Chapter Text
- 1977 -
Expectation.
It was practically the first word Steve ever knew, swaddled around him at the time of his birth, and ever-present every day after, the weight of which held him down, grounded him to his responsibilities, never let him soar like the other kids did, all bright imagination and silly, playful mischief. For Steve Harrington, it was always expectation, as essential and automatic as breathing. Stop crying, you’ll upset your father, be good. Or, Don’t dribble juice on your little romper, Steven, that’s from Bloomingdale’s, look nice. Often, Steven, stop sucking your thumb immediately, you’re not a baby anymore (seeking comfort makes you weak). And then, Smile, Steven, the partners are here. Straighten your tie, you’re not an animal! Now go sit in the corner and for the love of god keep quiet. He was 5 then, he remembered because it had also been his birthday.
But that summer was entirely different. The summer of ‘77, Steve’s parents had gone away to Europe and left him home alone under the care of yet another bored nanny who was all too glad to have him out of the house so that she could watch soap operas in the air conditioning. Suddenly, he was free of expectation, free of the weight that tethered him to the earth, and, so long as he made it home in time for dinner, he could do whatever he liked.
Steve was 10 years old that summer when he first fell in love.
Friends weren’t really a thing that Steve Harrington had, his parents much too busy for inconveniences like playdates or birthday parties. Still, Steve was content to stretch the fragile wings of his fledgling imagination, roaming the woods that surrounded the Harrington mansion alone, poking through the brush searching for treasure, ambling through bright patches of sunshine, climbing trees with his head in the clouds. That’s what his father had always said about him, disdainfully, like it was a bad thing. Head in the clouds, couldn’t ever seem to see just how hard he was trying to be good.
That’s how Steve was the day he met him, mind far, far away, so lost in thought that he didn’t see the other boy until a twig snapped too close, startling Steve out of his daydream and fully back into his body. A cold sweat ran down his back, and he was all too aware that he was disheveled, dirty, a bloody scrape on his knee and leaves in his hair — no way for a Harrington to look. But then the person peering back at him was just a boy, half-hidden behind the trunk of an old tree, staring at Steve with wide eyes.
“Oh, you’re just a kid,” Steve called out, surprised, because he never saw anyone else in this part of the woods.
“Speak for yourself, m’probably older than you,” the boy said defiantly, taking one step out from behind the tree. He was thin and scrappy, pale with wild dark hair standing up on end and dirt smudged across his nose. He reminded Steve of a little lost cat, feral and trying to make itself bigger than it was.
“What’s your name?” Steve demanded, curiosity overriding his ingrained propriety.
“Arthur Pendragon!” the boy answered, chest puffed out. Steve giggled, couldn’t help it; he had just watched Sword in the Stone the day before, a late-night rerun, the only decent thing on when he couldn’t sleep. “What’s yours?” the boy, Arthur, asked.
“Peter,” he said, giving a code name, too. He and his nanny had been to see Pete’s Dragon the weekend before, had gone the first night it opened at the nice movie theater the next town over. He’d been so enraptured by the story, hadn’t stopped thinking about why. Was too young still to put together the obvious — a desperately lonely boy, son of abusive parents, finding a friend when he needed it the most. “How come I’ve never seen you in school?”
The boy hesitated, frowned a little to himself. He dug the toe of his tennis shoe into the dirt, taking his time before answering. “M’not from here. Came to spend the summer with my uncle. Not really sure when I’m going back.”
“Do you like flowers?” Steve asked, then immediately bit his lip, knew it was too soft, not what good boys should like. He didn’t know why he said it, what had compelled him to let slip something so tender.
Arthur considered. Then, with a bright smile he said, “I like bugs. Beetles and cool spiders and moths. But yeah, I guess, plants are pretty neat, too. I like wildflowers,” he added, shy, looking back at Steve through lowered lashes.
“You wanna see something cool?” Steve asked, breathlessly excited to show someone the treasure he had finally found just that very day. Then, in a fit of silly inspiration, he bowed to King Arthur, gentlemanly like a knight of the court should be, and offered his arm. “Your highness.”
