Chapter Text
i. Nancy
Steve had barely fallen asleep again after another nightmare before he was wrenched out of his bed. He scrambles backward, yelling and kicking out at the figure in front of him. The figure’s hand shoots out, grabbing onto his shirt tightly. And before Steve can process what’s happening, the figure yanks him into the air before slamming him into the hardwood of his bedroom floor, knocking the breath out of Steve’s lungs. Steve gasps, blinking back tears as the pain radiates up his spine. With every fiber of his being, he tries to fight against the person holding him. He pushes at the hand holding him to the floor, squirming to try and disrupt the weight distribution. He’s so distracted by his efforts that he fails to notice the other hand rise. He doesn’t notice it coming down until he feels the sharp sting across his cheek, the rings slashing across his cheek with ease. The blood trails quickly down his face, soaking through his shirt and beginning to pool below him. Steve whimpers, forcing himself to relax against the hold, quietly begging the person to let him go. His breath is ragged, his whole chest burning from being slammed into the ground.
“You done fighting me, Steven?” His father growls above him, lifting him and slamming him to the ground again, “Or are you going to make this worse for you?”
His father’s tone sends a shiver down Steve’s spine, and he does his best to fight back a whimper. Blinking back tears rapidly, he meets his father’s cold glare.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers quietly, “I’m sorry, sir–” His father doesn’t give him a chance to finish his apology. Instead, he pulls him off the ground by his shirt, slamming him against the wall. He leans close to Steve, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.
“The Chief of Police, Steven???” he whispers, pressing his entire weight against Steve’s chest and pinning him on the wall. “My business trip was interrupted by the god damn fucking chief of police?” He slaps Steve again. Steve bites down on his tongue, trying to stop the whimper caught in his throat. He stares back at his father defiantly.
“What is our one rule in this household?” He yells, nostrils flaring. When Steve does not give him an answer, he grabs him by his jaw harshly.
“What is our one rule, Steven?”
Steve gasps, barely able to breathe as his father presses him into the wall,
“To… To never… To never draw the attention… Of the police. To never… Cause an investigation.”
“And yet, Steven, what did you do?”
“I…” Steve closes his eyes tightly, trying to stop the tears from falling, “I drew attention to this household. They opened an investigation.”
His father is silent for a moment, both men breathing heavily. Before long, his father releases Steve from his hold. Steve sinks to the ground, taking huge gulps of air. For a moment, he is naive enough to think that the worst of it is over. But his father clears his throat, grabbing Steve by the chin and forcing him to meet his eyes.
“Then you understand why you must be punished, right, Steven?” he says, an eerie calm creeping into his features.
Steve tears his eyes away from his father, letting the tears fall free, and nods–not trusting his own voice. He listens as his father sighs softly, reaching out to stroke his son’s hair.
“You made me do this, Steven. Stand up.”
Steve stands shakily, starting to turn around. His father grips his arm tightly, stopping him.
“Shirt off, Steven. You know the rules.” He says as he undoes his belt, wrapping it around his hand tightly. Stiffly, Steve pulls his shirt over his head as he turns around and presses his clammy hands against the wall. For once, Steve thanks a God he does not believe that his father is not a patient man, and he does not have to wait for the first blow–the metal cracks against his shoulder.
Later, Steve tries to recall how many hits he received–or even what time his father left his room. But the pain blurs together, somehow both endless and over in an instant. Even though he tries, he can’t seem to forget his mother’s soft voice as she presses a cool washcloth to his back, shushing him after every whimper. He recalls her tucking him in like he was small again. He remembers how she pushes his damp hair out of his face before pressing her lips to his forehead. And then, she leaves. She returns with a mop and a bucket–both reeking of bleach and slowly begins to clean up the blood– his blood – once again.
Steve wakes up to the warmth of the Saturday afternoon sun, moaning quietly as he moves. His whole body hurts–his wounds aching with every beat of his heart. He lets himself lay in bed for a while, mind wandering aimlessly. It takes him nearly an hour before he pulls himself out of the bed, biting his tongue against the whimpers that threaten to escape. Once standing, he stumbles to his bathroom, catching himself with a gasp in the doorway. He moves slowly towards the shower, each step accompanied by a deep ache. He knows this would be easier if he just flicked on the overhead light, but doing so would mean looking at his reflection–a feat he didn’t think he was capable of just yet. As the water warmed, he slowly took the rest of his clothes off. By the time he was finished, he had to brace himself against the shower’s glass, panting for breath. His muscles shake from the endurance, and he barely keeps himself standing upright. Slipping into the shower, hissing softly as the water hits his back. Before long, he relaxes against the stream, his muscles loosening in the heat.
