to him. They both look down at Max, pale on the white bed. "You promise?" she croaked.

Steve's eyes burned. "Yeah. I promise."

That night, he rewrote the List and put his own name at the bottom.

Three.

Steve never had a favorite outfit growing up. No shirts that went through the wash week after week, or a pair of go-to jeans that he could always pull out in a pinch. His mom was intent on him wearing only the trendiest, nicest clothes. As soon as he even threatened to outgrow a set, she'd take it from his bedroom drawers and fold it up into a cardboard box in the attic. The one time he'd tried to liberate a hoodie of his, she'd snatched it from him and thrown it into the trash, right then and there. They couldn't have him representing the family in ratty old rags, now could they?

It'd pissed him off, as far back as he could remember. Especially since his mom's constant wardrobe revamp meant that it was her always buying his new clothes. Tommy used to rib him for the polos he was stuck wearing. But it had its benefits now, as that meant there were boxes and boxes of gently used clothes just sitting upstairs.

Steve spent the entire morning going up and down the rickety old ladder, bringing as many boxes as he could carry down to the driveway. Hopper was supposed to come by with a truck to take down to one of the donation drives. He'd already gotten canned food from the Wheelers, last Steve heard from him.

As Steve sat on his front steps and waited, he thought about his newest conundrum with the List, which mind you, he'd stowed away in his glove box. He was getting sick of people stumbling over it and coming to their own conclusions. Anyway, he was struggling with where to put Hopper. With the Chief and El, he faced the same problems as Will and Ms. Byers, but with some added issues.

The Chief already had laid down his life for his cause and his daughter, even if it hadn't actually stuck. When it'd really mattered, he'd put his money where his mouth was and actually done the deed. That had to mean that he'd be okay with putting himself in harm's way again, right? Out of everyone, he was the only one who really understood the worst of what could happen to them.

Except El had already mourned her father once, and it'd nearly destroyed her. Steve remembered sitting on Nancy's couch as she twisted a finger around the phone line coil, nervously pacing as Jonathan told her about the newest problem weighing on her. It wouldn't be fair to put her through that all over again.

Not to mention, Hopper and Ms. Byers were considerably closer now than they'd been in the past. Leaving Hopper to bite it would hurt two people now, one of which was already being pushed to her limits to care for her tiny family. Hopper needed to stay alive, that much was obvious.

Fuck, everyone needed to stay alive. Even the annoying assholes who Steve would rather leave for dead in literally any other scenario, they didn't deserve whatever horrifying, noxious death that awaited them the moment Steve let his guard slip. Jonathan still had a mother and a brother and a girlfriend waiting for him to come home. Steve — Steve had Robin, he guessed. Henderson on a good day. Those two had others to lean on. They could move on without him.

Heart practically beating out of his chest, Steve stumbled over to his Beamer, frantically unlocking it and rifling through the glove box. He pulled out the List (the List, the List, the List) and unfolded it, reading off the names. With practiced ease, he switched around the order a bit, dragging Hopper up, bringing down Lucas, only for his stomach to immediately twist as he rose Erica in a vague attempt to earn forgiveness. He was so wrapped up in his own shit that he almost didn't hear the crunch of gravel as Hopper pulled up.

"Harrington!" the man barked, and Steve was trying to shove the List back into his glove box so fast that he slammed the lid down on his thumb in the process. He hissed under his breath and shoved his red finger into his pockets, tossing the folded List onto the dashboard . "Help me with the boxes, yeah?"

"Yeah, give me one sec." He gave a quick nod to Hopper as he rushed back over to his own porch, picking up a stack of three cardboard boxes in one go. The other man popped open the trunk for him, which was helpful and all, but what wasn't good to see was the fact that the back half of the vehicle was already full to the brim with bins of canned food. "Uh, Chief? You sure that we've got enough room back here for everything?"

Hopper took one glance at the stockpile of second-hand clothes and instantly took out his pack of cigarettes, before stowing them away with a sigh. "Now I'm not. You got enough gas in yours to make it to the high school?"

Yes. No. Well, he did, but he sure as hell didn't want to make that trek. Not when his brain was buzzing and all the blood in his veins had turned acidic enough to win a regional science fair. But when Steve opened his mouth, all he thought about was his big, empty house, and the fiery line that'd splintered the town clean through, and the guilt had him nodding along.

"Okay, yeah. The car's unlocked, let me grab my wallet and license."