The boy blushed petal pink and giggled, tugging a stray lock of his long, wild hair across his mouth to hide his smile. Then, tentatively, he reached for Steve, gently placing his warm palm against Steve’s sun-kissed skin. Goosebumps erupted up and down his arm at the contact, but Steve maintained his steady smile, refused to let it show just how much the touch unmoored him; no one had touched him in so long. “Lead the way,” Arthur said, giggling again, and Steve nodded, shifting to link their hands as he took off in a run, the two of them laughing all the way.
They crashed through a clearing in the woods, a deep, secret place that Steve had found one day when exploring behind his house. The clearing was filled with wildflowers, every shape and color he could imagine, but that morning he had discovered something new.
“What is this place?” Arthur asked, dropping Steve’s hand to turn slowly in a circle, taking in the wide open sky, the birds and butterflies and the lovely bursts of color, all hidden away from the rest of the world. Steve preened a little, pleased by Arthur’s reaction, because his had been the same.
“This is my secret spot,” Steve confessed, voice low to convey the importance of the secret. “I come here when I need to escape. But here, this isn’t the best part.”
He retook Arthur’s hand, palm warm in his, and led him over to a thorny patch of flowers at the far end of the clearing. Arthur leaned closer, dropping his face low to sniff at the delicate petals.
“Roses?” he asked, eyes closed as he breathed in the lovely fragrance.
“Wild roses,” Steve confirmed, his insides bubbling with secret delight that the boy hadn’t laughed at him or called him names for bringing him to see a flower. He loved soft things, loved flowers, read about them whenever he got the chance; Steve even had a little play garden at the back of the house where his nanny had allowed him to plant his own roses, tidy and polite, growing in orderly little rows. “See the color? They’re a perfect blood red. That’s very unusual for wild roses, usually you see these more in shades of pink.”
He bit his lip, nervous, carefully observing Arthur for any signs of disdain as he opened his eyes and just stared at the flowers for a while, fingers just barely grazing the curved edge of the buds, the thorny green stems. Finally, he turned back to Steve, grin as wide open as the sky. “Blood red roses? Very metal.”
Steve wasn’t exactly sure if that was a good thing or not, but then Arthur grabbed his hands, steering him carefully away from the rose bush and spinning him in a wild circle, while gleefully chanting Ring Around the Rosie. They spun and spun, laughing hysterically, until the vertigo was too much and they fell together in a heap, a puppy pile of arms and legs, laying in the warmth of the sun on a bed of soft green grass and clover. Birds and clouds made their way across their field of vision as they simply laid there in contented silence, lost in their individual thoughts.
When the sky began to grow darker, the sun starting to dip down past the treeline, Arthur turned to Steve, studying his face for a long minute. Then a smile tugged the corners of his lips up, and his chocolate-dark eyes crinkled, sparkling brightly at him, all that condensed, radiant joy. “This has been the best day of my life,” Arthur whispered, voice so warm.
“I’m so glad I found you,” Steve whispered back, chest so happy he was afraid it would crack open from all that he was holding inside. “Can you come back tomorrow? We can meet here in our clearing.”
“Our clearing, Peter?” Arthur asked, teasingly, but Steve could tell it wasn’t mean or laughing at him.
“It can be our secret place, just for you and me,” Steve said, voice tentative, barely audible over the breeze and the birdsong, he wanted it so badly. “So that you can find me, if… if you want me.”
“Sounds great!” Arthur chirped, outwardly expressive and pleased. “Meet you back here at our place tomorrow then!” Steve nodded, was too afraid to open his mouth, lest he say something embarrassing. “See ya tomorrow, Peter!”
“See you tomorrow, Arthur.” It was the best he could offer, short of will you be my best friend, will you love me forever?
