#steve harrington is an ugly crier

[steviewashere]

Rhetorics and Bad Days

Rating: General CW: None apply! Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Bad Time, Steve Harrington is an Ugly Crier, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Forehead Kisses, Slight Love Confessions, Getting Together (Sorta Kinda/More Implied Afterwards)

Tripped and fell last night and wrote 3.2k words. Inspired by @scoops-aboy86 idea and my stupid little headcanon from this post!

💕—————💕

It seems like everyday was a bad day when you were somebody like Steve Harrington. Considering the good majority of his life the last four years, give or take, has been a cartwheel of nightmares and torture and blood and injuries—And, well. Obviously he has bad days.

Though, typically, it can be resolved and done over with a hot shower, maybe some stupid movie that he honk-laughs at, a warm blanket and a freshly dried pillowcase. Little things. Little good things that are able to calm him some, at least. Give him something else to think of, at most. He doesn’t have to do anything like cry or breakdown or yell until his voice is hoarse, that’s what he tells himself. Because, what’s been ingrained in his head, men don’t cry. Men don’t get hysterical. Men don’t break that emotional mold.

Though those words are definitely booming and deep and flat like his dad’s. That’s not his brain. Those aren’t his words. But it sure as hell is what he’s been exposed to for far too long.

And maybe that’s why, standing in the barren living room of his brand new (albeit worn down, caulked heavily, all too warm) apartment, he finds the rhetoric silenced. In a fresh space. With crooked blinds and awfully filled tack holes. A kitchen fit for a (former) king. Little breakfast nook that only allows for two dining chairs under the south facing windows. Barely any sunlight able to stream through. His bedroom cramped with just a queen sized mattress placed haphazardly on the floor, definitely crushing some well-loved Playboy magazines, crooked to the wall at his head because the movers carrying it were too tired from the recently odd mid-fall heat, and a decently sized freshly made spiderweb in the corner—he shivers at the thought of something alive and crawling watching him sleep at night. And the glorious bathroom—preemptively marked with darkened piss stains on the floor and a smell birthed from over-indulgence on alcohol. 

It’s his, though. Well, his and Eddie’s.

Eddie has his own bedroom, similar size to Steve’s (think of a shoebox used to bury that poor hamster from your youth, dead from eating too many baseball cards), ceiling light stained with god worshipping moths, and a window that half-opens if he jiggles it the right way. They share that grimy bathroom. And he brought the living room couch, something that had been sitting on his and Wayne’s back porch for some time, definitely a little mud stained and mildew smelling from rain, but it’s not the worst. Not the best. Not even good. But it’s their space, freed from the confines of Hawkins, new and shiny for all of Indianapolis to see.

The rhetoric is gone in Steve’s brain. Like skin shed from his sunburned body. Peeling and crackling to every surface he finds himself on or leaning against or standing with. It evades him. Leaves him with something viciously young and terribly hungry.

Steve Harrington is prone to bad days. Bad weeks. Bad things.

The unfortunate luck begins anew an exact week from when they move in.

October 20th, 1986 is his first day back at Family Video. He’d been transferred, referred much to Keith’s dismay, but probably his pleasure, too. (Considering how immediate his response had been to Steve’s question.) But it was his first day back. Didn’t need to be trained. Just hooked like a fish to deceased worm bait, thrown out to the river that is their block’s neighbors and strangers and mere acquaintances that feel no better or worse about having new people take residency on their street, but he’s also not reeled back in at the end of his shift. If anything, he’s tangled in his own wire, flopping, gasping for water, drying to the gravel by the shallow give of the river’s flow. He is stranded behind the register. Returning customers telling him he should know what they like, or what discount they need, or how many movies they’ve checked out previously. That he should know that a particular customer is friends with the owner of the Family Video he so sorely resides in. But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. So he makes do. He powers through it. Feigns mundane annoyance like gum flavorless between his teeth, though he’s biting his tongue to not sob.

That’s not where the bad ends. No. Of course not.