He dipped inside quickly, taking the stairs two at a time and snatching his keys off of his bedside table. On the way down, he made a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a couple of granola bars out of his pantry, for Robin and any of the other volunteers. He was pretty sure that most days, they got out too late to get a decent dinner. It was only when his eyes landed on the half-dirty corningware soaking in the sink that his eyes widened, and he bolted out of the front door with a hissed curse.

The sight of Hopper, frowning down at a small sheet of paper in his hands, stopped Steve in his tracks. Damnit.

Hopper didn't have to look up to know Steve was there, that much was obvious. "You wanna tell me about this?" He ran a finger down a name. Steve couldn't tell who it was from his angle, but his heart have a squeeze.

"That's — It's not — "

"Take a seat, kid." Hopper gestured toward his trunk, popped open.

Steve felt his throat close up. "I'm not a kid," he mumbled. The kids were D&D-loving goofballs, with Band-Aids slapped on their scraped knees and toothy grins. He had a job, and a car, and a high school diploma. Not a college degree, or any real attempt at it, but it was something. It was proof that when his body came crashing down, they'd call the surgeon instead of the pediatrician.

"A seat, Harrington. Don't be a smartass."

Feeling like those manacled prisoners trudging their way over to the gallows in old movies, Steve reluctantly leaned against the back of the car. He stared up at his childhood home with nothing but hate. For once, he couldn't even justify it with a reason why. Maybe it was the blood he swore still filled the pool's drains, or the empty bedrooms without souls to fill them.

"I get it," Hopper said after a moment, arms crossed as he visibly tore his gaze away from the List. "This isn't the first time that my life has been on the line. Staring down the barrel of a gun and walking away afterwards when not everyone else does — it messes with you."

"I'm not messed up," Steve heard himself say, which was a feat given how his heart was beating so fast that he could hear it sudden and rattling in his ears.

Hopper sighed. It was a sad sound, one that abruptly reminded Steve of how old the man was. "I know, Harrington."

"I'm not."

"And I'm agreeing with you." Hopper ran a hand down his face and took out the List again. Steve practically felt his eyes boring in on it. "But I know that there are some nights where you wake up and you can't quite remember who made it out. So you call a couple folks, check in on them. Make sure that things settled the way you think they did."

Oh. Steve felt himself stiff up even tenser at that, even as his mind raced. The Chief — didn't get it. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. That was probably a good thing. Except it didn't feel like it. It felt like getting away with hiding a broken arm behind your back while your parents walked out of the room.

Hopper's eyes went a bit distant. "Sometimes, I have to ask Joyce, just to confirm that El's okay, that her boys are alright. That we're out of it." He turned to him. Steve felt like his skin was on fire. "I promise you, Harrington, that everyone on this list is safe. You don't need to keep worrying, even if it feels like you do."

For a moment, Steve considered fessing up. He could admit that this was just some drawn-out suicide list, the kind that you tucked away from little kids and didn't mention at the funeral. He could deny the assumptions Hopper was making, born out of good intentions and misguided trust. Except that would need Steve to cleave open his chest and let his heart struggle for all the world to see, and he — he didn't want that. He'd rather continue to walk down this unspeakable path than do that.

So he just swallowed and said, "Thanks, Hopper. I appreciate that." The lies tasted like ashes on his tongue, and he swallowed them like medicine.

"Yeah, Harrington. Anytime. It's not easy to be a bruiser in this fight."

I'm not a bruiser, Steve thought to himself. I'm a goddamn kamikaze.

He rattled out some mindless reply, one that not even he was able to repeat. Then he slowly loaded the rest of the boxes into his Beamer and drove down to the high school, tailing behind Hopper. When they lulled to a pause at a stop sign, Steve pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, took a breath, and fought back the urge to drive his car off the quarry cliff.

Four.

He didn't know when the switch had happened. When I'd be willing to die for them turned into I'm going to die for them turned into I need to die for them. Once it had happened, however it had come to be, he hadn't been able to shake the pledge. It'd been cemented into his mind. He supposed that was why they called suicide a commitment.

For some reason, he kept expecting the urge to lesson. To wake up one day and grin at Robin's stupid joke, or look forward to the town's inevitable re-opening. But instead, every borrowed moment of happiness was tainted by the understanding that he'd have to lay down his life to preserve his people.