Arthur skipped off back in the direction he had come from, and Steve ambled home, lighter than air, and only got scolded a little for being late for dinner. He ate his warmed-over meatloaf, ate all his potatoes and even his peas while his nanny made polite conversation, and all of Steve’s blood sang Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
The next day, Steve slipped out straight away after breakfast, as soon as the nanny had begun fiddling with the TV and he knew she wouldn’t miss him. He packed a couple of hastily made PB&Js in his backpack along with a Thermos full of water, slipped the straps over his shoulders, and headed for the clearing. Arthur was already there when Steve arrived, and his face broke wide into a radiant smile when he saw Steve step through the trees. No one had ever looked at him like that before, not in the whole of his life.
“Peter! You made it!”
“I’m here!” Steve answered, rushing to his new friend, unsure as to whether or not he should hug him or high five or what. Instead, they both stood a little awkwardly grinning at each other before Steve spoke again. “I, uh, brought sustenance. For our adventures! And—oh. You brought water, too.”
He felt disappointed, didn’t know why, staring down at the jug of water sticking out of the little satchel Arthur had dropped down next to the rose bush.
“Oh, this isn’t for us,” Arthur said, voice uncharacteristically shy. He tugged a lock of hair across his face, hiding the nervous squiggle of his mouth. “It’s—it’s for the roses.”
“The roses?” Steve asked dumbly.
“I did some reading last night about flowers. I read a lot,” Arthur said it like it was a bad thing, pausing to watch Steve’s reaction. When none came, he continued. “It said that you can soak banana peels in water and it will make a homemade flower fertilizer, something about potassium, and I want our roses to be the best in the forest!” Arthur swirled the Thermos and Steve could see that the water was, indeed, a little cloudy with debris, presumably from the banana peels.
“I love bananas,” was all he could think to say, his heart doing an uncomfortable flip-flop at the thought of Arthur reading up on ways to make the roses more healthy, because maybe he was like Steve, maybe he thought they were something special, too.
“And so do roses,” Arthur said happily, kneeling down at the base of the rosebush. “Help me?”
They knelt down together on either side of the bush, handing the jug back and forth between them as they made sure to water every part of it, Arthur chatting animatedly the whole time. He mostly talked about the books he read — books about flowers and nature, birds and bugs, but also epic adventures and sprawling tales about knights and elves and royalty and wizards. When he spoke of the love stories, there Arthur frowned, mumbling that he didn’t care much about princesses, said he was too busy being a brave adventurer to worry about things like romance. He swore he would never let himself be consumed by something as silly as love.
Steve made a noncommittal sound of agreement, though secretly he knew it was all he longed for. He knew enough of the kind of romance that Arthur was talking about, had caught snatches of it in the shows his nanny loved to watch, or spent too long thinking about Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, the kinds of movies he’d watched as a kid, and what it would feel like to be awoken by love’s first kiss. Understood enough to know that it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever seen between his parents, cold and civil but never loving. Steve wanted romance, craved it, and it hurt even though he knew it shouldn’t, the thought that Arthur wouldn’t love him like that. Steve buried those feelings deep, both his disappointment and the underlying wrongness of having those kinds of thoughts about another boy, and he did what he did best — forced a smile, acted good.
“Well,” he asked when they were done with the water, smiling bright enough to cover up his hope. “Now that that’s done, do you wanna go search for treasure?”
“Yes!” Arthur shouted, tugging him up by his hands, the two of them laughing as they stowed their belongings in some tall grass near a rocky outcropping, and headed off to make mischief in the woods.
They spent the day amongst the trees, talking and laughing, digging for treasure and scouting for spies. There was never a moment where it was awkward or uncomfortable, never a lapse in the conversation, and it was everything that Steve had ever wanted his whole young life. Arthur was quick and witty, he was outgoing and brave, and his eyes were so dark and his smile was crooked, and he had freckles all across the bridge of his nose. He was perfect, and Steve thought, too, that it was the best day of his whole life.
As the day got later, and the growls made by their stomachs became more insistent, they made their way back to the secret clearing, flopping down side by side amongst the wildflowers, as they hungrily ate their sandwiches and stared up at the blue, blue sky.
