Chapter Text
Tommy is the first one to call him “Steve”. Tells him that Steven sounds like a dad’s name and that he’s Steve now. His parents only ever call him Steven. Ste-ven. Two sharp, short syllables they over pronounce with the tips of their tongues. Though sometimes speeding up and slurring over the “t” when they’re angry.
He likes how “Steve” sounds – it’s friendly and open, the “ee” noise lending itself to a smile. You can trust a “Steve”. So yheah, he likes the way “Steve” sounds. He especially likes how it sounds when Tommy throws an arm over his shoulder and says with a wide grin, “We’re gonna be best friends, Steve.”
Tommy’s the first to call him “Steve”, and he’s Steve’s first friend.
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When they moved to the big house in Hawkins, Steven was home-schooled for a while. He knows he wasn’t always – he can vaguely remember a gray room and other children, even if they were all different ages than him. Now though, he wishes his parents hadn’t sent his tutor away. Starting Hawkins Elementary in the third grade means he constantly feels like he’s playing catch up.
There’s the actual school part, of course. Steven can read, write, and count but it turns out school is a lot more than that. There’s this fancy, looping writing that Steve can’t even read much less write in that they want him to use, and it cramps his hand. And they want him to know about things that already happened, which seems so stupid because they already happened, who cares anymore? Not to mention the reading. He doesn’t mind the paragraphs they check for grammar mistakes – the content isn’t important and there are rules and once you remember those it’s pretty easy. Even the book Mrs. Hayward reads to them at story time can be kind of fun, if confusing. But sometimes they want him to read these short rhyming stories that make no sense at all, and Steven doesn’t understand why they want him to just guess at what they mean. He doesn’t understand why someone would write something confusing on purpose, or why it’s up to him to figure out what they’re saying. The best Steven can figure is that they’re supposed to be puzzles- like in math class.
If Sally has 12 apples and gives ½ of them away, how many apples does Sally have left?
Still way too many apples for one person to eat, that’s how many. His home tutor had just started explaining how people can count to one number a bunch times to get another, or how numbers are made up of other numbers and can be split back into them. But at school they won’t let him count things out on his fingers or with tally marks on a paper – he’s just supposed to do it in his head.
Steven misses his tutor, Mr. Douglas. Mrs. Hayward is okay, but there are a lot of other children for her to watch, and she doesn’t like how Steven wants to learn things. Mr. Douglas had been patient and soft spoken, never getting frustrated when Steven didn’t get something and willing to explain it different ways. He hadn’t called him stupid, the way the kids in class do when he instinctively stretches out his fingers to count. Mr. Douglas had said Steven’s need to feel what he was learning was “hands on” and had tailored the lessons to that. He had let Steven learn math with shiny stones or brightly colored cubes, let him see and hold the numbers, see how they change when you spread them out or move them around. He had practiced spelling by drawing pictures – turning C-A-T into a pet his parents would never let him own – and reading with a window cut-out he could move along the page to see only a sentence at a time. There had been breaks when he was frustrated, and things to keep his hands busy, and gentle words of encouragement.
In school, there are only dead words on flat pages and Mrs. Hayward saying the same instructions again and again in a tighter voice, annoyance prickling against his skin. No more running out to spin in the rain while Mr. Douglas explains why it falls from the clouds. No more soft, cool, dirt covering his hands as he plants seeds; Mr. Douglas and his warm, blanket-like, contentment telling Steve how they’ll become flowers one day.
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He knows Mr. Douglas didn’t want to leave him- Steven had hidden outside the room when his parents told his tutor his services were no longer needed.
“I’m not certain Steven has completely caught up to where he’ll need to be to enter the third grade with his peers this fall, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington” Mr. Douglas had told Mom and Dad, voice still - always - soft, but the air buzzing with worry around him.
His father’s gruff voice had responded, “We believe that it would be best for Steven to be exposed to other children his own age as soon as possible”, and Steven could tell, from the firm press on his arms that he wasn’t going to change his mind.
Mr. Douglas had tried though. “Of course! Steven needs friends – I just think it might be best to enroll him in some activities with other kids and continue the private tutoring until he’s more caught up.”
“Are you trying to say we don’t know what’s best for our own son, Jonathan?” His mother’s voice was almost as sharp as the anger that whipped off of her. Steven had curled in on himself, but kept an ear pressed to the door.
“No! No, of course not, Mrs. Harrington. Steven – Steven is a smart kid, and he learns so quickly when given the correct tools. I’m just not sure he would flourish in typical classroom environment right now.”
