okay but i can’t be the only one that is DYING to read a twilight fanfiction in which the reader/the oc is a gen z. Just imagine the Cullen’s all “but you could die” and the reader/oc is like “bitch, don’t tempt me”
summary: Dustin’s disappointed by his sister recent decline into loneliness, and after a new discovery that gives him an opportunity to unite his two favorite people—a certain light comes back into you life:
W.c: 6.3k
Tags: set RIGHT before season3! friends to strangers to lovers, Steve is an asshole and he knows, barb mention, Dustin is evil and scheming, mostly angst and freaking out in this one, all the fluff and love and smut will be in the next part
A/n: this is a two parter in the name of not rushing the ending due to word count :) I might have rushed through the editing
Some tunes to listen to while you read!
Masterlist | AO3 | part two
-
Hawkins, Indiana. Beginning of Spring Break, 1985.
“Knock, knock.” The prepubescent voice of your younger brother rings through your room, interrupting the scribble of your pencil on your notepad.
Dustin stood in your doorway, wearing a cartoonish tactical vest and socks pulled up high, a closed fist hovering on the wooden frame from where he’d just startled you back to reality.
“Hey,” you gently whispered, a croak in your voice from not using your vocal cords for a few hours. Dustin smiled at you while you went to sit up. “What's up, hon?”
“I'm going out with some friends. Mom's asleep, so I thought I'd let you know .” his curly head tuts down the hall to your mother's room.
You sit up straighter, quicker. Eyebrows furrowed suddenly, “What? I thought we were going to watch Golden Girls tonight?”
“Well…” Dustin's voice rises at least 7 octaves, stepping a foot into your room. “We were, buuuuuut– that new cafe opened across town and everyone wants to go, and Steve offered to drive and–”
The utter betrayal of your younger brother washed over you in waves, “Are you ditching me for milkshakes, Dustin Henderson?”
“What! NO!”
You shoot a glare towards him. Dustin's head drops to the carpet below his feet.
“Yes…”
“I'll remember this, dusty. The great golden girl betrayal of spring break 85.” You huff, rising to your feet to put your notepad and pens on your desk.
Dustin sighs, he flops down, grabbing a throw pillow placed haphazardly on your bed and pulling it close to him. He looks over as you arrange stuff on your desk, obviously working on your next art project.
Dustin Henderson has looked up to his sister from the moment he was conscious, literally and physically. He had always seen you as the epitome of cool. You always gave the best advice to get him through the social confines of elementary, middle, and soon-to-be high school. You taught him to be kind and to care. To have good taste in movies. To be stubborn enough to get his way when it mattered, to never back down. You were everything he had ever wanted to be.
Maybe until this very moment.
Dustin sighs dramatically. “You know,” he picks at the tassels on your pillow, “it’s the first night of spring break, and it's your senior year… you don't have any plans or like senior-stuff to be doing?”
“Senior stuff?”
“I don't know,” Dustin stutters. “I'm not a senior, but I'm pretty sure there's senior stuff to do.”
“Right.. Right…” you sarcastically mock, turning to see Dustin sprawled across your newly washed bedding. At least his shoes were off to the side and not mucking up your white duvet. You squint at him, suspicious to your bones, "What are you getting at here?”
Dustin's eyes travel towards the ceiling, avoiding eye contact as he speaks slowly. “Well, you know, it's a Friday night and like– the weather is perfect, and a lot's going on in town and… you’re in your bedroom.. Drawing and wanting to hang out with your 14-year-old brother…”
“Whoa! Okay, and what's wrong with that, mister suddenly popular?” you say, hand to your chest, slightly offended at whatever Dustin was trying to insinuate.
“Nothing!” Dustin defends, sitting up against your headboard, crushing multiple stuffed animals behind his back. You want to protest, but are currently too blinded by the complete attack coming from your once-loser brother. “Don’t you just want to go out and hang out with your… friends.”
You face drops, “Why’d you say friends like that, Dustin?”
His tone goes stone cold, along with his horrible poker face. Slightly shaking his head, "I didn't. I actually said it very normally.”
“I have friends, Dustin!”
“I never said you didn't! I actually just insinuated that you do!”
“Well, if I wanted to hang out with my friends, which I do in fact have, I would! But I don't want to tonight.” You rush over your words.
Suddenly, Dustin snaps his fingers. You notice the look on his face, and you can practically see the light bulb above his head, “You know what? You can just go with me tonight!”
