(3 different intros btw) Dustin Henderson was always getting hurt. Steve and Robin had learned to accept that fact the same way they accepted that Hawkins was cursed and Starcourt had terrible wages. If Dustin tripped, crashed his bike, bruised a rib, or sprained a finger? Normal. Expected. Routine.

But after Eddie died… Dustin’s “routine” didn’t look like Dustin anymore.

He went quiet. Not the normal, nerdy-concentration quiet — but the kind of quiet people get when they’re trying not to fall apart. Robin was the first to notice it. How he stopped humming under his breath. How he didn’t correct her when she misquoted a science fact. How he looked exhausted, even in the mornings.

Steve noticed the limp.

At first, he chalked it up to Dustin being Dustin. Maybe he tripped over a curb, stepped on a D&D figurine, something dumb. But then the limp got worse. Like—bad. Dustin would drag his right foot slightly when he didn’t think anyone was watching. He’d hide it with jokes whenever Steve got too close.

"You good, man?" Steve asked one morning, leaning against the lockers. "Dude, I’m fine. Just twisted it," you said with a half-laugh that didn’t reach your eyes.

But Steve saw the wince. Robin saw how you grabbed the desk leg before sitting in class, like you were bracing yourself. And both of them saw how pale you got every time you put weight on that ankle.

“Something’s wrong,” Robin muttered to Steve behind the counter at Family Video. “Like, actually wrong. He’s not… being Dustin.”

Steve wanted to deny it. He wanted to believe you were okay, because the alternative — after everything that happened in the Upside Down — scared him more than he’d admit.

But then today happened.

You limped into Family Video after school, pretending everything was normal, dropping your backpack on the counter with a grin that was way too forced. You shifted your weight, and your leg buckled. You caught yourself at the last second, grabbing the counter so hard the DVDs rattled.

Steve’s head snapped up. Robin froze mid-alphabetizing.

There, slowly spreading across your sock and seeping into your shoe, was fresh blood.

"Whoa—what the hell?" Steve said, voice sharp with panic as he hurried around the counter. Robin followed, eyes wide.

“Dustin… why didn’t you tell us?” she whispered.

You tried to speak, tried to joke, tried to shrug it off like you always did— "Just a bruise—"

But the moment Steve lifted your pant leg, that lie died in your throat.

Your ankle was swollen, discolored, bandaged in messy wraps that were soaked through with dried and fresh blood. It looked… bad. Really bad.

Steve’s eyes snapped up to yours, harsh with fear and anger and something like heartbreak. "Dustin… this isn’t a sprain. This is—Jesus, why didn’t you tell anyone?"

For the first time, you couldn’t hide it. Couldn’t push through it. Couldn’t pretend everything was fine.

Steve and Robin were staring at you like they’d missed something huge — something you’d been suffering through alone.