“He should be learning what I did at his age, a real education – not playing in the garden, or finger painting, or whatever it is you two do. If Steven is as smart as you say, then he shouldn’t have any issues with normal schooling.” Steven’s father had countered with.
“And he won’t – not after we’ve gotten him up to speed and develop some learning strategies that can help him.” Steven could tell Mr. Douglas knew he was losing this argument, could feel his pleading pull at him.
“Learning strategies?” Mom snapped, “Are you saying our son needs special education? To be in class with those – those retarded children that eat glue?” Her voice had risen in pitch with each question.
“I just think, given his special circumstances, it wou- “
“Circumstances? What do you know of his circumstances?”
There had been a pause. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have a child in the hospital that long.”
“No. You can’t.” His mother spit out. The room had fallen quiet, and Steve could feel the tutor’s disappointment and resignation slide down him.
Quietly, Mr. Douglas asked, “Would you at least consider using an after-school tutor? Someone to help with homework and provide extra support?”
His father sighed, and Steve could imagine the large hand that had risen up to flatten his mustache. “We will consider it. However, I am afraid this is still your last day, Jonathan. We thank you for your help, but we don’t think you’re a good fit for our family anymore.”
“. . . Of course. I’ll gather my things and be out shortly.”
Steven had run back to the kitchen and sat down at the table, pretending to read. Mr. Douglas entered the room a few minutes later, eyes red, and took the seat across from the boy.
“Steven?” Mr. Douglas’s gentle voice had broken the silence. “I’m so sorry to say that this is my last day with you. You’re going to go to school in the fall and make lots of friends, so you don’t need an old fuddy-duddy like me hanging around anymore.” He had smiled, but the cold wetness on Steven’s skin proved that a lie.
Steven hadn’t trusted himself to talk - his throat was burning, and his chest felt too pinched to get any words out. He had nodded, but Mr. Douglas must have felt the sadness pouring out of him too because he had dropped his smile. “Oh Steven, it’s going to be alright.”
Steven had shaken his head and launched himself out of his chair and onto Mr. Douglas, shoving his face into his chest to try to hide the tears that had started. “I don’t want you to go.” He had managed to choke out.
His tutor had hesitated, then wrapped his arms around Steven in return. “I know, Steven.” And Steven knew he did, just like, even if he hadn’t eavesdropped, he would have been able to tell Mr. Douglas didn’t want to leave him. It filled the air around both of them. “I know. But it’s going to be alright, because you are a bright and charming young man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I know you can do this - you’re going to be okay.”
Mr. Douglas had held Steven for a while after that, rubbing his back and gently reminding the boy that he was smart and would do fine in school. Had held him right up until Steven had ripped himself away and ran upstairs to his room, unable to stand the idea of his tutor leaving anymore. He had refused to come out when Mr. Douglas left and later refused to come down for dinner. Steven had sat on his bed, hugging his knees and crying until he had finally fallen asleep.
The next morning, he had begged his mom to bring his tutor back, but she had only waved him away. His whining had given her a headache and she left him to find her pills. It had only taken one glance at his father to know asking him wouldn’t help. At breakfast his mother lamented how highly recommended Mr. Douglas (Jonathan, they always called him) had been, while his father had grumbled something about “damned hippies”, never looking up from his paper.
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There’s talk that they might grow pea plants in cups on the windowsill later in the year. But Steve doesn’t know how that could ever compare to the overflowing flowerbeds he and Mr. Douglas had made together.
All in all, third grade schoolwork sucks, but the real problem is that every other kid here has been in school together for forever. They’ve known each other since pre-school and Steven is the new kid – and the home-schooled freak on top of that. They’ve had years to learn how to talk to each other, to learn how to handle the jumble of emotions that constantly bombards Steven.
And that’s the real kicker. It’s hard to focus on school or what the other students are saying to him when all these emotions are crashing down on him. This must be something they cover earlier in elementary school – maybe even pre-k – because none of the other kids seem phased. They ignore every brush and pinch with an ease Steven can never seem to match. Eventually, the other kids had gotten bored trying to talk to him; he isn’t worth their time. Not when any burst of happiness or prickling of irritation was likely to cut him off mid-sentence. Mentioning what distracted him only gets weird looks, so Steven thinks it must be rude to bring up. (His parents are always pointing out things he does that are rude – and commenting on their emotions, especially when they don’t match their faces, is definitely on the list.)