You roll your eyes, settling on the bed beside Dustin, your voice a little calmer now—less defensive. “I don't know how fun hanging out with a bunch of 14-year-olds will be for me.”
“You like hanging out with me,” Dustin frowns.
You cock your head at him, “You know that's different."
“Steve Harrington will be there…” Dustin mentions.
“Ok?” you say, a little too much attitude in your voice than intended.
“He’s in your class.”
You nod, “yes, but that does not mean we are friends–” scoffing, “he probably doesn't know I exist.”
“Yes, he does,” Dustin responds too quickly, almost interrupting you. You sneer at him suspiciously, almost as if to ask him what he meant by that. “You know, because of me. I mention you sometimes.”
On cue, you hear the honk of who you can assume was Harrington outside your house waiting to pick up Dustin and his friends for milkshakes.
You pat his back, ushering him up. “Be safe, bro.”
Dustin starts to walk out of your room feeling positively defeated by what he thought would be a constructive conversation with his big sister, but you just follow him out happily.
“Offer still stands,” Dustin grabs his stuff and heads for the door.
You smile at him, oh-so tooth-rottingly sweet Dustin. You pat his shoulder off of invisible dust or dirt, “thank you, but I think I'm better off than hanging out with Steve-the Hair-Harrington and your gang.”
“He’s not that bad.” Dustin throws out, and your face is already scrunched up in hesitancy. “He knows he was a dick during high school, and he's a lot… kinder now.”
“Kinder?” you ask. Dustin opens the door, and you see the faint outline of Steve's face behind his car's windshield in the slowly darkening afternoon light. “That thing?”
Dustin giggles, “he's fun.”
“Right..” you laugh, “have fun, be safe. And I'm going to watch Golden Girls and spoil all of it when you get back.”
Dustin starts to descend the creaky wooden porch stairs, looking back to yell, “You can’t spoil shit, it's a sitcom!”
“Watch the language!” you shout, despite the smile on your face.
Dustin's hand wraps around the handle of Steve's car, waving goodbye to his sister before placing himself in the front seat. His head whipped over to Steve, waiting for a greeting—but no dice. Steve's eyes stared forward at Dustin's front porch, more specifically, where you stood.
It wasn't a new idea in his brain to get you and Steve to hang out. After the past few years of having Steve in his life, he has grown more and more into an elderly brother figure. Dustin has thought about it on multiple occasions. Before, it was rare to be with Steve if it didn't involve alien monsters or conspiring against evil dimensions, so not many chances to try and get his slowly social-declining yet awesome sister to chop it up with fastly social-declining yet newly awesome Steve Harrington.
“Steve.”
“Hm?” he had finally snapped out of it, now noticing you had gone inside the house, and now they were just wasting gas and time in his driveway. “Are we going to go, or are you going to keep longingly staring at my sister?”
“Whoa, I am not doing that.” Steve defends, putting the car in gear and reversing out of the driveway, “just making sure she gets inside all right.”
“Yeah, all those 3 feet. A lot could happen.” Dustin mocks, “She's into all those dramatic romance novels; she might like the yearning gaze you just tried to give her from our driveway.”
“Whatever, man. I barely know her now.” Steve waves off, eyes focused on the road.
“I tried to convince her to tag alone tonight,” Dustin mentions for no real reason…
Then Steve responds pretty quickly, and Dustin smiles to himself knowingly. Staring out at the Hawkins streets.
“Yeah? What did she say?” Steve said. Curious as he can be without distracting himself from the road.
“She said she's too good to hang out with Steve-the Hair-Harrington.”
Steve almost swerves a little, “No, she didn't."
“It was close enough.”
Steve scoffs at him before turning into Lucas' driveway.
Dustin then spent the remainder of the night thinking up a plan, weighing out the odds, mysteriously glaring at Steve as Dustin's brain went haywire, and enjoying his chocolate milkshake.
It puzzles Dustin why you were so put off by Steve now. He knew for a fact you used to run around with him and some of his old crusades in at least late middle school, maybe as a freshman. Dustin saw it in the old photos you still had littered around your room, noticing at least one or two with the familiar head of hair. Dustin would notice Nancy too in some.
Dustin also knew you’d grown to be a recluse after junior year, specifically, brushed it off as school getting too busy–extracurriculars. Whatever. And he wasn't going to lie to himself and say it wasn't depressing watching his admirably social sister seemingly cave in on her own isolation.