He’s within walking distance to their apartment. Which should be fine. In fact, it’s incredibly handy because even if he were running late to work, he could blame it on something stupid. (‘My key broke off in the lock, had to bother the landlord.’ ‘Yeah, had a leak in the bathroom this morning, have to report it just in case it tries to flood the downstairs neighbors.’ ‘It’s odd, seems like the lock loves to devour my keys.’ Nervous laughter.) But just because he’s within walking distance does not mean that life is plainly simple. No, what happens is he gets soaked with dirty road rain water. Was it mentioned that it’s been raining all day? No? Well, it has been. And it’s a downpour. Forecast said it would happen tonight, not midday, not while he’s trying to power walk home so he can make the peanut butter and jelly sandwich of his dreams. But it does. Because of course. And some asshole, screaming out their window to tell him that he should’ve worn a raincoat, speeds by. Coating him from collarbone to toe in the mucky rainwater of a city that’s too busy for a place like bumfuck Indiana. At least in Hawkins everybody knows your name; at least they have the common decency to let you stroll on by before they make a major move like that. But in a city bustling with busy, selfish, awful people—because aren’t all city inhabitants like this, should he have realized something like this was bound to happen? Well, he did. Just didn’t think it would take less than a month for it to occur.

Sopping wet. Exhausted and burnt out. Hungry like a rabid stray dog. He walks briskly. Skipping over the cracks and lines in the sidewalk, no matter how much disdain he tastes for his mother. Missing freshly spat out gum by mere centimeters. Shoulder checking a few too slow pedestrians, their sneering faces burning into his back. And the next awful thing comes in like a planned prank on some mocking little sitcom show. Dog shit. Pure dog shit, brown and putrid and soft on the sole of his right Adidas Superstar. His brand new shoes. The shoes he got himself less than a month ago. Shoes that he had been eyeing for years, but couldn’t muster the courage or the reason to buy them. And now there’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. He smears it on the concrete, squishing it further into the ridges of his sole, scraping it against the harsh ground. Tries his best. Checks the bottom of the shoe precariously. And without missing a beat…topples down onto his ass, thankfully away from the smeared shit, but down onto the ground nonetheless. He prickles, stands up on his shaky legs, dusts off his ass, and storms the rest of the way home.

Maybe he shouldn’t slam the door. But it’s barely anything in comparison to the rest of his day. He shouldn’t do it. He knows that it could get them a noise complaint. Though, the way it vibrates against his back, settling deep into the wood, stepping out of his sneakers to wash in the tub in a few—it’s all too good. 

The anger begins to dissipate from him in just that small action.

Then, again like a well-mannered sitcom scene, in barrels Eddie from his bedroom. Arms crossed over his chest, hip popped to the side, harsh scowl to his face. “Man, are you fucking serious?” He spits.

“What?” Steve asks, panting, breathless, absolutely done with today. With tomorrow. With the rest of this week.

“I told you this morning that I was going to be studying in my room! All day! Told you that I wanted it to be quiet, and the first thing you do when you get home is slam the door shut?!” He growls. Snarling, he continues, “And what about the noise complaints?! We can’t afford any of those, we need this place! Could you not—“

Steve pushes past him, shoes in hand, work bag slung down like a bomb to the floor. Leaving its contents scattered. A copy of Airplane! on VHS, some stickers reading ‘Be kind, rewind’, measly three dollars, and his Family Video vest. All of it strewn about their place. Pooling murky water on the surface, just as Steve’s clothes were dripping everywhere else. He closes himself in the bathroom, but doesn’t lock the door. In fact, that stupid fucking lock doesn’t even work. Nothing works. He stays in there anyway. Really, they should clean in here. Clorox the hell out of every surface. Maybe see if the piss stains will come up with a harshly gripped mop. But instead of those important things, he tosses his sneakers into the bathtub, and sits with his head in his hands on the closed toilet lid. Mushy socks to the tiled floor. Pants uncomfortably drying and chafing on his legs. Underwear like a second skin to his balls. His polo tight across his back and terribly moist.

Shoves his palms harsh into his eyes and whistles through his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters, lip wobbling with the word.