“Arthur,” Steve asked hesitantly, afraid to look at the other boy. “Do—do you want to be my best friend?” He knew it was stupid, knew he was grown, 10 years old, he should be beyond all that, and yet…
“Hell yes, Peter!” Arthur whooped, sitting up and grinning widely back at him. “Should we do a blood oath to swear it? Best friends forever?”
Steve sucked in a breath, felt dizzy, so happy and a little afraid. “What is that?” he asked breathlessly, felt dumb, but Arthur took his hand, never made him feel less than.
“We take a knife and both of us make a small cut on our palms. Then we press them together so our blood is joined, and we’ll be bonded forever.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Steve rummaged through his backpack and produced a small pocket knife that he had for emergencies. He was afraid of sharp things, afraid of knives, but had it all the same, knew that proper boys were always prepared for anything. Arthur took it from his hand and opened the blade, seemed just as nervous as Steve was.
“What if,” he hedged, hoping his voice didn’t shake. “What if we wait, do it on the last day of summer, so it’ll be special?”
Arthur nodded thoughtfully at him. “Good idea, Peter. It’s a big deal, a blood oath. That way we’ll both know we’re ready.”
“Deal,” Steve said, closing the knife and stowing it away, feeling lighter than air.
“Deal, best friend,” Arthur said back, grinning. They laid back down and whispered to each other all the shapes in the clouds.
Their days stretched on and on that summer, bright as the scorching sun. Each one was better than the last, or at least Steve thought so. The thing was, he was pretty sure that Arthur thought so, too, because every day his smile appeared impossibly a little wider, his eyes sparkled so bright, and it was all for Steve. Never mind that Arthur still called him Peter, never mind that he was too scared to confess that he had lied about his name, none of that was important. He had a best friend now, someone that was just for him, what did it matter if that person called him Steve or Peter or Scooby-Doo? All that mattered was how Arthur looked at him sometimes, in that secret way of his that sent Steve’s heart reeling.
Besides, in his own mind, Steve didn’t call Arthur by his name, either. In his mind, it was more like Honey. Darling. Love.
They spent every day of that perfect summer together, exploring the forest, discovering new places, naming them. Arthur decided the woods were called Mirkwood. They found a large rock formation together, which Steve deemed Skull Rock. They knew every inch of that place backwards and forwards, had learned all her secrets, and every day they returned to their clearing, laying side by side next to their blood red roses, looking up to the sky as their hearts beat in sync. Steve had never been so happy.
Neither of them mentioned the all-too-fast passage of time. They didn’t talk about the inevitable end of their endless summer; how the stores were beginning to fill with school supplies, and parents were starting to keep a tighter leash on their kids. Steve’s own parents had returned, bringing with them a familiar sort of tension in the household, the nanny gone without a goodbye, another in a long line of forgotten faces who had cared for him once, fleetingly. But he was still able to slip out each day, still able to see Arthur, and that was all that mattered.
Until one day, Steve was left waiting for his best friend to show up much longer than normal, well into the afternoon as he sat frozen in place in the clearing, watching his shadow move and change as the sun slid across the sky. Finally, finally, Arthur crashed through the trees, his footsteps hurried and uncareful, and Steve’s relief immediately gave way to fear, because the boy that crumpled down before him was unrecognizable, scared and tear-streaked, his lovely, wild dark hair — gone.
“They took me away,” Arthur cried — was crying — as he collapsed at Steve’s feet, trembling all over.
“Arthur, what happened?” Steve gasped, dropping down onto his knees, hands hovering anxiously over his friend’s shaking form, unsure where to touch, so unused to comfort.