He had to do something.
So when Dustin came home that night, careful not to wake his worrisome mother. He saw the couch empty except for some messily thrown blankets draped around. Noticing a small note taped to the table.
Ran out of ice cream
went to the 24 hour store
Be back soon incase you get back before me :)
Scribbled out in your cursive handwriting. Right. Dustin thinks to himself. Your car was gone from the driveway when Steve dropped him off.
This was the time, the only time. As he suspects you’ll be a house rat for the entirety of spring break, if Dustin has anything to do with it.
Slipping off his shoes, Dustin tiptoed down the hallway and passed your creaky door, eyes watchful of your window, expecting to see the headlights of your car at any moment. Dustin looked around curiously, not like he hadn't been in here more than a million times. With or without you. Yet, some places still were not all that familiar to him.
Dustin turned the knob of your closet door, pulling the metal string to illuminate the small area. Looking around, a plethora of muted-toned clothes. A lot of it covered the floor, almost completely covering the carpet. Shoes sat on the floor, badly organized. Next to a box of old Barbies, multiple canvases of art, finished and unfinished. Next to a few stacked boxes with your younger handwriting scribbled onto the labels.
Dustin's eyes darted to the one labeled ‘middle school.’
His head whipped back to look out the window again, before falling to his knees to rummage through the box. He found old photos, report cards, arcade tickets, and doodles. Dustin's eyes almost popped out of his head when he found multiple letters addressed to boys in your class. Dustin didn't recognize a lot of them until.
Steve.
Steve Harrington.
Wrote sloppily, and addressed but not stamped, and–even better–with a corny heart doodled next to it.
You were a boldface liar, and Dustin Henderson struck a jackpot.
—
Steve Harrington was a fucking pathetic idiot.
Whichever and whatever vulgar term you wanted to use towards the man was probably it. It fit better than his broken-in and worn-out Nikes that paced pavement below a hill to the Henderson house, a letter addressed to him weighing heavy in his back pocket.
Full honesty, he wasn't sure what he was reading when his eyes paced through the page. I mean, hell—it was dated from around middle school, and well, you two hadn't spoken much since then. To Steve's full fault, as he's realizing now. Even more so, Steve wasn't sure why he was even here, pacing back and forth with his hair tussled from running his fingers across his temple thrice per minute.
Why would you send this? It was from so long ago, and yeah, Steve was lonely enough that even a naive middle school love confession made his heart lurch from his chest. It was still nothing but that. A silly love confession from middle school, before anyone even had a grasp on what love actually felt like.
(yet, it felt like you hit the mark pretty close for being 13)
Steve Harrington slapped himself on the cheek to bring himself back down to reality, or maybe as punishment.
Because, of course, Steve-The Hair-Harrington, previously self-centered playboy turned lonely fallen angel babysitter, would only bring himself to speak to you when it meant to reconfirm that anyone could actually care for him.
One leg after another with high knees, Steve waltzes up your driveway and straight to the door, following a frantic knock. His leg bounced with anxiety. God, what the hell was he fucking doing? He can save himself, pretend he never received it, turn around, and spare the–
Steve heard the heavy footsteps towards the front door, and he knew that wouldn't work. Fuck.
Pleasebeyoupleasebyoupleasebeyou
The door swung open, and Steve hadn't realized how much his chest had been heaving. Yet, once Steve had to drop his chin to greet a curly-haired and gummy-smiled kid, he finally felt like he could catch his breath.
“Hey, Henderson!” Steve greeted, trying to sound as cheery as he possibly could. And not second to a panic attack. He may have sold it too far.
“Sup, looking for my sister?”
Steve smiled, brain in autopilot, “Yeah—wait, how do you know that?”
Dustin shrugged his shoulders, playing innocent, but he always had such a bad poker face. Steve thought about prying, but decided to take it as a gift to hopefully not get questioned back by a 15-year-old on why exactly he was looking for you.
“Do ya—do you know where she might be? She home?” Steve asked, looking over Dustin's tiny shoulder into the living room.
“I think she left for the diner across town. The new one. She just left, you can probably catch up to her.” Dustin said.
“Across town!–"Steve cut himself off, lowering his voice. “Thank you, Dustin. Thank you.”
Steve gave Dustin a friendly pat on his shoulder before turning heel and barreling down your driveway and straight to his car, keys fumbling in hand.
