Hell No || STEDDIE

Steve "Im straight" Harrington

(TW: more sh stuff also sorry this one is like 2x the amount of words than the rest of them)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He remembered everything and he didn't know what the fuck do to with it. He wanted to throw shit, hit something, anyone, anything. But he felt so very heavy, almost too heavy to force himself up the steps to his front door. And way too heavy to make the climb up the stairs.

He was straight. He was fucking straight. Anything other than straight and he'd be even more of a fuckup than he already was.

Fucking Eddie. It's all your fault. I hate you so fucking much. He felt so aggressive, and he absolutely loathed it. He wondered if this was how his dad felt all those times he was screamed at, or if it was more like how his mother felt with her repressed scolding and cold shoulders.

He collapsed onto the couch, he knew he should eat or drink something but he couldn't. He felt so goddamn heavy.

He didn't even know how long he laid on that couch, staring at the high ceilings. His mother had begged his father for high ceilings, she loved the way chandeliers hung from them and were still high enough to not be an eyesore. He also knew she begged his father to paint the walls white, said it would work better with her ever changing taste in furniture and home-style.

Not that she was even around enough to notice that the house hadn't changed since they built it and moved in. Or so Steve assumed, he was born a year after that so those were just stories he had been told.

He wondered what Eddie liked, or Robin. Neither had an option, they were so poor. Fuck he's so privileged and stupid, why did he deserve a big ass house like this when his friends couldn't even afford to take their drivers tests. Well.. Friend. He made that very clear tk Eddie a few hours ago.

Fuck why was he so god damned stupid. He pressed his palms onto his face, making a small hole to breath out of as he otherwise nearly suffocated himself.

The Tv worked, but he was too lazy to turn it on. There was food in the fridge, and his stomach growled, but he was too tired to make or eat anything. He felt like shit and the night wouldn't stop replaying in his mind.

The way he was sitting on top of Eddie in the car like he was begging for him or some stupid shit. Or the way he practically forced Eddie to take his clothes off despite being pushed away. And fuck... He knew he looked like a horny sleezeball at that concert, how was he going to look anyone in the eye ever again? He had hitched a ride home with Billy under an oath to never speak about last night again.

But holy hell, the way Eddie sang. The way his fingers with those rings moved against the strings. Steve knew what he was thinking, he knew how he felt at the edge of that stage. But fuck it wasn't real. It was the alcohol. It wasn't him, it wasn't his real actual fucking thoughts. It was the beer and nothing more.

But the way Eddie stared at him blankly when he blew up, Steve had almost felt sad or disappointed when he wasn't chased after. But he wasn't a damsel in distress or anything stupid like that. He was the knight. He did the saving.

But he saw the way Eddie looked at him, looked at his body with the scars and bruises. All he wanted from his parents had been attention, sure he wanted positive attention, but any attention would do. So when he was about fourteen he would take a blade to his torso, because he had to constantly wear shorts and muscle shirts, and then run to his mother and stand in front of her with blood running onto her white carpets.

Sure, she only ever scolded him for the carpet. Never for the blood, or the blade, or anything else for that matter. He eventually hated the way it felt, it didn't make him feel any better so he stopped doing that to himself. But he found attention in other ways, such as basketball.