A tentative knock to the door startles him. “Steve?” Eddie’s voice rings out. It’s murmured, careful, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Hey, can I come in? I’m—“ He sighs, the anger he had before blowing away from him. “I’m sorry,” he sincerely apologizes. “I’m sorry that my first instinct was to get mad. I—“

“Just come in,” he croaks. It’s not very loud, but it must be enough because Eddie pushes the door open mere seconds later.

He sighs, mouth downturning when he sees Steve on the toilet. Meekly holds up Steve’s also brand new messenger bag. Stained like the tiled flooring under their socked feet. It’s sodden and depressing. “Hey,” he mutters. 

Steve just hums in return. Looking up to Eddie from the toilet, he must be a sorry sight. All soaking wet, spine hunched and scrunched in a horrifically twisted amalgamation, hair limp in his eyes. Something has to read on him for Eddie to be gazing at him the way he is. All big eyes and sorry mouth and his shoulders slouched like he’s admitting defeat. Part of Steve doesn’t want him to, wants him to keep getting riled, yelling about their lease and the slammed doors and the forgetfulness that seems to flow through Steve just as easily as blood. Wants to be called names. Wants to have a non-delicate conversation about how much of a screw-up he is, how he should’ve listened to his father and never moved away, why he’s a disaster of a person. Tell Steve all the ways in which he’s deserving of the bad days. Deserving of their frequency. Deserving of misery.

“Are you—No, you probably aren’t, but I’m asking anyway. Are you okay, Steve?”

That—Well, that breaks something in him. The final block on his wobbling tower of everything and too much. Under his skin, like weak twigs, his ribs are snapping. Crumbling beneath him to make room for the way his lungs expand with the need to gasp. The need to hiccup his way through a terrible explanation.

His mouth twitches, lips pursing. Looks away. “I—“ Steve rasps. “No,” he sobs.

Warmth crowds him, all too sudden and all too much. Hands gravitating to his magnetic pull. Squeezing his shoulder and pushing back his stringy hair. Though, immediately and dizzyingly, he is reminded of that stupid rhetoric. He shouldn’t follow it. Shouldn’t even allow it to have the vice grip it does on his brain.

But he shakes Eddie off, standing uneasily from the toilet, walking around him. He paces into the kitchen, hungry and shaking and needed to do something. Get his energy out one way or another. Fight off the tears, no matter how relieving they would be. Clatters through the cupboards. Finds the cheap, shitty, generic white bread. And an already half-eaten jar of peanut butter, odd peaks and valleys in it as if somebody’s been chowing down on it with a spoon. That doesn’t matter, though. At least there’s any peanut butter at all.

Eddie’s not too far behind him. Standing in the kitchen’s entryway, hands floating in front of him, reaching out for Steve. “Hey, Stevie, I can make you a sandwich. Y’know, if you want to change out of your clothes. Must be uncomfortable,” he’s placating.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Steve lies to himself. Because he needs this to be true. Just this one good thing. One thing he can do for himself. Make something he wants to eat. Something he’s been thinking about all day. Something that plasters an easy enough smile to his already half-puffy face, tears encroaching and sobs clawing their way up to his throat. But when he grabs for the jelly, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He slams the door of the fridge closed. No jar in sight. Not a single kind. No marmalade or strawberry jam or even the nasty grape jelly he bought for when Robin visits. There’s nothing. “Are you—“ He groans, huffs, and hiccups.

Attempting to cover himself, he shoves his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes.

The one thing he can’t let Eddie see, because crying is going to happen whether Steve likes it or not, is that he’s an ugly crier. The ugliest, and he knows that. All bubbled snot and dripping its residue over his top lip. Lips bitten red raw from muffling the sobs. Spit burbled in the corners of his mouth. Choking on wet gasps, hiccuping with his whole body, trying to drink the air around him. Skin going splotchy red and hideously swollen, the swelling still apparent even two hours later.

With the first sob, he knows it won’t be possible to hide this breakdown. Eddie’s already inching closer, hands still out in front of him. Steve is a wounded animal, it seems like. He cries loud and shameful, mouth dropped open, his saliva bubbling between his teeth. Already choking on his first gasp.