“The county, they came and took me away,” Arthur sniffled, looking up at Steve with wide, wet eyes, his face so pale it was almost translucent; Steve could see the blood thrumming in his veins, blue beneath his skin. “They said my parents weren’t coming back, said they were going to put me into some kind of group home. Uncle Wayne left work, came as soon as he heard to get me out of there, said he would figure it out, but Peter—”
Steve wrapped his arms around his best friend, pulling him in tight, hand at the back of his head feeling all that close-cropped stubble as he directed Arthur to rest his cheek on his shoulder. He did, face pressing wetly into Steve’s neck, so close that he could feel every tear that fell from his eyes. “Shh, it’s ok, Arthur, it’s gonna be ok. They let you go, your uncle will figure it out. And if you have to stay here in Hawkins for a while, at least you can be with me.” They hadn’t talked about what would happen when Arthur had to go home, but now, maybe… Steve felt wrong for hoping, but still, he hoped.
“I’m scared,” Arthur cried, deep, racking sobs making the words almost unintelligible, but Steve understood. Arthur was never scared, but Steve could be brave for him, just this once.
“I’ve got you, love,” he whispered soothingly, rocking them both as Arthur wept uncontrollably. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Peter,” Arthur said once the worst of the sobs had subsided, voice tremulous and rough. “Peter, they cut my hair.”
There was a long pause before Steve couldn’t help it anymore, he started to giggle, just a little. Then Peter joined him, the laughter infectious. “Your hair,” he whispered through a rough, tear-soaked chuckle, because of all the things to worry about now, Arthur’s long, untamable, lovely hair.
The laughter died, leaving them staring at each other, shaking and shaken, emotions written so plainly across Arthur’s devastated face. Steve felt panic rising inside, building, growing, an overwhelming need to fix it, somehow, to bring his smiling, sunshine-happy Arthur back to him and make everything right again.
Sucking in a breath, Steve reached for his bag, trembling fingers digging blindly through the contents until he found what he was looking for. Steve flicked open the pocket knife, and before he could think it through, before he could dread the pain, sliced a shallow gash across his palm. Arthur gasped, eyes so wide, tear tracks drying in concentrated lines of despair on his cheeks. With a trembling hand, he took the knife from Steve, opened his left hand and made his own jagged cut.
Steve took Arthur’s palm in his, cupped his free hand over both of them to press them close, skin to skin, blood to blood, binding them together for eternity, just like Arthur had said.
When it was done, he took his uncut hand and dragged it gently over the rough-shorn hair, cupping Arthur’s head to make him look up from where his gaze was still focused on their hands clasped together between them. His dark, startled eyes met Steve’s own, and Steve felt brave, whispered words he had longed to say every day since their first, there by the roses. “You’re still beautiful to me.”
Arthur let out a soft puff of breath, warm air tickling across the planes of Steve’s face. A flash of panic showed in his eyes, then determination and fear and something softer, all in quick succession as Steve tried to track what it was that Arthur was feeling, if he was mad, if he was disgusted, what he might say. But then, at the end of all of it, he said nothing, simply closed his eyes and kissed Steve.
It was tentative and chaste, fumbling and unsure, neither of them quite knowing how to kiss, but it was soft and it was warm. A gentle press of lips before Arthur pulled back with a gasp, eyes open again, shocked wide. “Peter,” he whispered urgently, afraid, but Steve didn’t want words — what could they even say now that they had this? He drew Arthur back in and kissed him again, pressing their mouths together with more intent, more feeling, pouring into it everything that he didn’t yet have the words to convey.
The kiss broke, and Arthur made a low sound like a choked-off sob, wrapping his arms fiercely around Steve, drawing him into a tight hug. They stood there in the clearing, the air filled with the warm, sun-kissed scent of their roses, and they held each other until the sun dipped down below the trees, until it was dark and well beyond the time they needed to get home, and still they clung to each other, unable to let the other go. Steve could feel Arthur in his veins, flowing all through him, making a home there in his heart, and Steve knew, without a doubt, that this was what love was, that this was the thing he had been hungry for his whole life.
When they could no longer deny that it was well past any reasonable semblance of time to go, the embrace finally broke, the two boys looking back at each other with wide eyes and shy, tremulous smiles.
