in what way are you free?

Steve would never forget the look on Dustin's face when he found him. Any high that he might've felt from the "victory" against Vecna was snuffed out when he heard those wretched sobs coming a few yards away from the trailer, a ring of dead bats wrapped around the two boys like a cruel halo. The rules had been simple: no deviating from the plan and no being a hero. One would think that listening in a situation that was quite literally life or death seemed like common sense, and yet here they were, standing above Eddie "The Freak" Munson and watching the blood seep from his body all because he didn't want to be remembered as a coward. Now Steve had seen his fair share of fucked up, but the scene in front of him was enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. It was obvious that Eddie had been long gone for a while before they showed up: the blue wash of the sky made his skin look a sickly grey, flashes of red highlighting the harshness of the crimson splattered across his face and still dribbling in rivulets from the corner of his mouth. Upon further examination Steve would notice the same bite marks mirrored on his body amidst the chewed up skin of Eddie's abdomen, and the markings that almost mimicked rope burn around wrists and ankles from the scaly tails of those nasty bats. The worst part of it all? Eddie's eyes. His body was mangled enough to the point that there was no denying he was dead -anyone would've succumbed to those wounds- but those gorgeous doe eyes that had once been burning fervently with humor and determination were dull. They stared off into the distance without seeing, a glassy sheen letting the lightning in the sky reflect back in almost a taunt. "Dustin..." Steve's voice sounded far away in his own head. He needed to look away. The corner of Eddie's mouth was still slightly upturned; the ghost of his last smile. Why couldn't he stop staring? A soft voice, so choked up and filled with anguish that Steve nearly did get sick. "He didn't run." Your friends have lost.

Steve Harrington would never fall in love.  He’d made that promise to himself when he was ten years old, when he came home from a neighborhood basketball game high on his win and walked in on his father in bed with a woman that was not his mother. This promise was reiterated for the second time when he was twelve years old and sitting in his bedroom, blasting the first cassette he could get his hands on through a way-too expensive stereo to drown out the sounds of his parents screaming at each other downstairs. Their yells were loud, but the silence after the fight was always much louder. That was when Steve knew he’d wake up to see a new bruise on his mother’s face the next morning, horrible hues of purple that peeked through caked makeup and stunted his appetite right before he had to go to school and pretend that everything was okay. Every time Steve saw malice between his parents he added a mental tally to the “No Love Allowed” chart. Dad came home from a business trip with hickeys littering his neck? Tally. Mom flinched when dad spoke a little louder than normal? Tally. His parents now having to go on work trips together because that trust they’d declared in their vows wasn’t present, and hadn’t been since he was ten years old? Tally, tally, tally.  The easiest solution to keeping his promise? Be an asshole. In high school he could get away with it because he was good-looking, and thanks to that good ol’ cocky attitude and killer hairstyle he had ladies swarming towards him like moths to a lamp. He’d latch onto his prey -some busty blonde or slutty brunette- and whisk them away for a night, but nobody ever stayed. They’d come over for an hour, two at most, and then leave with panties on backwards and bra dangling shamelessly off one shoulder, the telltale quiver of their legs announcing to the entire world that Womanizer Steve Harrington had struck again.  That was okay, though! Tommy H. would tease him and say he could never keep a girl, but that wasn’t true. Steve just didn’t want to let himself get attached, so the easy ones were his perfect solution. Everybody ended up happy in the end.  Then Steve met Nancy Wheeler. It was funny because he’d spoken to her maybe once or twice in middle school, but since she was a year younger he never really gave her a second thought. Not until the very beginning of his junior year when he and some girl had been flirting it up in the biography section of the library, and Nancy had told him to “Move, some people actually want to get things done in here.”  Yeah, that was the moment Steve knew he was in trouble.  Not long after that was when Nancy bit the hook and caved in to those gorgeous puppy eyes all the ladies seemed to love so much, and thus something beautiful was born. She’d lie about going to Barb’s and come over, they’d make out on his couch while something cheesy like Flashdance played in the background until it was Nancy’s curfew, and then Steve would rush her home with kiss-swollen lips and his mind clouded in a giddy haze.  There wasn’t anything particularly special about Nancy Wheeler, but Steve couldn’t get her off his mind. During class he’d dream about the way her hands felt gripping his hair while his lips trailed down the slope of her jaw, how he could feel every heavy breath she took in between kisses because they were just that close, how breathy his name sounded coming from her lips.  It was only a matter of time before his mind wasn’t only focused on the sexual aspects. He’d been chided during practice because he’d been thinking of the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed instead of focusing on the scrimmage, and another time because he missed a basket completely when he thought about the way Nancy hid her face in his neck when they were watching Cujo not because she wanted to start anything, but because she was scared and he could protect her from the totally real rabid dog on the screen.  The final nail in the coffin, though, was whenever he heard Africa by Toto and he could taste her. Not hot and heavy like he was used to, but something light and refreshing, like the color pink and a stupid Tom Cruise poster hanging above a nightstand with a phone cord worn from twirling around the finger.  Maybe love wouldn’t be so bad after all. Surely it wouldn’t come back to bite him.