Steve Harrington using exercise as a form of self-harm.
He's athletic. He's been working out one way or another for every sport he's ever played. And, thanks to his dad's high expectations of him, that's a lot of sports.
Post-S2 concussion his coaches drop him one by one, calling him a liability at best or a glorified bench warmer at worst.
Sports were his stress relief. Basketball, swimming, baseball-- he needs the release. Can't function without it.
He runs until he's sick, light-headed, and barely able to stand. He runs from the monsters and the doctors and his parents and everything he can't shake off. Runs until he's shaking, tripping over himself on the pavement. He doesn't care about anything except for the burn in his lungs and the pain in his legs.
Doctors warned him to take it easy. Nancy tells him to stop. His parents call him lazy. The kids think he's just a jock, even though Dustin and Max have both walked in on him heaving into the kitchen sink.
The migraines get worse. He probably needs glasses, maybe hearing aids-- but he stopped going to his follow-up appointments when his parents started asking too many questions.
It all comes to a head when he goes for a run on a hot summer day, the sun baking him alive before he even gets started.
One foot in front of the other. There's black spots in his vision. He can keep going. His stomach cramps. Keep going. Just one more step. Push harder.
He wakes up in the back of an unfamiliar van.
He'd worry the G-men finally came for him, but there's matted shag carpeting scraping his neck. The smell of stale weed makes him sick all over again and thank God there's a plastic bag shoved under him so it doesn't get everywhere. He just wishes this dude would stop yelling, he's louder than Dustin.
"Fucking Christ, Harrington, thank god you're alive. If you'd died in the back of my van they would've burned me at the stake."
"Yeah Golden Boy, it's me. Although," Munson pauses, assessing Steve with the same clinical eye he gets from Nancy, "you're not looking so golden right now. Almost as pale as me."
And that's it. After a few protests, Munson drops him at home. Steve keeps running himself into the ground.
Almost nothing changes. He gets a job at the mall. There's some torture and another monster. He meets Robin. Billy dies.
And he runs. And runs. And runs.
Except maybe Steve starts running past the trailer park. He knows Max is going to move in soon, and it's his job to scope it out. One time he nods when he sees Munson on the porch. The guy's decent enough to wave back.
Steve's not sure if it's coincidence or not, but eventually Munson starts handing Steve a water on his way by. Then a Gatorade. Then calling out to him to say hi, inviting him to sit and offering a granola bar.
Max starts turning up at about the same time. She starts running with him. She's not as fast, she can't go as far or as long as Steve can.
He slows down. He makes sure she doesn't overwork herself and shortens their routes. They always somehow end up at Munson's porch even though Max's trailer is right there.
The burn in his lungs has cooled down, the shooting pains in his legs become a warm ache instead. Stretching feels practically euphoric.
Munson sits down next him, handing him another glass of water. Their sides are brushing. Steve's insides flutter with nerves, the sensation so similar to how running used to make him feel, all the way back before his concussion. He realizes suddenly that it's been a while since running made him sick.
The tip of Eddie's pinky brushes his own. Max smiles to herself as she pretends not to notice. It's better than any runner's high Steve could ever chase down.
"How're you feeling, Stevie?"
Honestly... "Pretty great, actually."
"Yeah," Eddie smiles, "you're looking more golden every day."
stormborns
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
2087
pixelskylines
kianamaiart