His classmates mostly ignore him, but that doesn’t stop them from laughing, or calling him stupid, or pretending to want to talk to him only to break out into giggles and run back to their friends. Steven doesn’t know why they bother – the tickling that dances across his skin always lets him know that it’s a joke. He doesn’t find it very funny though.
But schools still better now than the first day.
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Steven was sitting at his assigned desk, but the curiosity crawling over him had made him fidget in his seat. He hadn’t needed to look up from the wood grain his eyes were tracing to know the other students were staring at him. Their open curiosity was enough of a tip off that they had noticed him, and the fact that it didn’t go away had let him know their focus wasn’t changing. It had only gotten worse with each new classmate that arrived.
He was tapping his fingers against the desk to try to shake of the crawling sensation, shoulders up to his ears, when Mrs. Hayward had finally entered.
“Welcome to third-grade, class!” She had cheered and finally, finally, the curiosity was gone as the others had turned towards the front of the room. “Now, I know most of you have already had classes together, but we are luckily enough to have a new student this year!” And just like that Steven curled up on himself again. “Steven? Why don’t you stand up and say a bit about yourself?” When he hesitated, she had gestured with her hands for him to get up.
“Um . . . My name’s Steven Harrington . . . “
That had set off a round of chatter among the students. The Harrington family had moved into one of the big houses in Loch Nora over a year ago, but their son had remained unseen – until now. Mrs. Hayward had to hush the class repeatedly before gesturing at Steve to continue. He had stared at her, eyes wide, until she had spoken again, smile strained. “Why don’t you tell us something you like, Steven, and then you can sit down.”
“Oh, um . . . I like flowers!” he had burst out, remembering the seeds he and Mr. Douglas had planted all over the backyard and how the green shoots had pushed through the ground. It was mind-blowing that something he had planted when it was just a dried-out husk had grown and flourished into something beautiful. But despite Steven’s wonder, that response had only gotten snickers – mostly from the boys in class.
“Quiet down, quiet down! Thank you, Steven, you can sit.” Mrs. Hayward said, trying to calm down the riled-up students.
Steven had slammed back into his seat and pressed his head into his folded arms. He had said something wrong. He didn’t know how – he had only said two sentences, but somewhere in there he had messed up. Mrs. Hayward kept talking, but Steve didn’t hear any of it, too overwhelmed with being around so many people and their emotions for the first time.
Part of him wanted to bang his head against the desk to try to empty it, but Mom and Dad had told him that was rude too.
Steven managed to white knuckle it through the morning, not really paying attention to what Mrs. Hayward or the other kids were saying. Mostly he had tried to perfectly recreate the breathing thing Mr. Douglas had taught him for when things got to be too much.
In four, hold four, out four, hold four. Repeat.
It had helped, and he was able to focus on the lesson again for a while. At least for a bit. Until he was swept away again by the sea of emotions around him, or the teacher would call on him to pay attention, and he had to start the whole process all over again. This had happened a few times before Mrs. Hayward and the bell had announced it was time for lunch.
Steven had shuffled into line with everyone else, eyes firmly planted on the floor as if not looking could have made the other kids go away. It hadn’t. But he had still tried to ignore the questions those around him were asking, ignore how their feelings just wouldn’t stop touching him. It wasn’t their fault – Steven knew that. He should have been better, should have known how to handle it like everyone else. Though that thought hadn’t helped him focus any better.
The class had made their way, single file, to the lunchroom, which turned out to be a big room filled to the brim with other, yelling children. Steven had felt like he hit a wall as he collided with a room bursting with popping, and itching, and pinpricks, and fluff, and, and –.
It was too much. It was too many people and too many emotions and they were looking at him and touching him and –. His chest had been too tight to try to breath around his rabbiting heartbeat; it had felt like it was going to burst, and he was going to die. That or he was going to push it all away and take out everyone else with him.
So, he had run.
Steven ignored the teacher’s shout and barreled down the hallway until he had been far away from that horrible room. With nowhere else to go, he had ducked inside the restroom and sat down under the sink, legs drawn to his chest. He pressed his head against his knees and tried desperately make himself small enough to hold himself together. There had been so much panic, so much fear, building in him and Steve knew he couldn’t let it escape. Not there.
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Steven had always known a great fear had somehow created its home inside him. Ever since he had woken up one night, months ago, paralyzed by dread in his bed, staring at the light that came in under the door like a lifeline. There had been something in the darkness. Something he knew he should see, something that crept just out of sight. It was hungry – and the dragging, gaping, feeling stalking the edges of his awareness was nothing Steven had ever felt before. But the child portion of his brain had been convinced if he just concentrated on the thin line of light the thing lurking in the dark wouldn’t strike, wouldn’t eat him whole. He couldn’t move, could barely breath, but as long as he didn’t turn his head, didn’t acknowledge the monster prowling along his consciousness, he had been sure he would be okay.