There wasn't a single person who was in the know that he wasn't willing to bite it over. Even ordinary, unknowing Hawkins townees, Steve thought about sacrificing himself for their sakes. The gas station employee, the gardener tending to the neighbor's roses. He could do it. He could swallow down his own cowardice, hold it underneath his tongue, and just get it over with.

It wasn't like he hated himself or anything, though. Steve was very realistic about his own strengths. He was a good fighter, one of the muscles they had on standby, though obviously nowhere near El's level. He had good looks about him, which he remembered his mom always emphasizing, ever since he was little. It wasn't all that effective when dealing with a portal to an alternate universe, but it was something. Steve — had a car. He was a good driver, even if Dustin insisted he'd get them into an accident one of these days.

But at the end of the day, there were just people who deserved to live more than he did. Any way he sliced it, that was the truth. The kids had bright, shining futures ahead of them that they needed to survive to be able to see. They were too little to let something like this damage them forever. Robin, Nance, even Jonathan had fought to make it to the other end of this whole shitshow. The adults had sons and daughters depending on them to make it home at the end of the day.

Steve was an only child. No girlfriend, no lifelong friends except for Robin, really. Parents were in Lima, or Madrid, or maybe Dallas, of all places. College didn't want him, and neither had high school. The only jobs he'd ever kept had ended in flames and fissures. What did he really expect to have going for him after this long, drawn-out fight finally ended?

It just made sense. One of those logical facts of life that sounded more true the more times you repeated them.

He was thinking of just that when he pulled into the back parking lot of the high school, letting the engine run. As soon as he looked out of the window, he had to shut his eyes. All he could see was ghostly images of himself getting up to bullshit with the people he used to call his friends. Slashing car tires of the girls who refused to sleep with his teammate, leering at the mathletes as they got out of their zero period practice. Christ, he'd been such a little asshole.

When Lucas came trudging out of the gym, head held low, Steve unlocked the passenger door. The kid tossed a duffel bag into the trunk, then hopped into the front with him. Steve heard him exhale a sigh of relief as soon as the car slowly turned out of the parking lot and sailed down the street. There was an uncomfortable cloud of silence ganging thick in the air, and Steve had the radio playing for about thirty seconds before he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Everything alright?"

"'s fine." Lucas didn't look up from his hands, fingernails picking at something dry clinging to his skin. Paint, maybe.

"Practice was good?" It was the only reason why the kid didn't get picked up with the rest of the bandwagon. At first, he'd protested the chauffer treatment, but Nancy had countered that with the state of the military and, well, the giant fucking hole in the ground, the last thing they needed was anyone getting picked off while on their lonesome.

Lucas held his breath for a moment, before letting it go with a quiet, "I quit."

Steve tried his best not to react. He thought he did pretty good, all things considered. "Your choice or theirs?"

"Mine, mostly." Lucas turned to look out the window. Steve could just make out his expression in the reflection, frowning and stormy. Not the way that sunny Lucas should be looking. "The team's been really going at the others recently. Mike and Will a bit, but mainly Dustin. They really fucked him up today. I can't be complicit in all that. Not to mention, I don't trust anyone who went along with Jason's shit."

"You throw a punch?"

He shook his head softly. "Dustin was holding his own before the rest of us got there. I mostly talked big game. I would've gotten physical if it came down to it, but — " he paused, picking his words carefully. "I really try to stop it from getting to that point."

Made sense. If Steve had been half as smart, maybe he wouldn't get migraines every other Tuesday. "Today was your last practice, then?"

"No. I talked to Coach before sixth, explained it all. He got it, even if he didn't like it. I had to wait until everyone else was gone to get my stuff out of the locker room, and I need to wash my uniform and bring it back before Friday. So you don't have to pick me up anymore."

Steve turned onto the next street, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Fuck it. He might not be the best to deal with this, but Lucas deserved him doing his due diligence, at the very least. "How're you feeling about it all?"

Lucas pursed his lips. He didn't say anything for a beat. The radio kept warbling a soft, rhythmic song Steve didn't recognize. After it ended and the car was plunged into a quick silence, he muttered, "Not great. I liked basketball."

"I did too," Steve tried, feeling like he'd put his foot in his mouth. "Lots of endorphins."

"My dad played in college. He really wanted me to branch out, try things outside of my comfort zone. I liked learning something new, and having something that was just mine. That was cool." Lucas stiffened. "And now it's over, 'cause everyone on that team's an asshole."