“It’ll be alright, Stevie,” Eddie tries to soothe, “We can get more jelly, it’s alright.”

“No,” Steve cries, “No! It’s not—“ A series of short, hiccuping, wet gasps. Followed then by a snotty snort, bubbled and causing his breath to whistle. “Such a bad day,” he attempts to explain, voice keening, high pitched in the back of his throat. “Everybody was so mean—Clothes are—All wet and gross—“ Heavy swallow like trying to consume large shards of glass. He flaps his hands at his sides, scrunching them, trying to squeeze himself back to his ordinary box. But instead, more snorting sobs leave him.

Eddie places a warm hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Thumb digging into a knot that’s forming. He puts his other palm on his bare arm, coaxing him over to one of the dining chairs. Settles him down and crouches in front of his sob-riddled, hiccuping, contorting body. Holding Steve’s face with one hand, he reaches for the crumpled bandana in his back pocket, raising it between them. “Look at me, Stevie baby,” he murmurs, “Let me help you.” Steve drags his eyes away from where they’d been zeroed in on the floor. Locking with Eddie’s own sad and soft gaze. “There you are,” Eddie whispers. He gently strokes Steve’s cheek with the edge of his bandana. Gliding it over his skin, patting at the drying tear tracks. His other hand, thumb wedged near the corner of Steve’s mouth, wipes away at the spittle. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he mutters, “But we’ll get it back on track, alright? You’ll be okay, sweetheart. I promise you’ll be okay.”

Steve’s lips wobble. “I thought you were mad,” he nasally whispers. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Stopping his slow and careful work, Eddie stares in heartbreaking dismay. “You deserve nice things, Steve. It doesn’t matter that I was mad. I’m not mad anymore.” And then he runs his bandana over the snot trails under Steve’s nose. Looking on with an odd mix of sadness and reverence. Thumb not even wiping anything away anymore, simply caressing over Steve’s heated, swollen skin.

He swallows glass again. Blinks sluggishly. Calmed down, oddly. This is probably the quickest cry he’s ever had. He chuckles, “God, I’m such an ugly crier, man.” Sighs. “Can’t believe you’re willingly wiping at my snot right now. ’T’s nice.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, sweetheart. I don’t even think you’re ugly.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“What—I’m being honest!” Eddie quietly exclaims. He shifts the hand on Steve’s jaw, palm cupping his cheek, fingers splayed over his ear, holding him in a sweet yet fragile way. “Steve, you’re, like, gorgeous. I hate seeing you so upset, but you’re like an angel or something when you cry.” He draws his bandana away, but brings it back to cover the end of Steve’s nose. “Blow into this,” he instructs. And so Steve does, blowing out whatever didn’t already leave him in his crying episode. Eddie pulls it back again, not even grimacing at what is surely a squelching snot-covered mess in his hand. He massages his fingers into the hair around Steve’s ear. Gazing. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, reiterating. “And you deserve nice things, especially after what a clusterfuck of a day you must’ve had. And you deserve to breakdown every once in a while. Don’t have to hide just because you think you shouldn’t cry or because you’re ‘ugly’ or whatever.”

“Thanks, Eds,” Steve squeaks. Face flushing with heat, gratefully not from tears. He flashes a small smile, modest but there, for the first time today. “You really mean all that? Even when you called me sweetheart?”

Eddie is bashful, smile stretching, going red in the face, tilting his head as if assessing. But the lovesick sheen to his eyes says he’s already made up his mind. “Yeah,” he murmurs, careful and devoted, “yeah, baby. I do mean all that I said.”

“Can I have one more good thing?” Steve tentatively asks.

“What’s that?”

He touches between his eyebrows. “Forehead kiss?” (And sure, maybe he does pout a little, but can you blame him?)

