Chapter Text
It was irony that got him in the end.
"Batter's up! Look alive!" He shouted around a mouthful of sunflower seeds as his kids – they were 16 now, but they'd never stop being his new generation of traumatized children - hustled to their places on the field. Arms crossed and feet planted a sturdy hips' with apart, Steve nodded to his pitcher, uncrossed his arms to shoot him two thumbs up before settling his hands on his hips. First batter up was ready momentarily, and Derek, who had blossomed into a delightfully mouthy, strong-armed catcher behind the plate, settled his mask over his face and was chirping him already as he settled into his crouch and lifted his glove.
Maybe he couldn't quite hear what Derek was saying from where he stood in front of the dugout but he could hear a particularly familiar peel of laughter from the stands behind the backstop so he knew it must have been particularly annoying, but the laughter. Dustin's shrieks of laughter, ridiculous as they'd always been, had turned into the sort of thing that warmed him from the inside out, especially whenever he heard it in the wild.
Dustin wasn't even supposed to be back in town today, let alone here at Steve's 16U ball game. Fresh from completing his undergrad from the Purdue School of Engineering, his graduation party wasn't until next weekend. Give him time to pack his shit up, party with his friends, say some goodbyes. It was almost a week earlier than Steve expected to see him.
Play Ball! the ump called. His kids were ready, as he'd taught them to be. But Steve?
And all it took was three seconds of swivelling on his feet, drawn to search for Dustin in the crowd among the parents and family members on the stands for it to happen. Derek chirped, the batter hesitated, decided last minute to swing at a pitch coming in too far outside, and cracked a foul ball line drive into Steve's right temple.
He'd only just caught sight of Dustin's curly-headed smiling face, a grin turned pleased little smirk when their eyes met - and then his lights went out.
Steve crumpled, landing in a heap on the ground that spawned a gasp from everyone who was watching. His kids flooded him, his co-coach rushed over, but he was unconscious for the initial desperation of it. His shadowed vision returned all mushy, paired with a sharp, disorienting pain in his head and a high ringing in his ears. Wasn't I just standing up? he thought to himself vaguely, but his body wouldn't listen when he tried to move to sit up, and he could hear voices trying to talk to him but they were resonating oddly and he couldn't actually make out any words. When he finally figured out how to blink his eyes open it was to a rush of fuzzy shapes buzzing above him, a bright back light so overwhelming he had to shut his eyes again.
He could move, he knew he could move, but he didn't have enough control to do anything other than flail. Hands grasped his arms to try and hold him down but that was no good, no thanks, and he swore until some commanding voice cut over all the desperation and suddenly he was helped up to sitting. It was easier to breathe like this, easier to cough out his mouthful of sunflower seeds, easier to recognize how nauseated he was, but the deeper breaths could ease his stomach, and there was a hand spread palm-flat on his chest now that he leaned into for comfort.
Feeling was easier than the other things he was supposed to be able to do, but it was also easier, he found out, to open his eyes now that the big bright thing wasn't above him anymore while he was sitting upright. Vision shifting to allow barely more than a pinpoint of clarity in the middle with fogginess remaining all around the edges, Steve blinked at a grey moustache, a wrinkled forehead, a Hawkins Cubs ball cap, and then shifted to the right, where he found curly brown hair and stormy grey eyes.
“Derek, get your friends to back up, Steve needs space. Steve, hi. Can you hear my yet? Can you see me? Yes, hi, keep looking at me, good. I need you to say something. Anything, just - ”
“It's you?” Steve blinked, recognition prompting his words. This is who the hand at his chest belonged to, he knew it without even having to look down and make sure they were attached to the same body. There was a familiar look in his eyes, a shared warmth that spoke right through the crackle of pain in his head. He trusted this one. He liked this one. More than liked. Huh.
“Yeah,” the man answered, all breathy relief. “Next time I'll warn you ahead of time.”
Which, okay, didn't really make total sense to him. Didn't exactly make anything feel better physically, but at least he knew now for sure that everything would be okay. Fuck, what was his name, though? Muscle memory had his tongue moving behind parted lips but the name itself stayed there, unremembered.
“No, don't call an ambulance,” the nameless man he undoubtedly knew soul-to-soul was clearly the one in charge here. Even old moustache just backed off at this point, turned to confer with someone else, and let storm eyes take control. “No – Joshua, can you catch them before they get to the clubhouse? Good, go, tell them coach said not to call – do I look like I care if I'm your coach or not?! Do it!”
“No hospital,” Steve huffed, grimacing hard when between one slow blink and the next it felt like existence came back into focus. Maybe only up to like 90% max, but. Okay, 70%, but still. “I'll be fine.”