"Yeah, uh. The overlap between asshole and athlete is a pretty big one." Steve had been square in the middle, actually. A prime example. The memory made something in his gut twist. After a second's consideration, Steve pulled a hard left turn, cutting off another truck ambling down the road. The other driver laid down on the horn, but Steve hardly paid him any mind as he tore down the opposite direction they'd just come from.

"Um, Steve? What are you doing?"

"I want a milkshake," Steve said conversationally. By now, he didn't even need to think about where the diner was. He'd driven there so many times, in so many varying levels of intoxication, that it was built into his muscle memory by now. "And I know you want one too. It's not like you need to stay in shape anymore."

"But — I have homework."

"It'll take ten minutes. Come on, I know you're sneaking out tonight to plan fuck knows what with the other brats anyway."

Lucas's eyes went wide. "How did you — "

"Just because Ms. Byers and Hopper are asleep, it doesn't mean the rest of us are snoozing by two in the morning. You guys are shit at keeping details under wraps." Steve pulled into a parking spot, taking out a few bills and handing them to Lucas. "Get me chocolate, yeah?"

"You're not coming with me?"

"Very observant. Nah, the manager on shift isn't my biggest fan." Served him right, all things considered. Sophomore year, he'd scratched some really awful things into that guy's side door. "Sides, if you keep paying attention, you'll notice that I gave you enough for three shakes. Now, go buy your sister some grub."

He nodded over to the tiny dictator in lace-up high tops, surrounded by a starstruck gaggle of preteens. From what Steve could tell, she was in the process of charming a few bucks off of each of them. He might as well spare them the lecture from their parents they'd undoubtedly receive later for wasting their lunch money.

"What — Erica? Erica!" Barely remembering to close the door behind him, Lucas dashed out from the car to yell at his sister. "What are you doing here? You told Mom that you had tutoring!"

As little Erica Sinclair shot something charged back at him, Steve leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night. All day, he'd barely managed to clear through the fog in his brain, but as soon as he'd laid his head on that pillow — nothing. Wide awake, like he was hopped up on four cups of coffee.

Part of him wondered if it was a great choice to be driving on so few hours of sleep. He kept that part pretty silent. He knew that he'd done more dangerous things while in worse states of mind. That night after his freshman year homecoming game? Jesus, he hadn't even been able to walk in a straight line. He sure could run, though. That sprint through the woods had given him scars he still could trace out on his calves.

The minutes dragged by slowly. Familiar with the steps by now, Steve pictured the cook behind the cash register setting the paper cup underneath the machine, filling it to the brim with a frothy liquid, topping it off with whipped cream and a cherry, setting the whole thing in one of those cardboard trays. But as Steve finished off the last step in his head, he realized that Lucas had been gone for a while now. Much longer than Steve would've figured it taking.

He cracked open his eyes to see Lucas and Erica sprinting toward his car.

"Shit," he breathed, and rushed to get the engine on. Lucas threw open the backseat door hard enough for it to make an awful sound, and he and Erica scrambled into the back. Steve didn't even wait for them to get their seatbelts on before flooring it out of the parking lot. One of them made a harsh oomph! noise as he peeled away. "The hell happened?"

"They were messing with my sister!" Lucas shouted. Through the rearview mirror, Steve could spot him giving Erica a once-over, checking her for scrapes and bruises.

"Those basketball assholes followed him inside," Erica said, shoving away her brother's wayward hands. She had a small streak of blood staining her face, stretching upward. From his angle, Steve couldn't tell if it was her own or not. "I tried to get help but they decided to go for me instead. Luckily, Lucas spotted them from inside."

Steve tightened his grip on the wheel. "Are we gonna need Hopper to pull some strings at the station?" Last thing they needed was those two getting the heat for something that wasn't even their fault.

Lucas shook his head. "No, it's fine. Mr. Ramirez saw the whole thing. He was chewing them out when Erica and I ran. I heard him say he was going to tell all their parents at the PTA meeting tonight." Then, frowning, "Can I get some napkins? I want to get the blood off of Erica's face."

"Keep your hands off me! I can do it myself," Erica protested, but Steve just grabbed a handful of fast food napkins from his glove box and passed them behind him, scanning the street in front of him for anyone that looked to be trailing them.

"There should be a water bottle back there."