—
“Thank you, Pat,” you say warmly, grabbing the glass of pink goodness from her aging hands. A golden wedding band adorned her ring finger.
“How have you been, sweets? Any new news in my favorite Henderson's life? Any boys?” she asked you, propping her elbows up to speak to you.
You laugh, “Did Dustin cause that much trouble a few nights ago?”
“I'm teasing!” she waves off, a sweet smile still decorating her face.
“Right,” you giggled, "graduating soon, so that's pretty much it.”
“No boys?”
“No boys.” you grimace.
Pat leaves you be, off to help another customer in need of dairy goodness. You slurp your drink up with ease, kicking your feet as they dangle off the red stool.
No boys. Sigh. When did you get so pathetic? You lived and breathed getting into college and hanging out with your brother now. You were a social plague. Even hanging out with Steve–who arguably had fallen off harder than you had—felt like an impossible task. No boys. No friends. No life.
It's not like you were unhappy; you'd call it content. It didn't matter, though, you'd be off to college soon enough.
You heard the bells wrapped around the front entrance jingle behind you, sipping at your straw some more. Your hips swivel with the stool, body bored and searching for some stimulus. Yeah, you might as well head home soon. You got your sweet release, and time was up.
Except you make the mistake of turning around to check the door first, eyes accidentally landing on a certain someone. Stood in the doorway, eyes wild like he was already looking for you. The way his eyes are locked on you makes you think he definitely was. You wince. At both the idea and the strong, determined stare down coming from one Steve Harrington.
And Steve swears the world stops. After everything he knows now, or he's just searching for something that is realistically probably long gone by now. Grasping at straws like usual. He sees you and thinks of the kiss from 7th grade, a drum in his head while the diner mutes around him
Before he can even take his leap of faith towards you, another voice calls him. And the image of you fades away and is replaced by the feeling of a jerk on his shoulder.
Steve sees the lettermen first, then Steve’s last name, which leaves the kids' mouths with a heavy layer of teasing. It makes Steve want to fold himself small, find a hole, and die in it. His eyes were wide and weary, forcing out the best smile he could to not further damage his image. Wow, was he always this shallow?
“Hey, buddy!” Steve says, dragging out a nervous laugh along with his words. “Haven’t seen you in a while?”
Steve didn't actually recognize who he was talking to. He’s a kid, blonde hair, names Chad or Jason, who stayed on the bench for the Hawkins basketball team.
(Steve scoffs like he wasn’t kicked off the team for lack of the right priorities. What his coach said, at least.)
“Could say the same for you, Harrington, it's like seeing a ghost,” the boy laughs as if the statement doesn't hit him heavily in his gut. Right. A ghost.
Steve's too busy to care, though, trying to search for your gaze again without seeming like a total dickhead. No assholery–New Year's resolution. Or something.
“Right, right, you know how finals are.” Steve lies, he hadn't given finals more than a thought until realizing he was gonna flunk them anyway.
Meanwhile, you bite your lip. Trying to keep your head down so that the man with the gravity-defying hair doesn't gravitate towards you. You almost laugh at yourself. Why would he? Just because you're in the same social class, suddenly? He was still King Steve, at least just in his head, no way he'd want to talk to you on a random Monday.
Right?
You look back once more, just to double-check.
A large breath of relief leads you when you notice his back is facing you. Tussled brown hair, that same bomber coat that hugs his waist, tight light wash jeans, papers sticking out of his pockets, and worn down Nikes.
Wait.
What the hell?
You lean forward. Squinting your eyes. From anyone else's perspective, it looks like you're breaking your neck to check out Steve Harrington's ass. No. No, you absolutely recognize that floral envelope peaking out of his pocket. You had picked it up at a gift shop in Minnesota, a family trip, the first one the family took when Dustin had grown conscious enough to be able to remember it.
Leaning farther, almost falling face-first into the tile as you peer closer. Slowly, your brain recognizes the handwriting. The puppy-dog stickers on it. The doodled hearts in glitter pen.
No fucking way.
“Honey?”
You have to grab the sides of the stool in hopes of not toppling over, cold hands grasping onto rusty metal to hold yourself steady. Meanwhile, your mind was spinning, spinning faster than how you felt on the school's roundabout in elementary. Along with the overwhelming feeling of puke stinging your lungs and settling heavily in your stomach.