The man's expression crackled between relief and intense irritation, like when the antenna was off and the television static tried to distort two channels together. “Typical,” he breathed though his teeth, almost like he'd known he'd get a response like that and therefore hated it all the more.
Funny, Steve thought, half-smiling when reached up to ruffle his hand through those dark curls only to miss and pat his forehead awkwardly before drifting towards the pulsing throb at his own temple.
“You've got a goose egg and it's bleeding a little, don't touch it,” the man instructed, gently reaching to guide his hand lower. “Jesus, Steve. You went down like one of those clown faces at a carnival game. Can you tell me where you are?”
“Eight feet from the first base line,” he answered technically, finding it easy to take in all the context clues until his focus got caught on a sunflower seed that was stuck on storm eyes' shoulder.
“Sure. What day is it, genius?”
Surely most baseball games were played on Saturdays, right? Steve didn't want to guess, though, because if he got it wrong the first time the second time would still be a guess and he was going to be fine so there was no use getting any answers wrong if he could help it.
“You're the genius, you tell me,” he volleyed back instead because it felt natural, and let his eyes close for a moment.
“You're so annoying,” the man informs him, only there's some relief in the tone of his voice now too. “What's your name, hotshot?”
“Who's askin'?” he countered, and had to play it cool when the other merely shook his head, unimpressed. Worth a try. At least he knew his name, which had been jogged back into his memory among the few times he'd been addressed as such.
“Princess Leia. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope,” he drawled thoughtlessly. Storm eyes' following pierce of laughter was short-lived, and even if it lit up the most painful part of his brain he still managed to be a little proud of himself for such a reaction. “I'm Steve Harrington. Obviously, pal, come on.”
The hand on his chest never strayed, but when he told him his name the fingertips there pressed in a little harder. Relief again. Gratefulness. Grounding. Finally someone came over with an ice pack from a first aid kit, and Steve held it gingerly to his temple with one hand while he pressed the palm of his own hand over the back of the one on his chest.
Touching like this was underrated, he thought to himself. Opened his eyes again just to notice something in the others' expression. A disturbance in those mighty stormy eyes, and Steve reviewed what he said and decided(with growing excitable certainty) that it was the whole 'pal' thing. Too casual, probably.
Ugh, if only his actual name would come back to him.
“Can I stand up now?” Steve asked.
“Are you dizzy? Nauseated? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“No. Only a little but it's way better than it was a minute ago, and one very rude finger. Shame on you, sweetheart,” he said, going with his instinct again, and opened his eyes to find a pink flush brightening tan skin and a bitten bottom lip. Bingo.
“Can you walk?” the man asked, like he wasn’t blushing to the roots of his curls, like maybe he was used to the endearment.
“One foot in front of the other, right?”
“Jesus Christ,” the man sounded the same as moments before, irritated and relieved but obviously fond, and finally his hands shifted on him to help him stand. A couple of the baseball teenagers rushed over to help when the man gestured, just to be there until they could be sure Steve wouldn't fall once he was upright. “Usually jokes like that would make me more worried about brain damage.”
A couple of the nearby teenagers chuckled but Steve was too focused on being on his feet, on trying to keep the ice pack against his head, feeling a little faint when his fingers ran over the bump underneath.
“Don't poke at it, Steve,” the man admonished, tucked close to his side, and would have said something else if there weren't suddenly an unfamiliar shape in front of him. Another teenager wearing a different uniform from the kids who seemed familiar.
“I'm so sorry Coach Steve I shouldn't have even swung at that shit but fucking Derek wouldn't shut up and I was so mad but I wasn't aiming or anything I sw - ”
Steve eyed him warily, most of the kids face was in focus by this point, the tunnel vision of clarity slowly but steady growing from the inside out of his vision. More context clues, and even as he fit them together in real time to conclude that he'd been hit by the ball he was already shaking his head. Gently. “It's fine, I know you haven't got that sort of control at the plate.”
Truth. Meant to reassure. The kid's face pinched uncertainly, one of the teenagers who had helped him up guffawed and the other honked a sharp laugh. Shit, should he not have -
Steve found himself looking to storm eyes for answers, the man was half a food shorter than him and was already staring at him critically before he turned to the kid and took over once more.
“Acceptable sportsmanship, slugger. You're off the hook. If you still feel guilty write him a letter and send an apology pizza but I'm going to get him to the hospital now just to make sure he's not bleeding internally and blocking his inhibitors or something,” the man rambled, a hand settling on Steve's back now to begin to usher him along.
