a hero's death.
it's a hard one, the choice steve has made, but it's been so long since he's had any control over his life, because between helping a bunch of children safe the world and dealing with his own world crumbling, he hasn't been able to choose much of what he does.
he's looking at himself in the mirror of in that motel room in the south of michigan, just barely leaving indiana. he's sweaty, so sweaty. he can't properly think, it's too hot. august hit real hard, starting off with a heatwave and he regrets just a little bit being where he is.
his reflection stares back at him, glassy eyes and flat, greasy hair making him feel ugly, painfully ugly. when had he lost himself like that? he looks horrid, disgusting. he felt like a filthy sack of mud, a gross amalgamation of skin and plasma put together to make him whole.
he's abhorrent, that's what he is. he is a selfish man that should be loathed, because instead of celebrating the kid's graduation he has decided to seclude himself in a shitty motel in michigan, where there's no ac and his skin feels way too sticky.
he wishes he could be like everyone else, he really does. everyone's moving away from what's happened. hell, robin probably has put past herself the whole russian bunker shit, why can't he stop revisiting it? why can't he sleep without fear of seeing those faces?
he looks at himself again and sees the tears he so desperately has been trying to contain for the past couple weeks. he can't stand to look at himself anymore, all he sees is his weakness, and the horrible way his contorts and makes him look like his father.
he strips down, the hear is too much. he looks down at himself; his boxers are grey and checkered, and a little too tight, hugging his thighs in a way that's not supposed to be hugging them. the colour doesn't really suit him much, he's always been more of a colourful guy.
his body looks... well, repulsive. scars, ugly and stupid looking marks that are everywhere on his body, going from his feet to his neck. he's especially aware fo the ones on his sides and his back, reminiscing of when he got dragged on the upside down floor.
he nearly died that time, it was one of many. now he wishes he had died on that first night, actually, when he turned back to help nancy and jonathan, out of love, and out of conscience. he wishes that demogorgon got to him and chewed him up like a dog with a slipper.
if he died then he wouldn't have to have gone through any of that stupid shit; he wouldn't have had to see nancy leave him for jonathan, he wouldn't have known henderson, he wouldn't have been tortured by russians, or to go to an empty house, he wouldn't have known henderson...
if he had never known henderson he wouldn't have been forced to actually get to know eddie. the mere thought of him made steve go dizzy almost immediately. his crooked smile, his messy hair, the way he reeked of cigarettes and cheap beer, all lost to the upside down.
steve forces himself out of the bathroom as if that will do anything to get his mind out of eddie. he's mostly upset at the potential he had. he could've been so much, they could've been so much. maybe eddie would've been his friend too.
the thought lingers as he lays on the bed. instead of dying a hero's death eddie would've been alive, small and collected like the rest of them, just another survivor of vecna's curse. but he didn't survive, he died like the selfish cunt he was, and steve hates him for that.
he scratches his neck nervously. he deserved that fucking death. when bob newby the group remembered him lovingly as a kindhearted man. when billy hargrove died everyone remembered his sacrifice. and when eddie munson died, everyone remembered him as a self sacrificial hero.
meanwhile he's here, cleaning up the mess left and dealing with the mourning. he wants to be mourned too. he wants to be six feet underground while everyone else cries their hearts out because he has been a hero that died protecting them like he's been doing always.
the heat is becoming unbearable. he looks around, desperate. on the night stand there's a boombox. he knoes what's inside it; the mixtape the kids made for him a couple months back. he walks towards it and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at it.
'twist and shout' starts playing when he clicks the start button. he just stares for the longest time, doing nothing. he's sweating, a lot. is there no ac in this damn room? he lifts up his pillow. a beretta 92FS stares back at him. he looks at her, eye twitching a little.
his hand trembles as he holds the gun. “a hero's death”, he repeats on his mind. a mysterious death that no one will know about, because there's no one who's going to claim his body. no one will know where steve has gone, all they'll ever know is that he's dead, from the letter.
he holds it, and just as he's about to stand up 'bohemian rhapsody' starts playing. the song about a man finally breaking free from societal expectations, how delightfully ironic. he smiles to himself, and for the first time in years he feels content. just him and a gun.
he finally gets up, and as his body moves around to the rhythm of the music, he thinks of all those who are dead, and who didn't have the privilege to decide like him. would've barbara holland chosen to die another death given the opportunity? what about benny, or chrissy?
he thinks about his mother as freddy screams for his. a woman who's never kissed his wounds, or seen his drawings. he thinks of his father, who's never attended one of his games before even if he insists on him doing so many sports. he'll never get to tell them goodbye.
“i don't wanna die, i sometimes wish i'd never been born at all.” steve sings the lyrics, salty tears falling down his cheeks, warming them up a little. he's glad he's going to die, though. it's gratifying, rewarding even. he feels pleased, in a way.
he is so lucky he gets to make his own call. he's finally free. brian may's guitar solo is vanishing , and the piano notes are coming in. steve paces around the room, a newly born excitement pooling in his chest. freedom, finally. finally!
he jumps around euphoric as the englishmen sing something about beelzebub. the guitar solo that comes afterwards just boosts this feeling, and as new lyrics come by, the gun is lifted up high, next to his head. he looks at himself in the mirror next to the exit.
“so you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?” freedy sings, and steve mimics, jonathan comes to mind. “so you think you can love me and leave me to die?” nancy's face, all over his brain. “oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby.” robin, all smiley and gorgeous, as always.
“just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here.” that's what eddie wanted, and he got it. so steve deservs to be next, its only fair. he cold metal of the gun makes contact with his temple. he freezes, and looks at his wild appearance, just as a final goodbye. he smiles.
bang! bang! bang!
three quick gunshots, muffled by the sound of the guitar. steve falls down to the floor in a clean, dry sound. the music goes on as he drifts away. 'nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters, nothing really matters to me.' that's the last thing he hears.
that's death he wanted, and now he's bleeding out over a moldy carpeted floor in a cheap hotel in michigan, not to be found until the next couple of days when his stay is supposedly over and his smell is unbearable. a hero's death. he'll be missed, rest in peace harrington.