“Honey? Are you alright?” Pat asks you, eyes wide with concern. Her hand, the ring shining, grasping around your now-empty glass.
“Yes,” you stutter. “Um–”
Your head whips back again, towards him. You feel dizzy. Steve's staring right at you, waving off the kid—quite rudely, might you add—and ending the high school meetup. Turning away, hoping it would make him disappear, or at least remove the memory of whatever information he got from that letter out of his deformed brain. You rustle around in your pocket, pull out a few dollars, and place them on the counter in front of a growingly concerned pat.
“Thank you, see you soon. Uh, keep the change or just put it on my tab.” Your words rush out of your mouth, almost slurring together as you grab your bag and stumble out of your seat.
The very edge of your foot gets caught on the stool's metal footrest, resulting in you positively falling back like a goddamn domino.
Instead of cold diner tile, your back meets a strong forearm. Your eyes dare follow it up and see the mess of hair you were trying to run from. You were going to hurl, and Steve Harrington was going to be your puke victim.
He gazes at you, as if to say hello. No actual words leave his mouth. Steve's eyes are teddy bear brown. You think about the roundabout again. You feel even dizzier, thinking about how Steve was the one usually on the other side of spinning you. Innocent wide smile, high-pitched laughter. When you thought the freckles and moles on his skin looked like constellations, and that was enough reason in your 8-year-old brain to become friends with him.
Huh, must have blocked that out until now.
Goddamn your Adidas shoes, half a size too big that you spent an entire semester saving up for. Stupid. Stupid.
You shoot up before he can speak, not realizing how warm his touch was when it feels like you've gone dead cold the moment your back disconnects. You try not to focus on that thought too long, eyes locked in on the door. Your escape. From shame. Embarrassment. Death, even.
You're already trying to slide past him while you speak, “Sorry, thanks for catching me, I can be such a clutz,” you laugh, to seem like a normal and totally functioning human, but it dies halfway out of your mouth. “I'm late picking up Dustin, see ya!”
Your voice fades out as you walk farther away from Steve and towards the door. Steve was frozen and utterly stunned in place, soles of his feet practically glued to the floor. Like a lost and confused child in the middle of a store, adorably clueless.
“But Dustin's at the house though–” Steve attempted to yell out, but the words faded to nothing when your figure was already gone from his sight and the door's bell ringing in his ear.
Steve got pretty comfortable with things hitting him so far in the chest that he doesn't know how to think anymore. But that was always with beatings or information that led him to believe the world was ending.
Not girls and love letters.
So why in the hell would you send a middle school artifact to him and then almost faceplant trying to avoid talking about it? Was this some sick joke?
Steve drove home, mind dazed and somehow more confused than before his attempt at speaking to you.
—
Dustin sat in a living room chair, petting the family cat like a fucking evil scientist. And you could probably read through the context clues, knowing your brother, if you could think through your oncoming panic attack when you got home.
You missed it when he asked you if anything happened while you were out, because of course, he knew.
And you missed his concerned tone when he asked what was wrong as your heavy breathing grew more evident, followed by a slam of your bedroom door.
But Dustin was your brother; he knew when you'd be okay, and he knew when not to pry.
Yet, Dustin swears that if this is a result of Steve, then he was going to resurrect Dart and sic him on Harrington.
—
Your hands and fingers move quicker than your brain, maybe even quicker than the way your chest rose and fell in anxiety. Throwing countless pieces of clothes and miscellaneous garments over your shoulder, further dirtying your closet that was 4 months overdue for a cleaning. Searching through old boxes of things that had collected dust from better and younger days. Until it landed on one of the many memory boxes.
Being a sentimental bastard has its perks and downs; you could look back on the good times. Not ever being able to let go of it, even if the very same memories and moments plagued you at night, made you yearn, made you cry. It was all the same, and you'd never be able to stomach throwing anything away.
You think you could stomach it now, after seeing it somehow materialize in Steve's grasp. Knowing he read something he was never meant to see, even you knew that the second you signed it in middle school. Everyone journals differently, for fuck sakes—it wasn’t even stamped!
Finding every love-sick letter besides his, feeling utterly defeated and beyond confused. Your hands still find some old photos. It's a photo of Nancy's 14th birthday party. You, Nance, Barbara, and Carol. All lined up with toothy grins over a sparkling birthday cake. Before the plague of high school took them, and death.