“My uncle will be worried,” Arthur began hesitantly, gesturing towards the familiar path home with his chin.
“I doubt my parents have noticed I’m missing, but I should probably head back, too,” Steve hazarded, biting his lip. He wasn’t ready to let Arthur go yet, was the thing. How could he let him go now, his best friend, his everything. “But maybe… maybe we could walk together? Just to the road?”
The smile he got in return was worth the risk of asking, and Steve’s heart did something complicated in his chest as Arthur reached for his hand without question, holding it tight as they walked together through the trees back towards civilization. They drew it out, making it last as long as they could, and all the while Steve thought about the kiss. About how soft it felt, how good; about doing it again. He wondered if Arthur was thinking about it, too, walking silently next to him, secret smile on his lips. Steve wondered if Arthur would lay awake that night reliving it, thought that tomorrow he would like to see those dark eyes open up real wide the first moment that he saw Steve again, nervous and shy, wondering if they should hug or high-five or... Steve wanted all of it, more kisses, better kisses, forever kisses, he hungered for it.
Lost in those hazy, dreamy thoughts, Steve hadn’t noticed as the foliage began to thin and the black slash of asphalt that made up the road became an undeniable presence through all the green. As they broke through the treeline, a passing car stopped suddenly on the opposite side of the road, before turning to make a sharp u-turn, pulling up alongside them and coming to rest in an abrupt stop; in its overbright headlights, their hands were illuminated against the evening dark, still clasped tightly between them, exposed.
An uncomfortable prickling crawled up the back of Steve’s neck, as all the hairs at the nape stood up in anticipation of what was to come. He recognized the car, a brand new BMW, sleek and gleaming even in the low light. He dropped Arthur’s hand hastily, guiltily wiping the sweat from his palm onto his shorts.
“I, um,” Steve stammered, so afraid of them having any part of the happiness he had found. “I have to go.”
“See you tomorrow,” Arthur chirped brightly; he hadn’t noticed the shift in the air, the way it had gone cold with dread. He leaned forward quickly and kissed Steve on the cheek, and in the near distance, all he heard was the sharp, displeased sound of a throat being cleared; Dad. This was going to be worse than he thought. Steve waved helplessly goodbye to Arthur and walked straight for the car, head down.
The ride back home went pretty much exactly as he had expected; his father yelled, loud and angry. His mother tried to temper her husband’s outbursts with a quieter, colder onslaught of disappointment and disapproval, and a near-constant stream of hideous, gossipy judgement.
Can you imagine what would have happened if someone had seen you with that boy? What would they say about us? Everyone knows about that family, the father carted off to jail, the mother probably dead from an overdose, the uncle no better; he works in some factory and lives in a trailer, for decency’s sake, propped up on cinder blocks, can you imagine? Is that what you want, Steven? We give you everything, and instead you want to play with trash? And on and on and on.
The things his father had to say to him once they were deep within the safety of their home, after his mother had left the room, were worse. Words like disgusting, unnatural, shameful and queer. Those cut deepest, worse than the gash across his palm that had already begun to scab over, holding Arthur inside, safe where his father couldn’t get to him. Steve endured it; he would be good, he would be quiet, and tomorrow he would remember to be more careful.
But tomorrow never came. Steve was woken up early by his mother, smiling over him with a new outfit in hand. Suddenly, she had the time to take him to an appropriate play date, it seemed, to the birthday party of one of the partner’s sons from Richard Harrington’s firm. He reeled, panicked inside, couldn’t show it. How would he get to Arthur? He’d promised to be there — there was so much that Steve still needed to tell him.