A part of him wishes he could stay here forever, in the heat of the water–invisible to the world. But the other part–the smarter part of him knows that he needs to get ready. He needs to go talk to his father before he comes slamming into the bathroom, ready for another round. So Steve climbs out of the shower, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist tightly. He braces himself against the counter before turning and flicking on the light.
Taking measured breaths, he turns to face his reflection, flinching away from the haunted man staring back at him in the mirror. His jaw and cheek are mottled with black and blue bruises, broken up by the deep scratches from his father’s rings. His left eye is swollen, nearly shut, the cut above his eyebrow oozing blood slowly. He follows the line of bruises down his neck to his chest before finally landing on the line of bruises where his father pressed him into the wall with his entire weight. After inventorying his wounds from the front, Steve slowly turns to see his back. A small, shocked gasp echoes against the bathroom walls as he counts each raised welt, deep purple bruises where his father’s belt buckle slammed against him. Tears prick his eyes, bile rising up his throat quickly. He grips the counter tightly, emptying the contents of his stomach into the sink before slowly dropping to the ground.
“Deep breaths,” he whispers to himself, pressing his forehead to the cool tile, “Just take deep breaths.” Tears trail down his cheek without his permission, but he doesn’t try to stop them. Over the years, he learned that ignoring the hurt only worsened the situation. And while he would never let anyone else see him cry, here, in his bathroom, where he is locked away from the rest of the world–he could have a moment to mourn…Mourn the kid he used to be. Mourn the love he would never receive. Mourn the world around him.
Once his tears dry, he forces himself to stand up and move again. Staying on the ground, curled up in a ball, will only serve to bring more punishment–he learned that, too, a long time ago. He dresses. He stumbles out of his room and down the stairs. He manages to reach the kitchen without incident but slams his hip into the counter as he walks in, hissing quietly under his breath. Glancing around, he expects to find his father glaring at him from the kitchen table, cold eyes appraising his every move. Instead, he finds a hastily written note, his mother’s cramped writing small on the page.
Steven,
Your father and I are returning to Japan for the remainder of the month. He insists on making up the lost time due to our unexpected trip back to Hawkins. You can contact us at our hotel. You know the number.
Steve stares at the words, reading them over and over again as his head swims. He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen. Grabbing the note angrily, Steve crumbles it into a small ball before tossing it into the trash.
“Of course,” he mutters to himself, “Of course they fucking left. Oh my god. Oh my god, why did I expect them to stay? Of–Of fucking course they left!!!” A laugh bubbles up and out of his throat before unexpectedly turning into a small sob. He slams his hand over his mouth, wincing at the impact against his bruises.
I will not cry, he chants to himself, eyes closed tightly against the tears. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry . Taking deep breaths, he forces himself forward, pulling down his favorite chipped bowl from the cabinet and filling it up slowly with cereal and milk. However, after only two bites, his stomach turns–nausea from early crashing down on him again. Breathing deeply, he pours the rest of the food out into the sink, watching absentmindedly as it drains. He lets the bowl fall with a loud crash into the sink, the metal spoon clattering next to it.
The house falls silent again, shadows slowly creeping in as the sun goes lower and lower into the tree line. Steve takes the moment to survey the space–the cold interior, all white and sharp edges. The only pictures on the wall have come from his mother. She’s always had a thing for abstract art made in other countries. As he walks down the hallway towards the stairs, he notes how each work only serves to sharpen the details of the house…Making it colder, more haunted. Glancing into the living room, he flinches at the only family picture in the house–a photo from his parent's wedding, where he hadn’t even been a “twinkle in their eye.”
Steve always hated that picture. He hated how neither of them smiled–more of a funeral photo than a wedding photo. To be honest, the only thing indicating that it was a celebration was his mother’s wedding dress, which emphasizes her sharp features–his dad’s cold blue eyes. By the time he reaches his room again, the sun finally falls behind the tree line. He collapses into his bed, begging that sleep will come quickly.
To his mercy, it does.
By Monday, Steve can mostly stand without feeling like he is going to pass out–a vast improvement from Saturday. He dresses slowly, avoiding any potential aggravation of his wounds. He’s careful and measured in all his movements, trying to avoid any movement that could reveal what he is desperately trying to hide. There isn’t much he can do about the bruises o his face–those are not as easily hidden–but they are more easily explained. Another fight, he’ll tell anyone who asks him. He’s never been great at fighting.