Another Polaroid from when you were 9. The Harrington household had an inground pool, and Steve convinced his parents to have a party for your birthday at his house, since it was summer and all you wanted to do was swim. Steve had his arm slung around your shoulder and long, brown, and soaking wet hair stuck to his forehead. You were both adorably innocent back then, still best friends. You remember your mom taking that photo; you were oh-so reluctant, but Steve had to pull you in with a camera-ready smile before you could even think.
You hadn't even realized your breathing had fallen back into a steady, normal pace.
It was just you in your closet, surrounded by memories now, and the world suddenly didn't exist outside of it.
Until a knock at the door.
You waited a few moments, hoping that Dustin or your mom would grab it. Too sentimental to function at the moment. No footsteps yet. You think, It's Monday. Right. Moms at work. Still, Dustin can get it.
A beat. More knocking.
No footsteps.
“God damnit,” you lazily put the photos and old memorabilia down, vowing to tidy up later. Pulling yourself to your feet and brushing your pants off of any dust, socks sliding across the carpet to the front door.
You unhook the latch with no thought, pulling the door open. Immediately almost met with a knock to the face, the suddenly all too familiar face mid-attempt at a third knock.
Steve smiles, like he didn't drive you to an anxiety fit moments before this.
(and had also unintentionally calmed you down from it as well.)
And he barely gets a “hey” past those pretty lips before you could slam the door in his face.
Steve Harrington had been nothing but a complete asshole the last few years; you had enough reason to be the same towards him now and hope he could at least commit to how he started high school and finish it by completely forgetting you exist in his world.
—
Steve reread your letter 4 more times that night.
Although you might not have even meant for him to see this, Steve's entire world was being held together within those lines.
He just needed to know if it was real.
—
You made tea under the dim light of the kitchen stove; it was close to 1 am now. Mesmerized by the liquid swirling in your cup. Hot metal held between your fingertips as the teabag bobbed up and down.
You heard footsteps behind you, cursing to yourself if it was mom. She worries too much, and if she knew you were up this late, you know she'd have a million and one questions ready to throw at you.
Except it was just your brother with tussled curls and old pjs on.
“Why are you still up?” you nod at him, sipping at your cup. The liquid was hot, burning your tongue. You let it hurt. It goes down smoothly after that.
“Working on a new campaign,” he responds.
“You should get to bed soon, it's getting late, bubs.” You motion to the ticking clock.
12:51
“It's spring break,” Dustin says plainly.
You scoff, offering him a piece of your elderly sibling's advice. “Trust me, wait till summer. Your sleep schedule will be all messed up right when it's time to go back.”
Dustin snorts at your response, padding over to the fridge to grab a midnight snack. A beat of comfortable silence between you two. Not noticing Dustin's eyes glancing over to you, scanning, reading.
“So….” he drags out, “I saw Steve's car here earlier, did he need me?”
You freeze, knuckling white around your mug. If you spend any time in the school gym, it might have cracked under your grasp.
Pursing your lips, shaking your head. Almost to convince yourself of some lie. “No, no, just um, I dropped my wallet at the diner today, and Steve came across it so he was just dropping it off.”
Dustin didn't like this new trend of his sister lying to him. Which, to be fair, Dustin's calling the kettle black here. Not like he's said it out loud yet, or like you've asked.
“Oh, okay,” he says, pretending to be convinced. “Like I told you, kinder.”
You just hum, “right,” and take another go at sipping your tea.
“I'm gonna head to bed, you too,” you finish.
“Hey, do you think you can pick me up from Mike's house tomorrow?” Dustin asks you, just above a whisper.
You fake thinking about it for a moment, “maybe.”
Dustin shoots you his best ‘puppy dog in the rain’ look.
You crack. A smile tugging at your lip, “Sure thing, as long as you go to bed. Like, now.”
“Aye, aye.” Dustin salutes and marches down the hall to his bedroom before you.
—
You’d only made it halfway through your Golden Girls episode before the ring of your house's landline interrupted you, one custody call from the Wheeler household.
You prided yourself on being a good older sister, a cool and calm older sister. You have and always will do anything for Dustin, especially if it means keeping your mom's stress levels down enough so she doesn’t suffer from a stroke.
But for fuck sake, you’re missing your girls right now.
Tapping your foot on the front porch of the Wheelers’ household, checking your watch over once more. Has it only been 8 minutes? Felt closer to 20 since Karen told you that Dustin would be up in a moment.