Still, eventually the fear had grown, jumping under his skin fast as a rabbit, until it had felt like it couldn’t be contained within his body anymore. So, Steven had stopped trying, and instead had pushed the feeling out of him, letting it surge into the room and scare away whatever had been encroaching from the darkness. He had a brief moment of relief, of peace, before the screaming had started.
It had come from his parents’ room and Steven had rushed down the hall to check if the monster had gotten them. He had found them hunched over up in bed, panting heavily with fingers gripped tight in the sheets.
“Steven,” His father had growled out, the “t” sped over “what did you do?”
“There . . . there was a monster in my room.” Steve whispered.
His mom had pulled the drawer out the bedside table with enough force to rattle the whole thing, then dug with shaking hands until she pulled out her pills. After taking two, she had slumped against the headboard.
“I need to call the doctor” his father had said, getting out of bed and pushing past Steven.
Mom had just stared, eyes going glassy, before sighing. “You’re too old to be having nightmares like this, Steven.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yes, nightmares. It was just a dream – there is no monster and no need to get so worked up.”
Steven had felt instantly ashamed at his mother’s reprimand. He had gotten too scared over nothing, and had ended up hurting his parents because he couldn’t control himself.
“Now, let’s get you back in bed.”
“But-!” He had tried to protest. Even if the monster wasn’t real, he hadn’t wanted to be alone in his room just yet.
“Not now, Steven.” Mom had said as she got out of bed and pulled a tissue out of the box next to the bed. “This has been a very upsetting night, and your father and I need to talk.”
His mother had pressed the tissue under his noise and wiped the blood away. He didn't know he had started bleeding. She then placed a hand on his back had walked him back down the hall to his room. Mom even pulled the covers back for him. After Steven had crawled in bed, she settled them back around his shoulders and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
“I guess you are just a child, aren’t you?”
Steven didn’t think she was looking for an answer, so he had simply closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Mom’s fingers running through his hair.
“Well, don’t worry, lucky little Steven,” she had continued with a chuckle, “no more nightmares tonight. We’ll figure this out in the morning.” With that she had left his side and closed the door on her way out.
Alone in the dark, Steven missed how warm her hands had been.
The next day Mom and Dad had driven him to a special doctor’s visit. They had run a bunch of tests to see if he would lose control again – even one where they poked him with something sharp. It had hurt, but Steven hadn’t let anything escape from him. He had learned his lesson the night before; he was going to be good and wasn’t going to get too worked up ever again or hurt anyone else. Ever.
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Steve hadn’t let his emotions explode out since that night. And he wasn’t going to let it happen in the middle of school, with so many other people around. He knew something was wrong with him – nobody else seemed to have a problem keeping the panic inside their skin. So, he understood why his parents had to take him to a special doctor and do all those tests; they had to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
The tile under him had started to warm by the time Steven’s heart had stopped trying the leap out of him. He was still breathing wetly in short gasps, though, when the door had opened.
“Oh, sorry I didn’t . . . Are you okay? That was a stupid question, you’re obviously not okay. Um.” With that a buzz of worry with straight brown hair had sat down in front of Steven. “I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Jonathan, I’m in second grade.”
“That’s Mr. Douglas’ name!” Steve had excitedly said without thinking, and he wished he could snatch the words back.
“Mr. Douglas?”
“He was my tutor. He was nice.” Steven didn’t want to think about Mr. Douglas and how much better it would be to be in his lessons and not at school. But this kid had the same first name. So, he couldn’t be all that bad. “I’m Steven. Third grade.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Steven.” Jonathan recited stiffly before relaxing. “Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”
Steven shoved his face against his knees again.
“Sorry, sorry!” There was a pause. “Do you want a cookie? My mom made them – they’re really good.”
Steven had wanted a cookie, and was willing to look back at the other boy to get one. They were chocolate chip and they were really good.
“Kids can be mean for no reason, so you shouldn’t worry about what they say. That’s what my mom tells me anyways.” Jonathan had said once Steven had taken a bite.
“No-one was mean to me. It’s just . . . there’s just a lot of people here and I’m not used to it.” Steven’s voice was still raspy, even with the cookie in his mouth.
“Oh. I get that – I don’t like talking to other people either. I actually came here ‘cause I wanted to be alone for a bit.”