There was the sound of the plastic seal cracking open, then a soft hiss of pain from Erica. The two siblings mumbled back and forth with each other, something about bitings and dirty shots. Steve just kept his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. He took a couple turns down some of the nicer streets, with less potholes and bumps. It took a bit longer to make it to the Sinclair house, but that was alright. He wasn't in much of a rush.

After a few minutes, he felt a small something poke him in the shoulder. "Oh, Steve? I don't think you meant to give this to us." Steve reached behind him, and brought back — brought back the List. Fuck. His heart immediately slipped into a rattling beat, twice as fast. He couldn't even process which of the siblings had handed it to him.

"That's — just the other people I need to drive around today," he heard himself say. It really was impressive how level he was able to keep his voice, all while floating thousands of miles away from his body. "And the rest of the week. I didn't want to forget anyone."

In response, all he got was an absent, "Uh-huh." Steve risked glancing behind him to catch Erica wiping away tears in her eyes while Lucas rubbed her back, the both of them staring out of the window with absent gazes. Steve took a breath. Then another. Then another, until they started to come automatically.

He kept driving.

Five.

It was like a never-ending math problem. Steve was constantly toiling away, trying to crunch the numbers to balance the sides of the equation. There had to be some sort of ratio to it all. The life of two Mikes was worth three Hoppers. Four Ericas were a Jonathan and a half. The Byers family had twice the weight of the Wheelers. If Steve just kept turning it, and turning it, and turning it in his head, it would shake out to something reasonable.

But Steve had never been good at math. He'd gotten an even C in his very last class in high school. Never managed to get above a B- in any other course.

So he kept scribbling out drafts and drafts of copies. On the backs of envelopes and receipts and napkins, sticky notes and playing cards. Anything he could get his grubby hands on in a moments' notice. But it was never enough, because every time Steve sat back and thought to himself that this was it, he'd look down at his paper and refuse to accept this reality.

When it came to destroying his drafts, however, now that was where he got creative. Some nights, he'd burn them with his old cigarette lighter and drop the flaming slips of paper into the deep end of his pool. Others, he'd fold them four, eight, twelve times over, until they were little wedges of woodpulp, and then grind what remained underneath his shoe.

"Lost in space there?"

Steve blinked, then nearly jumped out of his skin to see Nancy just two inches from his face, scrunching her button nose at him. She'd left her chair at the other end of the dining room to lean on the table, reaching over to grab a stack of files. Her curls were flatter today, a side effect of spending the night crashed out on his sofa, with some of the others, and she looked beautiful.

His fingers stilled from their spot, creasing the newest copy of the List into a fine slip. "Uh, sorry?"

She tapped on the page he'd been reading with the eraser end of her pencil. "You've been on that one for almost twenty minutes now. Are you sure you don't want to take a break? Jonathan should be back with dinner in a few."

Steve shook his head, fighting back the urge to rub his eyes. "I can finish out my shift until he brings the takeout." Then, after a beat, he looked up at her in confusion. "Wait, he already left? I didn't tell him my order."

"Bacon cheeseburger with fries and honey mustard. Medium Pepsi if they've got it." Nancy didn't even look up from the medical records that Robin had lifted from the hospital archives last week. When Steve just stared up at her, a bit stunned into silence, she bit back a grin. "What? You get the same thing every time. It's not that complex."

With a smile of his own, Steve leaned back in his seat. "Did you just call me simple, Nancy Wheeler?"

Her eyes sparkled. "I'd never do that. I'm too nice of a girl, didn't you hear?" At that, he actually huffed out a laugh. She tilted her head, pursing her lips in that way of hers, the one where she was clearly trying not to match his energy. "What? Are you calling me mean, Steve Harrington?"

"Nance, the only people who'd use nice girl to describe you are the ones who haven't seen you work a shotgun."

She tutted, whacking his arm with a rolled-up sheet of papers. "I am a delight," she said primly. Steve nodded understandingly to that, and they both held themselves for about five seconds, before they descended into peals of laughter at the exact same instant. Nancy giggled into her palms, nails dipped a nude tone that complemented her skin tone, and Steve felt like his heart was about to burst.

Then Jonathan's car rolled into the driveway, car horn honking, and the moment shattered.

"Oh! I'll go help Jonathan, can you get some forks?" Nancy said over her shoulder, already pulling her boots over her socked feet. "We're splitting a salad. Thanks!"

