Don't call me your ex,
Cause I never met you.
Steve Harrington plays a wicked game with Aurora Smith's heart. When Tommy makes a bargain that King Steve can't refuse, his sole purpose becomes stealing Aur...
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S-'✮'- H
It's the summer of '83 when Steve Harrington seals his fate. A fateful day down at Lover's Lake, sat on the hood of his deep red car, one hand supporting his weight, the other cooled by the crisp metal of a cooler-box coke. His shirt is off, the wind is warm, his friends chatter, and it's one of the few moments he finds peace. Chocolate eyes skim the dancing bodies of his peers, take in the ripples of the crystal waters, his sneaker-clad foot taps the bonnet to the boombox muffled sounds of Michael Jackson. He's got a little grin on his face, sun-warmed lips tugging upwards at the sides. Even in a place like this — surrounded by nature and his school peers, he's king.
Steve's always king.
Every king needs his queen, sure, but he's not too worried about whatever Taylor Blonski is doing right now. She'd been huffy with him ever since he picked her up, whinging that the black leather of his seats burned the back of her thighs. She'd huffed and puffed about not being tanned enough yet, and at the same time said all this humidity wasn't good for her perm. He'd just lit his cigarette, nodding when her tone indicated him to do so.
Having got together only four months earlier, the chestnut haired boy certainly was glad he hadn't had this bummer attitude around him last summer. It was never that serious — a little fooling around in a janitor's closet, an invite to the spring formal, a dinner date or two. Sure, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't glad to have the prettiest girl in school on his arm. But, god, did she give him a headache.
Steve sips at his coke, nodding at Tommy's offer for a cigarette. His eyes are still cast forwards, down to the shore of the lake, covered by the contacts of his ray-bans. There seems to be a million different people here, Reefer Rick trying his best to sell the stash he not-so-nonchalantly has in his tie-dye fanny pack, Steve's fellow basketball team, there's middleschoolers too, eyes wide and mindblown at how the high schoolers party on a summer's day and the fact that girls have their chests out. But Steve, his eyes are drawn to a little group of three, down where the tide meets the small pebbles and dirt shore.
Nancy Wheeler and Barbara Holland screech and splash, using their hands to shove the water at one another. Both of their hair is wet and wild, tangled and messy, t-shirts transparent and a faint outline of their one-piece swimsuits show. And there, just slightly to the side, a glowing blonde cast of light. Aurora Smith's back is facing Steve, he can just about make out the straps of her pink bikini from beneath all that hair. She's tiny, tucked into herself, denim shorts muddy from the ground below her. With just enough view of her side profile, Steve can see she's laughing, bee-stung lips curled upwards and button nose scrunched. There's a sketchbook in her hands, and every now and then, she looks up and down from the drawing below her to the view of her friends making a scene in the water. Cute, he thinks. She's drawing them. He can appreciate the view from afar — everyone knows Rory. She's sweet, a meek little thing with the artistic ability of a god. She's won every award in art that Hawkins has to offer, though it's nowhere near Steve's basketball trophy collection. Not the brightest spark, at least compared to her two Einstein best friends, but they love her anyway, celebrate their differences. He finds himself thinking in that moment, wondering how it is a girl that pretty hasn't fallen into the popular crowds. Blonde locks flow in the wind, and he swears, just for a second, there's a sweet scent of vanilla in the air.