Honestly, you contemplated sitting in your car. Your legs were starting to sway from just standing here. Waiting. That little shit, maybe you should just leave. He can walk home.
The screech of tires makes you turn around to catch sight of a familiar Beamer.
Was your life a joke? Honestly? Had god not gotten enough laughs from you yet?
Dustin could walk.
You almost tripped over yourself racing down the steps of the Wheeler entryway, b-lining to your car.
Steve called out your name, you ignored it, hoping that would make it go away. Disappear from your line of sight the same way that the letter did from your closet. Then you heard your name again. Damn.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” He asked, fastly approaching you.
“Picking up Dustin. What are you doing besides stalking me?” You respond, not looking at him. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.
“What?” Steve asks, “Dustin just called me to pick him up.”
Your hands that previously stayed busy fumbling with your car keys froze still. Eyebrows furrowed tight, your mind raced. Slowly, you turned to look at Steve, and he looked dead serious. You swallowed hard, “Dustin called you?”
“Uh, yeah.” He responds like it’s obvious. And you don’t appreciate the attitude.
Steve's eyes watch you; they flicker up and down. “And uh, hey, can we talk?”
You fake a smile, praying Dustin walks out those doors soon. “What would we ever need to talk about?”
“What you sent me.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about, Harrington.” You replied, crossing your arms and pressing your back against your car door.
That’s it. Play innocent until he thinks he’s crazy. Easy enough.
Then Steve’s hands slip behind him, tugging an envelope out of his back pocket and showing it off to you like you hadn’t been panicking about it the past few days.
Play it cool, Henderson. Dustin didn’t get his horrible poker face from you.
“You didn’t send me this?” Steve squints at you. He flipped the paper over with just his pointer and index finger.
“No.”
“You sure?”
You scoff, “Yes, I'm sure, Harrington. Why on earth would I send you a love letter?”
A beat.
“I didn’t say it was a love letter.”
Steve stares you down for too many seconds.
“You know what? You can take Dustin home, thank you.” You say, a way of bidding Steve goodbye. An end to this conversation before it even really started. You hope he gets the memo when you open your car door.
But Steve Harrington has always been a little dense. Maybe it was all the beatings he’s gone through.
“I just want to know if it’s real.”
You laugh. You let out a real, god-honest laugh. Looking at Steve, up and down, and once more again. His shoulders are more tense these days, hair longer and more unruly. No self-absorbed swagger. His crown fell, and Steve showed it on his face. Yet, you can’t help but laugh.
“Was it real?” You echo, “Steve, it was from middle school, I don’t know you anymore.”
“No, no, no.” Steve starts, “You did. If you meant anything in this, you knew me. You still do.”
This was too amusing; you couldn’t contain the laughter. This was ridiculous. Steve Harrington had gone downright insane. You point at him square in the chest, “You are a stranger. You come to my house to pick my brother up for whatever you two do, which I’m thankful you’ve been so nice to him, but I do not know you anymore, Steve Harrington.”
Stranger and his full name, laced with venom, in the same sentence—coming from you felt worse than any punch he’s received. And that’s saying something. He blinks once, twice. In a daze, in disbelief. He wasn’t even sure anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Steve starts with his plea of apology.
“Oh my god.” You groan, ready to make another attempt to get in your driver's seat.
“No, I’m serious. I’m sorry. I’m really, really, fucking sorry.” Steve lightly hits your car with every apology to emphasize his point. If he dents your car, you swear to god you’d be sending him a bill. “I’ve been an asshole. I am an asshole. I’m sorry, I’m trying.”
“Asshole? Woooow.” You mock, eye rolling.
“I know! I know, okay? It’s bad, I know.”
You scoff, “bad? Do you even know what bad is? Really? Bad is pretending I don’t exist for the past 3 years and then stalking me around town after you found some old letter I wrote when I had a silly crush on you. And for what? To reconfirm this insecurity in your black hole of a heart that someone actually could like you? That bad? Has the loneliness gotten to you so much that all you can do is hang out with middle schoolers and pathetically reconnect with your childhood best friend you left behind for the soulless popular club?”
Yep. Much worse than any punch.
Steve swallowed down any pride he had left in him. Nodding, “yeah, you still know me.”
“Pretty on the mark?”
Steve just nods, his eyes don’t falter from your face despite it all. And you hadn't noticed how close he’d gotten, hand planted on the roof of your car, inches from your body. His face is only a few more inches from your face.