"No — " the door shut. "Problem," he finished. Typical. With a sigh, Steve moved to clean up the dining table. He slipped the List in between two discarded files, piling them high alongside a few others. Humming to himself, he almost didn't notice Robin rising from the dead and stumbling over to him, yawning loudly into his ears, lips smacking.

"What time 'zit?"

"Eight. At night." Steve raised an eyebrow as she just stretched her arms infinitely higher, bones popping. "You're really embracing the whole nocturnal raccoon thing now, huh?"

"Well, I already ate out of your trash, so might as well commit to the bit." He elbowed her in the ribs, to which she playfully bared her unbrushed teeth. That move actually had him flinching back, so props to her. Sensing victory, she plucked the new stack of files out of his hands. "Go take a break. Jonathan and I can grub and grind, but you and Nancy should get a few hours before tonight's meeting. It's a three-day weekend, so we're going late."

"Fine. But wake me twenty before we leave? I might need to take a quick shower."

Robin pulled a face, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes. "Ugh, most man statement ever. I'd need an hour just to do my hair, and I look like this!"

He waved her off, already fantasizing about the pillow that would be underneath his head soon. While he'd probably earn a better sleep in his own bed, he'd already decided to tough it out on the couch like everyone else. Not that he hadn't offered the guest beds time and time again.

When Jonathan came through the door, Steve nodded hello to him and wordlessly took the outstretched to-go bag in the other man's hand. Perfect interaction between the two of them, absolutely no notes. It really was one of their better days when they got through an entire twenty-four hours without speaking to each other.

Satisfied, Steve toed off his shoes and flopped down on the couch, shoving a handful of salty fries into his mouth. The TV on the opposite wall was playing the news on a quiet volume. Some new restriction placed onto their quarantine that they'd undoubtedly debrief on tonight, in the world's most secret Neighborhood Watch. Steve grabbed the remote and switched it off.

After a minute, Nancy joined him. She cracked open her own plastic container, carefully drizzling dressing over the lettuce and tomatoes. Steve nudged his own bag of fries in her direction, which she took with a grateful smile. As Jonathan and Robin's soft voices floated through the open door, the two of them dug into their food.

The comfortable silence was interrupted by Nancy, pausing her chewing to murmur, "You know, you're much more complex than anyone gives you credit for."

Steve tilted his head, not totally sure where she was going with this. "I am?"

Nancy just sat back in her recliner. She took a swig of her soda, forcefully enough that Steve almost wondered if there was something harder inside. "I grew up with my parents fighting. More than most on our street, but about the same as every couple in this suburban hellhole. But through it all, despite every shitty thing my parents have done to each other, they still drive home every night. They've slept in the same every night, even the ones where my mom screams at my dad to take the couch."

Steve thought of his own mother and father. He remembered waking up from nightmares as a little kid, creeping down to the living room, because he knew that whichever parent was spending the night there would be in a better mood than the one upstairs. That mercy would usually extend enough for him to get a pat on the head, maybe a cursory glance underneath his bed for monsters.

"I asked my mom, once, why she loved my dad." Nancy's eyes went hard. "It was because he stayed. He was there, even when he didn't want to be, and not every man out there does that. She's lucky like that, she said."

Mr. Montgomery, whose wife now owned the cornerstore the two used to share. Alfred Goldberg, from two doors down, now living in Miami. The husband of Steve's fifth grade teacher. Dustin's own dad, whose disappearance had been scandalously whispered by every woman on this side of town. It was cowardice, all of it.

Nancy turned to him, studying him like he was one of her textbooks. Maybe one on anatomy, with a transparent skeletal figure, laid out for all the world to analyze. "Thank you for doing more than just staying."

Steve held his breath. "It's not just for you."

"I know. That's why I'm thankful." Then Nancy handed him a slip of paper, creased and bent on the edges. Steve didn't need to unfold it to know what the letters spelled out. Before he could open his mouth, Nancy tucked her feet under her legs, laying her head down on a pillow. "I didn't read it, beyond my name at the top. It's not my business."

I trust you, she didn't say, not because it was false, but because it was true.

"I was going to grab the food for everyone," Steve lied, too fast to be believable. "I needed to ask their orders."

"Okay, Steve."

"I — I'm going to sleep now. Goodnight."

"Okay, Steve. Goodnight."

+ One.

