Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Sixty. Four Words

     One knee is pressed to his chest. The pads of his fingertips are pushing through his brunette-hair, and there is a lingering taste of stomach-bile on his tongue. And, suddenly, he's aware of the way his face feels. First, a dull ache, turned to agonizing, burning pain. His lips are on fire, and his cheekbone is throbbing, and he's afraid his eyeballs are going to pop out of his head. With a huff, and a muttered, "Jesus Christ," Steve backs-up against the stall, "I think we did."

      She looks down at herself— the burgundy colored tank-top, tight-fit on her chest, and previously unwrinkled . . . most importantly, it's not covered in vomit. At this, she sighs in relief, swallows hard enough to make a gulp noise. The next sentence is a mere whisper, "my face hurts," she says, fingerprints dancing over her hot and swollen cheekbone. "My face really hurts."

It's not silent, but it's quiet. A faucet drips, the AC starts up, and she can hear Steve breathing. The sound of her soft, and slightly-sweaty fingertips dragging over the skin on her face is loud in her ears. She wriggles her toes inside her too-tight, bright-red Converse, and she adjusts the necklace that hangs below her collarbones . . . she's alive. Suddenly, it's not quiet, but it's silent, "are you alive, Harrington?"

      There's no verbal response from Steve. Instead, a shuffling, and a flash of blue Adidas superstars stuffing themselves between the crack of her stall. He's sliding against the tile-floor, his Scoops Ahoy uniform collecting more grime and germs than ever, if even possible. The ghost of a smile dances across her chapped-lips, and her shoulders slouch, upon instinct. Instinct, but not because she's disappointed to see his battered and bruised face, for the first time since they were high-off-their-asses. Instinct, because, he's a force of comfort. Her body isn't stiff any longer.

      He's sitting there. His knees are bent at a ninety-degree angle, and his eyebrows are furrowed in a gut-achingly soft manner. She mirrors him, without realizing, and she's looking at him like a god-damn puppy-dog.

      "Hi," she whispers, and her voice is raspy. It's not forced from her chest, but it's pulled from her sore-throat. It comes out airily, and naturally, and with a gentleness he's come to realize only she can produce.

      His throat-bobs with a dry swallow. "Hi," he repeats, but with the memory of a chuckle behind it. Steve's gaze softens even further, if possible, when he sees her face scrunch in displeasure, "hey . . . you okay?"

Her chest bounces with a scoff, "am I okay," she restates his question, fingertips moved to tracing the patterns of the dirty tile-floor. There's a pause, a hesitance on the tip of her tongue that's begging to be released from the cage of her pink-lips. She doesn't look at him— her greenish-eyes are practically burning a hole into the red-colored stall-door. "Do you remember, Steve, when I had strep in May . . . I couldn't talk, so you just spoke without a response for a week straight."

Steve blinks, "how many times do I have to say it, Hop," he shakes his head, "I remember everything."

She still isn't looking at him, when she says it, "can you tell me something?" Lucy mutters, chipped-polish nails fumbling with a loose-string on her jean-shorts. "Something . . . something that'll confirm I'm sober."

"Okay," he says, and it's just as quiet and gentle as the first "hi," she had spoken after he slid to her from underneath the stall. Steve thinks, for a quarter-of-a-second, and his chocolate-brown eyes are flashing back to her freckled-but-exhausted face before she realizes he's looked away, "there's a girl I met."