Eddie, without missing a beat, leans forward, fiercely cupping Steve’s cheek, pressing a slightly damp kiss to Steve’s skin. Then under his eyes. The tip of his nose. Corner of his mouth. Pulls back, whispering, “You can have all the kisses you want, sweetheart.” Still caressing Steve, he offers, “How ‘bout I go get you some new jelly while you take a warm bath? And when you’re out, clean clothes and not shivering, we can curl up on the couch and watch that movie you got?”

“Okay,” Steve mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs back. He presses one more kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Let’s make this a good day, baby.”

💕—————💕

[yikesharringrove]

Devil Horns

Part 2/Billy version of Please Tell Me So

Read on Ao3

-

Billy was six when he realized his mother was different from the other kids’ mothers in his class.

Billy loved her more than anything else in the entire world.

She was young, no lines adorned her face. She wore long dresses and didn’t brush her hair. She was beautiful, and kind, and sang to him. She bought him comic books and read literature like Little Women to him. She would take him to the beach and braid his long hair, grown out to mimic hers.

She was young when she became pregnant. She dropped out of college at fifteen, a sophomore kicked out of her parent’s house. She found the only people that would take her in, friends from concerts and peace rallies that lived in tents and trailers on a large property together. She delivered him in a trailer, an older woman, the matriarch of the community, acting as midwife for all the young mothers. She screamed and held the hands of other women and brought a tiny pink son into the world.

She always cared for her baby, but a child herself, she made mistakes. She welcomed Neil back into her life, keeping correspondence through letters his entire deployment. She married him at the courthouse, Billy swinging on her arm, one little hand fisted in her white gauzy dress.

She made sure Billy knew he was loved for exactly who he is every single day.

But where she was kind, sunshine and flowers, Neil was mean, gravel and boulders.

Billy was six the first time his father hit him.

It was a quick backhand for talking back one night after dinner.

His entire life changed in one instant. The innocence of childhood melted right off him.

Neil Hargrove was an angry man. He liked things a certain way. A military man, he served his time in ‘Nam. He wanted the precision and order of boot camp in his everyday life. He married Billy’s mother when he returned for war, returning to a six-year-old Billy raised entirely by a community.

He was tight-laced, didn’t like the free spirit Billy’s mother passed onto their son. He didn’t like that the boy was soft. He cried easily over small, stupid things. His blue eyes would fill with tears at the idea of eating meat, traumatized at the concept of eating animals .

Neil didn’t like hippies. He saw them as the scum of the earth, people who did drugs and had sex and lived disgusting, dirty lifestyles. He was livid when he returned to California to find his only son growing up in a hippie community, being raised by many. Being raised to be soft, kind, to love anyone, everyone .

He never forgave the boy for being emotional. He was a crier, his heart broke easily and quickly. He felt the pain of others as his own. His father was pain incarnate. All he did was hurt .

He called Billy’s mother a whore, a dirty hippie, a beatnik . He called Billy a lardass, a pussy, a queer .

So Billy got angry. Internalizing his pain in any way he knows how.

He was seven when he first got in a fight. Just a little tiff between kids. He spat ugly names fairy, pussy, queer and threw his hands, trying to make any contact he could. His mother told him it’s not right to hurt others. His father called him a piece of shit and pushed him into the wall.

He was eight when he discovered metal in the record shop down the street. He loved the anger, the fire, the passion, the fun . He loved the men with tight pants and long hair. He learned that his mother, with her soft rock and psychedelic tastes would still dance around the kitchen to Black Sabbath and AC/DC. His mother smiled at him when he showed her the poster he bought of Jim Morrison, knowing she loved The Doors. He told her he thought he was pretty. His father called him a piece of shit and slammed him into the wall.

He was nine when he first heard another kid call his mother a name. Said hippie like his father did, as though it was a swear. He tossed a milkshake in the boy’s face, only to cry as his mother, a waitress at the diner, was forced to mop up the spill. She stroked his hair and told him it was okay and gave him an extra plate of fries. His father called him a piece of shit and slammed him into the wall.

He was ten when his mother left. She was gone by the time he woke up the next morning, her dresses and hats, her books and perfume, gone , only an empty space left in Billy’s heart. She called him a few weeks later, explaining to him that she loved him, but his father was causing her too much pain. His father cornered him in his room and slurred that his mother left because she’s a whore and that she never loved Billy.