It was late when he finished. So late into the night that it'd probably be better described as early morning, that hazy time where the sun wasn't quite sure if it was time to come out yet. Steve had downed enough coffee to make his hands shake, leaving each character on his paper wobbly and uncertain, even though his mind was made up. For once, he hadn't used a scrap of trash to record his thoughts. Instead, he'd brought out a sheet of crisp, clean printer paper.

Just as Steve was writing the final name, down on the bottom, he stilled at the sound of creaking floorboards, coming from the stairs. He did a quick tally of who was spending the night in his home at the moment. Most of the younger kids, except for Erica. Joyce, but not Hopper. Maybe Robin, depending on what time her parents had wanted her home. He didn't totally remember.

The sound petered off, then started up again. This time, though, it sounded like someone was heading up the stairs. Steve let the person be. He knew full well that there were some nights that refused to pass uninterrupted by a bout of nightmares. Besides, last thing he needed was to muster up an explanation as to why he was up so late.

Hands tracing the paper border of the List, Steve felt a deep sense of peace wash over him. This was it. This was how it was always going to go. In that moment, the world could have stopped turning on its axis. A hord of Demodogs could have swarmed through the front door. Vecna himself could have risen from the fireplace like a bastardized Santa Claus, and Steve would have been content. He knew what to do. Now, it was just a matter of execution and execution.

Holding his breath until his vision stuttered, Steve stared at the blurry characters on the page. When he tilted his head just so, it read like a will. Steve took one step back, then another. Then he released his breath all in one go and walked down to the garage, where the busted white fridge held the good beer. He was kidding himself if he thought he could get through this sober.

He snatched the last bottle, which shouldn't have been the case. He'd restocked just last week. That was the price of housing a miniature militant army in his home, he guessed. Still, he made a mental note to make sure that none of the younger brats had been stealing his shit. Call him a hypocrite, but those kids really shouldn't be drinking on top of all the other shit they were going through.

When he came back into the kitchen, though, he took one look in front of him, and his fingers went so numb that the bottle slipped through his hands and smashed on the tiled floor.

"Shit!" Steve dove for the paper towels, sopping up the mess even as the glass threatened to cut his palms up. Stupid, stupid! Why the hell had he just left it there? "That's — uh, that's an inventory! I'm trying to figure out what everyone needs for the next Crawl. Snacks, weapons, that sort of shit." Napkins dripping in his hands, Steve popped open the trash can lid with his foot and tossed the mess inside. He glanced up, breathless despite himself.

Dustin just frowned and gripped the List even tighter. "I'm not stupid, Steve."

"I never said you were. Now, can I have that back?" Steve felt his shoulders hike up, defensive. "Please? Come on, man."

The kid's eyes lowered, scanning the top with critical precision. "Robin," he read out, unhindered by the tons of weight that should have anchored the name. "Dustin, Nancy."

Steve felt his face heat up. "Keep it down!" he hissed, but Dustin didn't even stumble.

"Lucas, Erica, Will. Then there's a little gap, before Jonathan and Ms. Byers, El and Hopper. Max." Dustin squinted up at him, eyes hard. "Max. And then Vickie, Murray, the rest of the Wheelers, my mom, and Lucas's parents. Then, after all of that, it's you."

Steve swallowed. "It's not what you think of it."

"It's a suicide list."

"It's not!"

"Don't bullshit me!" Dustin slammed the List down onto the table with a hard crack. "This is how you figured out who you're going to off yourself over, huh? Except you don't know when to quit, so it's everyone! Is there a single person who you're not willing to end yourself for?"

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "How is this any different from going out with a bat full of nails? I've always been putting my life on the line for you all, and you've never had an issue with it. This just — itemizes it."

Dustin's face screwed up. "There is a difference," he seethed, "between being willing to die for a friend and deciding that's how it's going to end from the get-go. If you treat every fight like it'll be the one to do you in, it will."

Steve could practically picture how red his face was getting. "Yeah? And what would you know about that?" he spat. It took everything in him to keep his tone to a harsh, splitting scoff, rather than the shout that'd wake the whole house. "You can judge me from your high horse, but you're not the one dealing damage. Your job is to be smart, and come up with hypotheses, and stay alive so everyone else does. It's different with me!"

It was true. Dustin was the scientist to Steve's soldier. Each Henderson was worth over a dozen Harringtons. As much as he protested, they both functioned very different roles. If Dustin were to get a lucky shot in on him, they'd treat it as a tragedy, as a plan gone horribly wrong. For Steve, that was just the way the cookie crumbled. It was half-expected every time.