“If you think his brain is bleeding why the fuck did you tell them not to call an ambulance, Dustin?” One of the teenagers raged, clad in protective gear apart from the face mask he must have flipped off when this all started. Catcher.
“They can't do a fucking CT in the back of an ambulance, Derek. I'll drive him. He won't freak out. And watch your language!”
Dustin, Steve caught and clung to while they sniped at each other. Somehow he knew he had nothing to worry about it, there wasn't any heat behind it, and Dustin, of course it was Dustin, would stick by his side and look after him.
Dustin what, though? Dustin...Harrington? No, he corrected himself instantly. His body warmed from head to toe. He obviously liked the thought of it, he considered, allowing himself to wade through the pain in his head to feel himself flushing and found out that trying to giggle only that hurt.
Derek and Dustin both looked at him, and Steve grinned, squinting. “You gotta watch your language too, Dusty-bun.”
Was kind of funny, probably, the way Derek briefly looked less worried while Dustin appeared more so.
The umpire came by at that point with moustache again, eyed Steve critically and once they had handed off his care to Dustin tried to get the game back in order.
The ringing in his hears had subsided quite a bit by the time they trudged towards a specific car in the parking lot, which unfortunately only made the throbbing pain in his head more apparent.
“Keys, Steve,” Dustin prompted, and it only took Steve a moment before he caught on and fished a set of keys from his own pocket. Dustin took them, ushered him into the passenger seat, reached over him to fucking clip his seat belt in place, and then shut the door gently before rounding the car and climbing into the driver's seat.
“I'm just going to keep my eyes closed I think,” Steve told him while he got the car up and running and pulled out of his parking spot. Resting his head back against the seat, he propped his right elbow up by the window to hold the ice pack in place. His other hand reached out idly, without even thinking or planning or deciding to he waggled his fingers until Dustin noticed, until his hand was caught in the air, fingers threading, held hands perched on Steve's thigh.
“It's been, what, five years since your last concussion? Couldn't just keep a good thing going, huh?” Dustin said, and Steve didn't catch the waver in his tone now that it was just the two of them.
Steve hummed, tried to parse through his memories but couldn't bring up anything aside from feelings. No snapshots, no details, just the knowledge that yeah, he knew what it was like to have a concussion. To have a black eye and broken ribs and healing flesh wounds. He thought of his body and recognized a sliver of insecurity – the years he spent wearing high collared shirts until the scar at his neck faded enough to satisfy.
Dustin must have been there for that, too, the way he spoke about it. The way he adjusted his grip on Steve's hand, tightening. “Gotta keep things exciting.”
“Sure, alright, well pick a different way next time, asshole.” Dustin said it as if Steve had any control over the matter, his voice catching slightly on the insult in a way that made it feel like he could just as easily have said ‘sweetheart’ instead. A tough facade to protect the depth of feeling beneath, a move so familiar Steve grinned.
There was silence, for maybe only like five seconds in a row but it was long enough for Dustin to pipe up again. “Steve, are you awake? Don't fall asleep.”
All he did was grumble and brush his thumb gently against Dustin's hand. A move that kept the man's concern at bay the rest of the quiet drive to the hospital.
Once they were there Dustin ushered him inside, refused direction at triage to sit in the lobby while he filled out paperwork, and raised hell until Steve was ushered straight to a gurney in the back. Perched at the foot of Steve's gurney with the clipboard of paperwork balanced on his knee, Dustin switched back to sweet, offering a quick thank you to the nurse who promised they'd have the doctor by soon to asses him and order the tests and pulled the curtain closed around them when she left.
Steve let his mind wander, let himself focus on breathing through waves of nausea and pain, and let himself watch while Dustin worked to fill out the form. He commented all the way through but knew enough about Steve, apparently, to fill the whole thing out without having to ask even one question to confirm.
Steve's chest began to ache, and he knew it had nothing to do with his head. What a wonder it was to know he had someone in his corner like this. The swell of affection he felt for this man, the thrill when he was finally done and rested a free hand on Steve's leg. Such a casual, sweet thing, but nothing still compared to when the nurse came to bring him over to imaging and Dustin stood from the stretcher and then leaned over to hug him before he went.
There was no bleed. Dustin had been standing between Steve in the stretcher and the Doctor with his arms crossed and he visibly sagged in relief when he delivered the news. Steve still felt enough like shit that he was mostly just glad for Dustin's sake it wasn't anything worse than a concussion.
Didn't take long after that, the Doctor tried to go over concussion treatment and what to watch out for but Dustin cut him off and listed it all as quickly as he could. “Been through this with him a time or two already,” he explained, reaching out to comb his fingers gently through Steve's hair, brushing it away from the worst of the bruising.