(a few meters away from behind a window, that’s in front of a curtain, barely drawn to catch your interaction with Steve. Mike says, “Do you think they’re gonna kiss?”
“No, I’ve never seen her look angrier.” Will corrects.
And the four pairs of eyes were still focused on the interaction.)
“I honestly thought I was sparing you, but I see that I’m just an asshole,” Steve says, pushing off your car and away from you. The air around you felt different, your brain too frazzled to put a word to it.
“Sparing me?” You quip, “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Steve stood a few feet away, looking defeated, the letter still in his grasp. “You care. You do the right thing. You see the beauty in everyone, you— you,” Steve laughs. Mostly at himself. “You are the beauty that you see in people.”
“I couldn’t swallow the idea that—“ Steve had given up, he’s shooting himself in the foot right now. “The fact that all that would get washed away if you started to follow me down the social path I chose. It just wasn’t you.”
By the end of the sentence, you were left stunned, mouth agape and speechless. By then, Steve had walked himself backwards to his car by then. “I’m sorry.”
The same way he showed up, he was gone. In only a moment.
You want to think that it’s not that deep. It’s just the high school social scene, the real world was a lot scarier. You avoided it, and it sucked, but you knew it wasn’t the end of the world. You could comfortably swallow all the hurt that came your way and live on.
But Steve. Something shook him up badly. High School had lifted him up and then knocked him down as quickly as a freight train. It’s done some damage that you couldn’t even perceive yet.
You didn’t realize your lip quiver slightly. Did Steve Harrington really care back then? Did he still actually see you? Did it all just get covered up by disposable girls, basketball, nights out, and bad grades? Was the boy who made you understand the very concept of caring and seeing beauty in people not completely lost to the facade?
The slightest movement in the corner of your eye made you whip your head over and back to reality.
For a split second, you saw a few teenage boys head dunk behind a window.
Your jaw clenched, “DUSTIN, GET IN THE CAR!”
The swing of the front door couldn’t have come quicker.
—
On the drive home, Dustin’s eyes bounced from yours to the road every millisecond. Your foot seemed planted on the gas and unrelenting, and for the fact he’s never seen you this worked up.
With one leg bouncing in anxiety. He was ready to tuck and roll at and any moment
parents were amazed how well the dogs walked on leash so in case this trick is more uncommon than I thought here’s my training technique
If a dog pulls on the leash just stop and stand there
that’s it that’s the trick you become a seat belt it works real fast. Start walking again if they stop pulling & even better if you wait until they look at you first (sometimes u might have to call them back to stop pulling if they are a bit dumb)
wow ok since this seemed to help people here’s my trick for getting dogs calm before we leave the house (this also works for crates and cars it’s pretty common)
I crack open the door a little and when they charge it, I shut the door. I am become video game. Butt on floor opens the door. I have them sit and then slowly open the door again. Get up? Door shuts. Sit down? Door slowly opens. After they’ve been sitting and the door is all the way open and they’re looking at me, okay we go outside.
Works fast and is so gentle and it’s really letting them be in control. If they want to go outside all they gotta do to open the door is to sit. Consistency is 99% of it
ok last thing
the thing with consistency is not that you are "winning" each interaction. It's that for your dog, you are the matrix. You are rendering his reality.
The most heartbreaking thing I've ever read was someone musing that when dogs dream, they probably dream of you. Are these good dreams? You're hanging out together having fun? Or bad dreams? He's in trouble? The person he loves the most in this world has rejected him?
Dogs don't generalize well. If you teach them to sit in the house, you've taught them to sit in the house. Now you have to teach them to sit outside too. The reason some dogs don't like to be pet and cuddled outside is because they've never been pet and cuddled outside.
Consistency is a tool to lock into his brain and really clearly show him what you mean. It's communication. I don't think my dog listens to me because he's been pavlov'd into muscle memory. It's because he knows what I mean and he likes me.
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
Someone on the Sandman subreddit said there are stars on the lining of Dream’s coat so I had to see for myself. This is from Episode 2, "Imperfect Hosts":
And here's a freeze frame:
But that's not all. Let's slow it down.
Someone else on the thread pointed out the stars are not exactly moving in tandem with the coat's fabric. It means those are not just star prints; there are actual starry skies within Dream's coat! That is so beautiful and romantic. The amount of details in this show is incredible.
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
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