And yet… his mother was smiling at him, had made him breakfast. That had never happened before, not in as long as he could remember. She helped him dress, helped him button his nice shirt, straightened his tie. They drove together to the party, and she sang along with the radio in a lovely, soft alto. He’d never heard her sing before, hadn’t known she could. And when they got to the big house, so like their own, she stayed, chatting pleasantly with the other mothers exactly like he had seen happen in the movies and on TV. Steve and his “new friend” Tommy, along with a few other socially acceptable kids roughly their same age, played out back in the perfectly manicured yard, waited on hand and foot by their doting mothers, all commenting on just how well their boys were all getting along. No one seemed to notice that Tommy played rougher than all of the other kids, was meaner than the rest, and Steve didn’t say anything. All he could think about was getting back to Arthur, who was never rough. Arthur, who liked soft things, too. Arthur, his real friend.
They drove back home to Loch Nora as the sun was going down, after the cake and the presents and Tommy saying ominously see you in class, Harrington even though Tommy went to the private, religious school outside of town. Steve’s mother cheerfully told him that dinner would be in an hour, and that he should go wash up until then. Obediently, he went, listened at the door until he heard the sounds of cooking happening in the kitchen — mother, cooking! — and he slipped out his window, balancing carefully along the roof until he was able to shimmy down the drain pipe and ran as fast as he could straight into the woods.
It was almost dark, but Steve knew the way, didn’t stop running until he burst through the treeline into their little clearing. Every pounding heartbeat called Arthur’s name, begging him to still be there, begging him to wait, please wait for him, but once Steve was able to stop and catch his breath, staring all around the open space, he saw with terrible understanding that Arthur was not there.
Steve walked all along the treeline, wasting precious minutes that he could not spare, desperate for any sign of his friend. And there, from the far end of the clearing, he saw something — just a tiny scrap of white laying at the base of the rose bush, where they had so carefully knelt together that first day, watering their roses. Steve scrambled to it, heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought it might break through his ribs and fly away, home to Arthur where it belonged. Held in place with a small rock was a single scrap of torn notebook paper with a phone number on it.
Arthur had been there, had waited, hadn’t forgotten him. Steve brought the paper to his lips, held it there for a moment, before shoving it safely into his pocket and raced home again; if he was careful, he could slip in through the front door and sneak back upstairs into the bathroom to wash up, and no one would be the wiser.
His mother didn’t notice that he came down in his same clothes from the party, he’d only had time to remove the little jacket and wash his face, straighten his hair; she smiled at him brightly when he appeared, unfazed. She was more cheerful than he had ever seen her, was drinking wine, passing the bread and the potatoes around the table. Father was there, too, seated with them, a family dinner. Steve couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had eaten together like that. They talked and ate, mother recounting their day at the Hagans’ in great detail, saying again and again how well Steve and Tommy had gotten along and how nice it must be for him to finally have a friend his own age to play with. Steve said nothing, watching with wide eyes as his parents talked and smiled at each other like it was any ordinary day. After dinner, after dessert — dessert! — as she was tucking him into bed, father standing in the doorway watching approvingly, mother kissed him on the forehead and told him she loved him. Then, before the two turned to leave him to his slumbers, his father said, “I’m proud of you, Steven.”
Once their footsteps had faded down the hallway and their voices turned to a low murmur, Steve slipped from his bed to pull the phone number out from where it was still folded carefully away in his pocket. He stared at it, shaking all over, heart tearing in two. He thought of his mother singing in the car, making dinner, laughing at the table — happy, for once. He thought about his father saying he was proud of him. Proud of him. He thought about everything he had ever wanted and how it had all stemmed from the loss of them, but they were back. He had never been good enough, never managed to get it right before, but now maybe he had and finally they could… love him?
Hardening his heart to everything that raged inside, the shared blood in his veins rioting against what he knew he must do, Steve crumpled the piece of paper and threw it into the trash. He climbed back into bed and didn’t sleep, but he wouldn’t look back, determined to put Arthur from his mind and forget that one perfect summer they had shared. He could be good, he could look nice, keep strong and stay quiet. He could be everything they wanted. He was a Harrington, after all.
The very next day, his mother enrolled him into St. Mary’s Preparatory School, and by the time he returned to Hawkins Public years later, the Steve Harrington of that one soft summer was long gone.