He was eleven the first time he met Susan. She made dinner for himself and his father. He was told to be on his best behavior and set the table and clean the dishes. He complimented her hair and her cooking and met Max less than two months later.

He was twelve the first time he kissed a boy. He and Thomas met up under the boardwalk. Billy ended the short, sweet kiss by pushing him to the sand, threw the same slurs his father threw so easily, and screamed if you ever tell anyone, I’ll fuckin’ kill you . Thomas never spoke to him again, and Billy lost the closest friendship he had ever had.

He was thirteen when he finally lost his baby weight. He was lean, growing quickly and bulking up due to the sheer amounts of sports he was playing, at his father’s will. He grew strong, and his mean streak only widened, now backed up by a punch that could break. Girls started noticing him, women started noticing him, but he never noticed them. So he began to learn.

He was fourteen when he started going to parties. He learned to lean over girls, to wink at them, bare his teeth and stare at their breasts. He learned they liked it when he was mean, when they thought he was a bad boy in need of fixing . They would give him gossip, a warm body, and hold him when he wanted it. He learned to close his eyes and press their heads down until they choked on him. He learned that parties usually had drunk boys that would stare at him from across the room. He learned that a smirk and a long bout of eye contact was enough to let them know to follow.

He was fifteen when he spent all his savings on the Camaro, a junker he began fixing up entirely by himself. The car was loud, and made him feel free . He drove two cities over, finding a bar that catered to his type and got in with an unbuttoned shirt, tight jeans, and a well-timed wink at the bouncer. He learned he liked pretty boys, soft ones he could bury himself in. He learned he liked it when they moaned, high and breathy. He learned to pull hair and coo God, you’re gorgeous .

He was fifteen when he began lying every weekend. Citing parties and non-existent concerts as covers while he followed nameless men to motel rooms from the crowded gay bar he had chosen that night. He learned to spray dainty perfume on his jacket before he re-entered his house. He learned to toss around names like Amber and Courntey and Becky .

He was fifteen when he came home past curfew, with a hickey on his neck, on his chest. His father slapped him across the face and locked him in his room, took his keys with a reminder that he shouldn’t be driving yet . He learned that piercing your own ear doesn’t hurt that bad. He learned that he liked the way a gold hoop looked in his lobe.

He was sixteen when his father caught him with a boy, Seth from down the street. They were in Billy’s bed, kissing hungrily. Billy learned what it feels like to tumble down the stairs. He learned what it’s like to be hated. He learned how long the drive is from San Diego to Hawkins.

He was sixteen the first time he saw Steve Harrington. A beautiful boy with fear and sadness in his eyes. Tommy loved to spin tales of King Steve, the Great and Terrible , but Billy couldn’t match up the bullying douchebag with the sweet boy who looked at Nancy Wheeler like she hung the stars in the sky, just for him. He learned that Steve blushed when he called him Princess and Pretty Boy .

He was sixteen when he was angriest at Max, blaming her for the move, knowing it was his own preferences that brought them here. Knowing it was a father that hated him enough to move him to a place he could be killed for being himself. He learned to pick on her friends. He learned to break her things. He learned messing with her made him feel like shit.

He was sixteen when he met Steve at the quarry for the first time. They tangled themselves together in the back of Steve’s car, the air smelling like sweat and cigarettes and cum . He learned that Steve had a big house, that his parents were almost never home. He learned that Steve had nightmares and was afraid of his own swimming pool. He learned that Steve liked it when he was gentle and slow, treating the porcelain skin like it was made of porcelain glass, pressing kisses and pet names into his body. He learned that Steve fell in love quickly. He learned that he fell in love quickly too.

He was sixteen when he told Steve about his father. He came to Steve when he was hurt, angry and ready to break, to break something . He whispered about how his father hated him, hated people like him, like them. How it felt to fall downstairs. How it felt to have a split lip in the same pattern as his father’s class ring. He learned that Steve didn’t mind if he cried. He learned that Steve cried with him. He learned that trusting Steve made him feel lighter the next day. He learned what apologizing to Max is like.