Even when was trying to not bother anyone, Steven had managed to mess it up. “Sorry.”
“No! It’s okay, I’m happy we’re talking.” And oddly enough, Steven had felt the truth of that bubbling against him. Jonathan had offered him another cookie and then started talking about how his mom, baby brother, and him went to the park the day before without expecting Steven to say anything. It was nice. And he had found himself slowly sitting up straight and lowering his legs as the conversation had gone on.
Eventually though, the bell had rung, and Jonathan had to leave, telling Steven that he’d talk to him later. It wasn’t long after that that Mrs. Hayward had found him and dragged him back to the classroom. The second part of the day had been easier, the chocolate chip cookies sitting somehow warm in his stomach. But now he wasn't just the new kid, he was the home-schooled idiot who freaked out around other kids.
Before he could leave the teacher had called him up to her desk and handed him a note. “I need you to give this to your parents, Steven. Just to let them know you had a rough first day.”
The prickling buzz had let him know that whatever the note said, it wasn’t good.
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Jonathan had been the only nice thing about that first day, but Steven hasn’t seen the second grader in the month since. He doesn’t dare go back to the bathroom they met in – he doesn’t want to have to bring home another note about his “problems adjusting”. His parents had been so mad. Well, his dad had been. Mom had gotten a headache and had to go lay down. But Steven had promised his father he was going to try harder, so he can’t go hiding in bathrooms anymore.
Even so, Steven knows his classmates don’t want to talk to him. And he doesn’t really want to talk to them either – it’s still too complicated and overwhelming. Besides, Mr. Douglas had told him not to let anyone call him stupid, and it’s easier to just not talk to the other kids so they don’t get the chance to.
But Steven promised Dad he’d try harder, be better. So, he’s going to try. He just needs to get use to the soup of emotions he has to walk through each day. And then figure out what the other kids talk about when they aren’t talking about him. It’ll be easy. Probably. Maybe? Yeah, probably.
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Just before Christmas, Tommy H.’s dad leaves. Steven isn’t sure who found out first and spread the news, but it’s all the school is talking about. Which to be honest, is a bit a relief for Steven. He doesn’t miss the jokes and insults that were usually hurled his way. But he also doesn’t really like seeing Tommy sitting alone either. The air around the other boy has been cold and damp for days, and it’s only been getting worse. But it’s the loneliness brushing its fingers over his arms that convinces Steven to intervene.
The cafeteria still scares him, but at least Steven can be in it now and actually focus on things besides being battered by people’s emotions. Tommy’s sitting at his new usual spot at the end of the table, and three other kids have him circled.
“So, do you think your dad has a new family, yet?” one boy asks.
“Yeah, maybe he finally has a son that doesn’t look like a dalmatian,” another snickers. The other two join in, laughing, and one reaches out to poke at Tommy’s freckles. Tommy’s quick to bat the hand away, but somehow that just makes the others laugh more.
Steve feels like he’s drowning by the time he’s standing next to the table. “Why don’t you all just fuck off, you donkey faced fart sniffers!” He hisses as loud as he can without risking a teacher overhearing. Honestly, Steven isn’t sure what “fuck” or “fucking” is, but he knows it’s a bad word because of how Mom gasps whenever his dad says it. Apparently, the other kids know it’s a bad word too, based on their own gasps and how quickly they retreat back to their seats.
Tommy looks at him in shock as Steven settles into the seat across from him. Remembering Jonathan, Steven silently offers the other boy one of his cookies. His mom didn’t make them, but Oreos are still pretty good. Tommy takes two as the shock eases away into amusement.
“I didn’t know you could talk” he finally says, as Steven starts to eat his own cookie.
Steven shrugs but doesn’t point out that he had to talk to introduce himself the first day. He knows Tommy knows – he had been one of the kids that laughed when he said he liked flowers.
Tommy laughs again now and shakes his head. “That was so cool though! My mom would kill me if I said something like that – or at least wash my mouth out. Didn’t think you had it in ya.” He shakes his head again before continuing. “You’re Steven, right? That’s a stupid name – only old people, like dad’s, are Stevens. I’m gonna call you Steve.”
Just like that, Steven has a new name. Just like that, Steve knows things are going to be different. When they walk back to class, Tommy throws an arm around him despite the single file rule, squeezing him close and telling him they’re going to be best friends. The warmth of his new friend’s arm doesn’t leave him the whole day.
The Steven who comes home is different from the Steven who left that morning. Because he’s Steve now, and he has a friend – a best friend! And he’s going to figure out this whole friend thing if it’s the last fucking thing he does.