Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

The Mind Flayer

The cold air nips at the tips of your nose and cheeks, marking the untimely darkness of night that shrouds the woods. Between yourself and Steve, you each share bog-eyed discomfort whilst the two teenage boys, Dustin and Lucas, bicker together, neither one of them willing to admit their jealousy over Max's attention. Steve's mouth presses into a line, and you train your gaze blankly ahead.

"We both broke the rule of law, okay? So we're even..." Their argument sinks into the background when your frost-nipped ears prick to the sound of something ominous in the distance.

Steve, too, has twigged.

"Did you hear that?" He whispers, watching you cautiously step into a clearing.

You tilt your face half back to him, unwilling to peel your eyes away from the source of the noise.

"Yeah," You confirm. "Yeah I did."

"What you thinking?"

You silently shake your head.

"Nothing good," Pivoting, you call to the other three, "Guys?"

They do not hear, only continue their childish verbal assault on one another.

Growing increasingly attuned to whatever horrors may lurk nearby, and with no one seeming to care despite yourself and Steve, you look to him for help. His hard, concerned features soften at the sight of your worry before shouting at the others.

He snaps, "GUYS!" And they each whirl round to him, suddenly quiet. Meanwhile, you offer him a thin smile which he returns.

The moment, however, is cut short when you hear a blood-curdling screech echo in the distance.

They're close.

Shouldering his bat, Steve marches onward with you hot on his heels, cocking your head to the kids in a silent beckon for them to follow.

Reaching a precipice, you all peer over the dark treetops that fringe the rolling hillsides, all bathed in the silver of moonlight that cascades over Hawkins. Then, there in the distance, nestles a building - sanitised and grey, surrounded by barbed wire; it's a lab.

"I don't see him." Dustin squints into the darkness.

"It's the lab," Lucas states. "They were going back home."

***

Thin white streams of light spill in lines from your torches, the beams filtering pitifully through the branches of the trees as you journey closer to your destination.

In the pit of your stomach rests the nauseating knot of doom; the aim is to be discreet, but the crunching of leaves beneath your boots foil your every move, so the knot pulls even tighter. God knows who or what is out here?

Who's there? A man's voice. It rings out in the murk.

The voice forces Steve to jolt, his muscles taut with nerves and he holds his arm out in front of your body, shielding you with his frame. You do the same, bending at the knees, holding the span of your arms out in protection of the children huddled closely behind you. You're primed for any sudden movements.

Steve, who blocks your path, holds a silent finger to his lips, urging you to stay calm and not make a sound. Your eyes dance over him, wordlessly agreeing to keep creeping onward like shadows in the night.

"WHO'S THERE?" The man calls again.

You're sure you know that voice.

Could it be?

Red hot blood pumps violently in your ears, the same kind of beat that thumps in your chest.

You've no choice but to emerge into view, and hope to Christ the voice is who you think it is.