He was sixteen when he planned for his summer in Hawkins, getting a job he was overqualified for. He drove to the mall as often as he could, eating far too much ice cream for someone who was about to spend all summer shirtless. He learned what Steve’s ass looked like in blue sailor shorts. He learned that Steve could be convinced to leave it on, Pretty Boy . He learned that he wanted to save up money for college, for California, for his future, for his future with Steve.

He was sixteen when Steve cooked him an elaborate dinner, early into summer, staying awake in the sticky night to count down to Billy’s seventeenth birthday. Billy learned that Steve preened when Billy told him he loved him.

He was seventeen when he began taking the lifeguard stand at the public pool. Overtired moms and bored housewives flocked to the sun loungers, watching him sit and blow his whistle. He learned that if he called them by their names they would buy him cold drinks. He learned if he smirked at them just so they would tip him for swim lessons.

He was seventeen when he got in a fight with Steve, disappearing in the Camaro to cool down and think things out. His car got hit, the right side smashing inwards, the windscreen splintering. He learned that monsters are real, that the stuff of nightmares lives in Hawkins, Indiana. He learned what possession is like.

He was seventeen when his veins went black. When he felt nothing but the urge to build it, build it . He hurt the people around him, offering Heather and her family to the creature, knocking out Max and the Wheeler boy, and taking El to impending death. He learned what being afraid was like, he learned that he had been afraid his entire life. He learned that some monsters are made from stolen flesh, some monsters are made from the flesh that created his own.

He was seventeen when he died. Rather him than any of these children . He was only a child himself, but a child that had seen too much, been hurt too much. He learned that death in that way is painful. He learned that resurrection is only more so.

He was eighteen when he left the hospital, the one run by the government. He left with scars, a limp, and a large sum of cash for compensation . He learned that Steve still loved him. He learned that Steve didn’t mind his scars, his pain, would hold him through the worst nightmares. He learned that Steve would take him to therapy, one at the government hospital, and one in a local church for Survivors of Abuse .

He learned that his father was killed by the monster, the monster that was Billy. He learned he didn’t know how to feel about that. Steve had just pet his hair, said fuck him , and you don’t have to mourn that asshole .

He was eighteen when he took his college fund, his compensation money, his savings, and Steve’s paychecks and put them in a box in the back of the Camaro. He learned that Steve had a hard time reading maps and that the drive was more fun when all that was waiting was love and warmth.

He was nineteen when he earned his G.E.D., citing severe injury as the cause to his delayed education. He applied to college. He got into college. He began going to college. He learned he loved meeting new people, being able to tell them about his boyfriend, Steve . He learned the California sun was more healing than any amount of physical therapy. He learned he was not ashamed of his scars.

He was twenty when he held Steve to his chest and rubbed his back and told him he was so sorry you had to go through that, Pretty Boy, when he finally let Billy in on the secrets that haunted his big brown eyes. He learned that he had saved Steve’s life as much as Steve had saved his.

Billy Hargrove was twenty when he learned what happiness was.

[hannahhsolo]

we doing the next line challenge again babyyyy

tagged by @grabmyboner

let’s gooooo

Steve Harrington was an ugly crier. His face would turn all red and blotchy and he would wipe snot from his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, which Billy thought was kind of disgusting.

It didn’t take much to make him cry, either. Billy remembered that one of the first times he ever saw Harrington in the halls of Hawkins High, he was wailing into some crumpled up piece of paper. Billy thought crying so loud was disgusting too, ugly or not.

this ones going in to one of my series but gonna leave that up to mysteryyyy

[steviewashere]

New headcanon for Steve Harrington/Steddie just dropped!

He's a gorgeous, gorgeous man, but he's a really ugly crier. Love seeing Eddie think that Steve's a pretty crier, but in actuality Steve is not. Eddie is just infatuated.

(Pssst, if you want to read this, I wrote a little something based on the headcanon! You can find it here!)