Dustin snarled at him and ripped a sheet of notebook paper from his hoodie pocket, shoving it into Steve's hands. Steve blinked down, uncomprehending, at the list (the list, the list, the list) in his grip.

Lucas, the very top read, in scribbled, doctor-like handwriting that didn't get any neater as it continued. Will. Mike. El. Steve. Robin. Erica. Suzie.

Steve tasted bile brewing at the base of his throat. It was like stumbling across a corpse, one he knew that he should never have come across. If he hadn't strayed from the path, then he wouldn't have been met with such a sight. When Dustin slowly reached out to pull the paper back, Steve didn't protest.

"It's not ranked, the way yours is," Dustin said quietly, before screwing up his nose. "Which is really fucked, by the way. Don't let Ms. Byers see that. But mine — It's just the people I need to make it out of the final fight. The ones who I'm not able to see go down. The friends I'll die for in a heartbeat."

"You're sixteen," Steve heard himself say.

"And you're twenty-one. Just barely drinking age, except I know for a fact that you've been getting drunk since your freshman year."

Seventh grade, actually, but that was mostly just because he hadn't known how to hold his liquor back then. He'd get it down by the end of middle school, and then promptly forget that skill as soon as summer started and all other common sense flew out the window. It was the circle of life, or something like that.

With a weary sigh that made him feel decades older than he actually was, Steve leaned back against the dishwasher. "There's got to be a better way," he mumbled. Damn, he really wanted that beer right about now.

In a smoother motion than Steve would've expected, Dustin hopped up onto the kitchen counter. He let his legs sway back and forth, bumping the backs of his heels against the cabinet doors. "You think that's what Eddie thought?"

Steve winced. That was where it'd come from. Of course it was. If Steve had been shaken by Munson's death, then surely Dustin was in double the world of pain. He wondered if Henderson had come to the conclusion and conviction at the same time as he had, as they slowly filled Eddie's grave with fresh dirt.

The first rays of light began to filter through the blinds. Upstairs, there was the faintest shifting of early morning risers. Steve held his head in his hands and wished it'd all stop, if only for just a minute. "What are we going to do?"

"I mean, we've got a whole list of instructions."

A crackle of anger snapped in his spine. "Shut it, alright? You're not going through with this shit!" he snapped. "It's my job, not yours!"

"Yeah, and what good does that do any of us? You kill yourself for me, I kill myself for El. You think that she doesn't have her own priorities? It all ends the same. How many of us have to bite it before we call it a win?"

Steve glared at him. "Then don't bite it. Find a way to live past tomorrow."

"You first."

Steve pushed off of the counter, pacing back and forth through the kitchen. His heart was about two seconds from launching itself right out of his chest. All the plans he'd made over the last few months flew by in his head, shredding themselves to pieces. The knowledge of what he was capable of doing to turn the tides had been his only comfort as they inevitably neared their final fight, and it was being ripped away from him.

He could fight it. Go down screaming and clawing, like a rabid animal. He could lie his ass off to Dustin. If he really put his all into it, he'd get away with it. He'd always been such a good con artist. When he was young, he only ever got caught because he wanted the attention of his frustrated parents, and he'd been willing to accept his punishment if it meant they'd notice him for more than two seconds.

And for an instant, Steve readied himself for the fabrication of a lifetime. It'd need to be a living, breathing story that conceivably belonged to him, with the strengths and weaknesses of a real person. He pictured the effort it'd take to stitch it together, and all the time he'd put into holding it up. It would be his greatest task to date, up until it finally came to fruition and he could rest.

Except that would mean that Dustin would one day sit on the edge of the graveyard and watch as strangers dug Steve's grave, and that wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

Steve stopped pacing. He could hear the others coming down the hallway, heading for the stairs. Not much time left. Only one shot, really. Deep down, Steve knew that if he fucked this up, then it wouldn't matter what stops he pulled out during the next fight. One way or another, it'd end with Dustin on the floor, losing more blood than his dumbass body had to spare.

"If you die, I die," Steve said, echoing the words that used to keep him up at night. "But if you live, then I'll live too."

Dustin didn't falter. "You promise?"

"I promise."

He took a breath. Held it for longer than he should have. Released it. "Okay," he said, then took Steve's List from him, set it atop his own, and ripped both in half.