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Steve Harrington Saves The World

Steve Harrington Saves The World

EvieSmallwood

Us and them,

After all we’re only ordinary men

In his young life, Steve Harrington’s future was changed in the smallest of ways. It happened like this: hope (I’m gonna be just like you), dissatisfaction (you're gonna be just like your old man some day), youth (you can do better than that you son of a bitch), realisation (go home), love (how many is a crowd, really), heartbreak (It’s over), and acceptance (I’m exactly fucking like him).

When he was young, his father would look down at him and frown, like he was confused about what species Steve was, and for so long, it mattered. It mattered because all Steve wanted to do was please him, to get his father to understand him. It was everything. Until it wasn’t.

March, 1973—They’re Like The Wind

Steve had been looking forward to Take Your Kid To Work Day for three weeks—ever since his father had sat him down at the kitchen table and calmly told him that Steve would be tagging along when the time came; all of his associates were bringing their children (had they any), and despite Steve’s ‘rowdiness’, it would look odd if he wasn’t present.

Along with that talk came a warning that he wasn’t to run in the office, or speak unless spoken to, use his manners, and keep his hands at his sides.

“That’s terrible,” Steve had said. “You do that all day?!”

A rare smile had split his father’s features, then, but it wasn’t quite fond; almost bordering on the edges of sympathy, like he pitied Steve’s ignorance—it was a look that the young boy didn’t quite know how to articulate into thought, but somehow felt; deep in his stomach like a writhing snake, or a growing tumour which slowly ate away at him, gnawing on the edges of his confidence, of his trust in his father.

“I do,” his father had replied. “And so will you.”

There was another thing, then; the open hanging tone which swung back and forth between them, sickly sweet to his father and venomous to Steve. He wanted to bat them away, those words, because dipped in that tone they were poisonous.

But he had said, “Okay,” and that had been the end of that.

So, come a Sunday morning in March, Steve’s mother crept in and leaned over him. She shook him awake, out of dreams he didn’t quite understand. They were always the same when he was stressed; colours—bright and out of focus. Then there were summer skies and the distinct feeling of someone playing with his hair, like his mom did when he was sick. It was nice. He felt safe, and older.

“Stevie,” she whispered. “Time to get up, honey.”

He cracked an eye, squinting at her through the darkness. “Five more minutes?”

“Come on, baby, daddy’ll be waiting. And I made you pancakes with whipped cream…”

It took less than a second for him to shoot out of bed, nearly colliding with her. Steve ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, settling at the counter. As he waited for his mother to come down, he ate, and took in the morning. He’d never been up so early in his life. It was quiet in a way he hadn’t realised the world could be; like colours somehow made it all louder. The grey sky and the blue sheen hovering over everything made it seem like all of the life was still sleeping.