“We'll hope not to see you back here, then,” the Doctor said.
His temple was cleaned up, the small cut bandaged, and he was given a dose of tylenol before Dustin ushered him back out of the hospital.
By the time they pulled up to a small, well kept house down the street from the middle school Steve was feeling drowsy and nauseous again.
“C'mon, let's get you settled.”
Dustin led the way, hands on Steve or hovering near until he got to the front door and had to focus on unlocking it for a moment. He moved like he owned the place, ushering him in and navigating around like he belonged, and Steve couldn't really remember who lived here first or if they'd maybe found this place together, but he's vaguely so proud of them for making this work. Fuck – this couldn't have been easy, but even without being able to bring up any specific memories about it he could feel that it was worth it.
Dustin got their shoes off, Steve sat at the small table in the kitchen as he took off the ice pack, rinsed it, tossed it in the freezer. “You're due a break from that thing,” he decreed while he wandered over to fill a glass with water and set it in front of Steve before going to the fridge to open the door and stare inside. “Are you hungry?”
“Tummy says no,” Steve decided after a moment, happy when the stupid wording makes Dustin chuckle.
The fridge door closed and Dustin turned, shuffled closer to brush his fingers through Steve's hair again. “I kind of want to put you to bed but I don't want you to fall asleep, you know?”
“Hmm,” Steve agreed, eyes closed and focusing on how good Dustin's touch feels. A hint of warmth amidst the sharpness of everything else. Part of him is aware that if he weren't feeling so awful he'd enjoy such a comment for an entirely different reason, but, alas. “Yeah, everything's gone fuzzy again.”
“Only you, Steve,” Dustin exhaled worry and affection and then his hands were there again, gently pulling him to standing and cautiously manhandled him through the house towards a bedroom at the back.
The bedroom was warm and inviting. There were picture frames on the walls and both nightstands, and Steve's vision was no longer dark around the edges but it really had gone a little too blurry to see for sure but he still knew, somehow, that he and Dustin must be in many of them.
“Are you going to fall over trying to take those off on your own?” Dustin asked, once Steve idly reached to undo the button of his jeans.
“No, but if you want to help I won't stop you,” Steve tried to send him a rather lecherous grin even though he knew he probably looked idiotic with the lump at the corner of his forehead. Dustin shook his head but Steve would bet he was probably trying to hide a grin as well so he calls it a win. “Why don't you read something to me?”
“Oh! I can – fuck, yeah. I'll be right back.”
There'd been a floor to ceiling bookshelf in the living room that he'd noticed when they came in, and he couldn't imagine he kept them all for himself, so. Once he had his jeans pulled down by his knees he sat on the edge of his bed and tugged off each leg one at a time, and then carefully extricated himself from his shirt as well. He was worming his way under the covers in his boxers when Dustin returned, hurrying to help.
“News travels fast, there were four messages on the answering machine already. Listened to them all, hope that's okay – Derek says they won the game in your honour. That kid who hit you? His Mom called apologizing, too. Coach Al just wanted to check up on you and I already called him back, and my Mom found out somehow,” Dustin rattled off, huffing affectionately when he mentioned his Mother. Steve couldn't for the life of him think of her name but, damn, he loved her too, didn't he? “She's going to drop off soup in an hour, because of course she is.”
“Never losing her spot as Number One Mom,” he commented, grinning, and then frowned once he realized Dustin was dragging the bench from the end of the bed up closer to Steve's side. “What the fuck are you doing? Get up here.”
For some unknown reason Dustin paused, and when he looked up for a moment Steve didn't really what to do with the expression aimed at him aside from letting his hand flop onto the very empty space in the bed beside him.
If his brain weren't buzzing painfully he would have likely questioned why Dustin merely climbed up, moved the pillows to allow himself to sit up against the headboard and stretch his legs out on top of the covers. But it was fine, he was already flipping open the book he'd brought with him, and all he did was make a noise in his throat when Steve curled closer and draped an arm across his waist.
Ignoring the circumstances of why he was here like this, the entire set up was kinda perfect. Warm and cozy, leaving him feeling safe and loved in a way he knew had been a thing built up and earned over however many years it was they'd known each other. More than the five Dustin had mentioned, surely. Steve may not be able to remember this first time he told him he loved him, may not be able to recall any specifics of the milestones of their relationship or any detailed moments of intimacy, but he could feel the steadiness of trust between them and the constant underlying thrill of desire.
There was love here, and he knew he was never going to let it go.