steve harrington is a total slime. (x reader)

10

Steve still remembers the day his father gave him the worst advice in the world.

"Pretend like she doesn't exist."

It was a hot, humid September afternoon. The next day would be Steve's first at Hawkins Middle. His father had sat him down, lighting a cigarette as he lectured about how to become a ladies man. At the time, Steve didn't know any better- he listened intently to each and every word.

"It'll drive her crazy."

Asking his father for romantic advice was the first of many mistakes that led Steve to where he was now, hunched over the bathroom sink with a broken and bloody nose.

"She'll practicality be begging for your attention."

He let out a dry chuckle at the memory. One hand tightly gripped the edge of the sink- the other held up a wad of paper towels that was becoming redder with every second that passed.

"That bitch will be yours before you know it."

Steve also remembers the nights he came home to a woman who wasn't his mother, and the nights where arguments sung him to sleep. He remembered the family dinners that began with forced smiles and ended with doors slammed shut.

Now, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he remembered that the man was dogshit in every sense of the term. Horrible husband, even worse father- not the type of person to be giving out advice to impressionable young boys, in any case.

He studied his features. His nose had swollen and was turning a sickly shade of purple. It was a grisly reminder, a physical manifestation of just how badly he'd fucked up.

The adrenaline had blocked out the pain at first, and all he could focus on was the feeling of absolute betrayal- this was the final nail in the coffin that held what was once your inseparable friendship.

How could he blame you, though, when Steve had been the one building it from the beginning? He'd gathered the wood and assembled it. Laid the broken relationship inside. Put the cover on. Steve's broken nose was only the consequence of a long list of mistakes- mistakes that he'd made, not you. Deep down he knew that it was all his fault.

Back then, when Steve was just a scared little boy- you'd always been there. You had always stood up for him, no matter how many black eyes or meetings with the principal it meant.

The memories were bittersweet as he looked back upon them with a mature lens.

They filled him with a profound sort of hatred. He hated how you were always taking pain for the sake of others, how selfless you were and how selfish he'd been.

The first major mistake Steve made was listening to his father's advice.

The second was abandoning you when you needed him most.

Granted, he didn't know at the time. He didn't understand it when he was younger. He had brushed aside the mysterious, circular burns that littered your arms, ignored all the inexplicable busted lips. He had never realized what was happening until it was already too late.

The feeling of warmth on his hand made Steve realize that the wad of paper towels he held had long since reached its limit of how much it could soak up. Only then was he aware of how tightly he gripped it, and silently he disposed of the bloodied napkins before washing his hands and leaving the bathroom.