He blinks, and suddenly he’s at school. He tries to remember the ride there but just draws a complete blank. Before he can even think, Nancy is in front of him, concern evident on her face.
“Oh my god, Steve.” she whispers, her voice soft as if she’s afraid to spook him, “What happened???”
Steve stares at her blankly, furrowing his brow in confusion. Nancy reaches up carefully, pressing her hand to his cheek. He flinches, hissing softly as he stumbles away from her. He glances around, ensuring no one else sees this little incident. Slowly, he looks back at Nancy but stares at the space over her shoulder–avoiding her eyes. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he can sense the waves of concern, sympathy, and fear radiating from her.
“Steve,” she tries again, stepping into his space. Instinctively, he steps back, waving his hand between them and offering a false smile.
“Nance,” he says, with a small, albeit uncomfortable, laugh, “it’s nothing, I’m fine. I just lost another stupid fight. Apparently, Jonathan’s not the only one who can beat my ass.” He glances around, bringing his shoulders to his neck in a shrug. “But I’m good at taking a punch, so hey! There’s benefits to it.”
“Steve,” she starts, flinching slightly when Steve interrupts her.
“Nance. Nance. I’m fine. Seriously. It’s nothing to worry about.” She stares at him, eyes scanning over his bruises as she categorizes him. She doesn’t believe him. That much he can tell.
She has to believe him. He feels awful, but a wave of anger rises up in his chest as he huffs.
“Nancy, oh my god. Seriously. I’m fine. Just… Just fucking drop it, okay?” He doesn’t miss Nancy’s flinch or the tears that well in her eyes. The silence settles between them, tense and uncomfortable–noticeable to the students passing by them.
Nice going, Steven, his father’s voice echoes in his mind, You good-for-nothing freak, you made your girlfriend cry. You are supposed to take care of her, but instead, you made her cry. Pathetic.
“Fuck… Nancy– I… I’m sorry. I’m just… I didn’t sleep well this weekend, so I’m grumpy and I’m taking that out on you… I’m so sorry.” he whispers, his voice breaking. She shakes her head, offering him a watery smile.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s… Let’s just go to class, okay?” She starts leading them down the hallway.
“How’s… how’s mike?” he asks, trying to ease the tension.
“Oh. Uh… He’s good… Spent most of the weekend at the Byers, to be honest. I haven’t seen much of him. Not… not that I can blame him.” Steve nods along with her, focusing on her voice and her words as they walk rather than the pain that erupts with every step. The concern never leaves her, but Steve has mastered the art of pretending–of how to make himself invisible, even when people are looking directly at him.
The tension doesn’t dissipate for the rest of the day. If anything, in the time they spend apart, Nancy seems to only grow more frustrated and upset with him. Steve tries to keep the conversation with her. He asked her any question he could think of: how does she feel about her next chemistry test? Has she talked to Jonathan since everything went down? What does she want to do for their date on Friday?
Keep the conversation on her, the voice in his head repeats–over and over again. Keep the conversation with her and stop whining, you pathetic fuck.
By the end of the day, she’s… Distant. How is she feeling? Fine. How does she feel about the chemistry test? Fine. What should they do for their date on Friday? Nothing. Her tone is sharp and cold, like a slap to the face with every response. By the time they meet at her locker, Steve can barely keep his composure–the lump in his throat making it difficult for him to speak. He’s tossing his keys back and forth in his hands anxiously, the idea of heading home filling him with a nauseous dread.
“Nance!” He nearly shouts, too brightly, as she walks up. Nancy's hand pauses, and she turns to face him slowly. He stares at her, waiting. Before he can say something else, she simply huffs and turns away from him. He blinks, his mask slipping for just a moment–hurt and confusion evident. He slips it back into place before she can see it.
“So, uh. Do you want a ride home? Maybe we could go to the diner before? Get some milkshakes?”
She turns to face him, her quick movements causing him to flinch before he can stop himself. She raises an eyebrow at him,
“If I say yes, will you tell me the truth?”
“I…don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says slowly, frowning at her, “The truth about..?”
“About what happened with your face, Steve.” She says quickly, her tone frustrated. “And don’t try to tell me that you just lost another fight, because I know that’s a lie. And you’ve been avoiding talking about it all day, which you only do when its something more serious–”
“Nance, Nance, I swear–”
“Steve Harrington, I swear to god, if you try to tell me that it’s nothing, I’m walking away.” Steve stares at her, mouth slightly agape.
“I…” he whispers, and Nancy slams her locker shut. He winces.
“Nevermind, Steve. I just. I thought that after everything, you… You wouldn’t be keeping secrets.” She stalks away from him, and he watches her go, swallowing thickly. He turns and presses his forehead against the cool lockers, groaning softly.
