House, Not home | Harringrove

Keep it together, Steve

He stops the car beside the playground where he'd been with Bill earlier and gets out of his car. It seems silly. He'll be 18 soon enough, yet here he is crawling into a tube slide and hugging his knees to his chest.  What's wrong with him? He should be able to, at least, handle himself. Why can't he calm down when nothing's even happened? 

Even the kids don't seem to struggle like this. The kids. The goddamned 13-year-olds. Nancy has her moments, his heartbreak being the collateral from one of them, but even she seems to do all right. Will's a bit different, he supposes, but he and the others are younger Steve's practically an adult. 

He sits in the slide for a while, staring at the yellow plastic and reading the (mostly) inappropriate things written on the play structure. Eventually, he decides he should go back and slides out feeling rather embarrassed (but, admittedly, better).

Steve drives home, unloads the groceries for his mother after delivering a lame excuse for what took him so long, and heads upstairs to get ready. He puts on his nice sweater, a green one, and his slacks. He tidies his hair and returns to the kitchen area. Mrs. Harrington tells him he looks handsome, that's my boy, she adds, and she waves him off to set the table.

Steve takes a deep breath, padding back into the kitchen, where he finds his father has joined them. The three of them sit for their meal. Mrs. Harrington gets up suddenly and hurries back to the kitchen to bring out the salad. "Isn't this lovely?" She coos, once seated, making up a plate for Steve.

 Mr. Harrington clears his throat. "Mm," he replies with a hum. "How've things been here in Hawkins, Steve?"

"Uh, they've been good, Sir. We had snow on Christmas which was nice. The break went by pretty quickly, and we've been back at school for two weeks or so now," Steve kind of nods as he says it. He pushes his food around on his plate with his fork. 

"Basketball going well?" 

"Yeah, it's going fine. Some of the juniors are looking really good, but I don't know if this is really our winning year," Steve musters, knowing the team is sort of shit. "The last game was pretty good though, I got some good play in and we managed to win." Mr. Harrington nods silently, and the room is filled with the sound of cutlery on plates and the fan going in the kitchen. 

As they finish their food, the uncomfortable questions (despite the questions already being sort of uncomfortable) begin. "You get your grades up, Steve?" Mr. Harrington asks. Steve hesitates a bit, his grades have gone up, and they're not totally bad, it's just that he has no idea what he plans on doing with himself. "Yes, uh, Yes, Sir, I have," He answers. 

"Good, good. If you can keep them reasonable, along with recommendation letters from a few friends of mine and a good teacher, you could still go to Notre Dame. Make sure you're tracking your service hours and performing well in Basketball. We need to make sure you're well-rounded enough to make up for... your flaws. Oh and don't forget your SAT, the last score wasn't satisfactory and so you'll need to retake it as soon as possible. And for chrissakes just get your applications in." Steve almost chokes on his food. His father had been set on Notre Dame since Steve was a child but it'd been clear since Steve's freshman year he probably wouldn't be getting in. 

"I'll work on it," Steve pauses. "Well, father— Sir. I don't know if Notre Dame is the, uh, right fit for me," he begins, afraid to continue with his father's burning stare on him. "Not the right fit?" His father repeats, stare unwavering. Steve feels himself choking, his palms sweating, and he isn't sure if he can continue. 

"Yeah, it's just not really my style?" He wishes he could take back the phrasing immediately. "I just... I want to be— sure— about my choice. I guess." Come on, Steve. "I think a gap year, uh, could be good... for me," he finishes. 

Mr. Harrington nods slowly. "You want to take a gap year?" He asks rhetorically. "Doing what? Traveling? Spending my money? Are you going to go to the- the West Coast, live like some hippie, and smoke pot?" He ridicules the idea, his tone quickly becoming harsher.

"Well, no, Sir-" Steve attempts.

"You can't just run away from your future, Steve. Universities and employers don't want some idiot who fucked off for a year to do nothing because I know I'm not paying for some overseas excursion. With you, Steve, one year will become two, and two will become three, and you'll come begging to work for me, to take over, after earning none of it," Mr. Harrington accuses. 

Steve sits silently as his father continues, declaring that Steve has got to start getting serious, stop partying, and settle down— he won't let Steve cater to whores in this house. He asks how Steve screwed things up with Nancy. She was a good girl: smart, nice, and clean-cut.

You've got to be more like me Steve.

Things cool off after that. Once Steve's cleared the table, his father excuses him. He trudges up the stairs and into his room. He takes off his slacks and his nice sweater. He looks at his reflection, and he feels himself choking up. His face warms, and his eyes sting. He melts down to the floor, burying his head between his knees and hugging the back of his neck as though trying to squish himself inward. 

He hates his father. He hates his parents. He hates his mother's silence. He hates that he wishes she'd stick with him, stay home with him instead of going away, and ruffle his hair and tell him it's okay when he doesn't quite measure up. 

He hates himself. He hates that he can't fight back and that when he tries, he fails. He hates that he's weak. He hates his body. He hates his brain. He hates that he can't fix himself. He hates that he can't be happy. He hates that he's gay, and he hates himself even more for thinking that.

Steve huffs quietly, crawling over to his nightstand and grabbing a tissue to wipe away his snot. He's always found himself to be a rather ugly crier. He lets out a shaky sigh and peels himself up off the ground. 

The now-standing Steve rinses his face and brushes his teeth, refraining from looking at himself in the bathroom mirror as he does. He walks to his bed, pulls himself along, and slides under the sheets. Steve flicks off his lamp, the dark swallowing him and leaving him feeling more scared and alone than he had in a while. He'd prefer panic in this darkness than have his father chew him out for wanting a nightlight.

Steve feels his eyes water again, and he hugs his pillow, shaking as he cries silently. The reality that he has no real friends— nobody to talk to— sinks in. He can't speak to Nancy, they're not the same anymore, and he hasn't become accustomed to them having a friendship. As much as he loves Dustin, the kid isn't even in high school yet.

He could call Billy, he supposes, but he won't. He and Billy are still so new and so uncertain. He can't expect Billy to want to be with him or there for him all the time. Steve won't be clingy. Clingy like he always seems to be in relationships. He wants to call Billy, wants to talk to him, or just hear his voice, but he doesn't.

Eventually, Steve falls asleep hoping his parents are gone when he wakes up— just as he predicted.