“Fuck…” he whispers, voice breaking, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He slams his head slightly into the locker in front of him, the pain radiating through his cheeks and chest. It centers him, almost–brings him back to the moment. He stills, focusing on how his heart pounds, the way his bruises ache with each beat. By the time he looks up, the hallways have long gone silent–the world continuing on, even when he feels like he is falling apart. He glances at the clock and groans a little, not having realized how much time he let pass. He pushes off the lockers, forcing himself into a standing position again before he starts the long walk down the hallway and out to the parking lot. He doesn’t try to hide his limp this time.
He climbs into his car and carefully rolls down his window, watching as the wind blows through the leaf-barren trees. In the shadows, he catches the movement of a long, curly-haired man making his way towards the woods. Across the lot, he can hear the chain on the man's jeans clank against the metal of the lunch box he carries.
In the silence that follows, Steve can hear Nancy’s words: “I thought after everything… You wouldn’t be keeping secrets.” Again and again, it echoes in his mind, slamming against his head–intensifying the headache he’s been fighting off all day. He groans loudly, slamming his hand against the steering wheel, barely blinking at the pain that explodes down his wrists. He hits the steering wheel a few times, tears streaming down his cheeks before he catches his breath. He wipes the tears roughly from his cheeks, shoving his keys into the ignition. He quickly pulls out of the parking lot, racing down the road recklessly. A part of him hopes to be pulled over.
The more logical part knows he won’t be.
Barely ten minutes later, Steve is standing in front of the Wheeler’s front door. Even from the outside, the Wheeler house looks more alive than his house ever has. There are bikes piled in front of the garage, with kids shouting from inside. The lawn, though slightly overgrown, has evidently had kids run across it, racing each other for who could get to the front door the fastest. He tries to fight the envy that claws up his chest, swallowing hard against the emotions.
Everything in him is screaming that this is a bad idea, that he is just going to draw more attention to his family–the one thing he is never supposed to do. But then he hears Nancy’s voice again, and he’s reaching up, knocking on the door before he can stop himself.
Little Wheeler answers the door, glaring at him with a seriousness not fit for an 11-year-old.
“What do you want?” He snaps, staring at Steve.
“I uh… Is Nancy here?” Steve asks, keeping his voice even.
“Are you going to make out with her in her room again?” Steve can’t help the laugh that comes out, shaking his head,
“No. No, kid.. I just… I really need to talk to her.” Mike stares at him for a moment longer before stepping aside.
“Nancy,” he screams, “Your boyfriend is here!” Steve can barely protest before the kid is rushing down his stairs again, and Nancy rushes out of her room, mouth open to yell at her brother. Her face falls when she sees Steve. Immediately, she crosses her arms, raising her eyebrow and staring at him from the top of the stairs.
“Can we.. Can we just… talk,” he begs quietly, “Privately?” Nancy stares at him skeptically for a second before nodding. His body sags in relief, and he immediately rushes up the stairs, glancing around quickly. He clocks the cute family pictures, with lots of smiling faces and…kids on bike rides. Happy, normal family pictures. He doesn’t expect the jealousy that rises in his chest. Or the ache that follows it once it dissipates. His own home is… bare, compared to the Wheelers.
Steve forces himself to look away from the pictures, finally meeting Nancy at the top of the stairs. She leads him to her room, a place he is intimately familiar with. She closes the door tightly before sitting on her bed and looking at him expectantly.
But this… This is the hard part—the actually… telling her. So instead, he distracts himself. He walks around her room slowly, playing with the little trinkets on her shelves and drawers. He stops to look at the pictures of her and Barb, through the years, arms slung around each others’ shoulders, and smiles wide. He wonders if he’s ever actually had a friend like that…Hell, he wonders if he’s ever had any relationship like that. A relationship where he can be true and open about his–
His thoughts are interrupted by Nancy’s heavy sigh, and he risks a glance at her.
“Look, Steve, if you don’t want to tell me,” she starts, “Then that’s fine, but you should leave–”
“It was my dad,” he blurts out before she can finish, “That’s what happened. My uh… My dad got home from his business trip. And uh, he wasn’t happy about the whole “Hopper calling him on a business trip” thing. I– I wasn’t exactly joking when I said he’d kill me.”
He doesn’t dare turn around to look at her, but he can see her face in the mirror. He watches her face morph between surprise and anger before settling on a deep sadness he’s never seen before. Her face is pale and pinched, eyes barely holding in the tears. He forces himself to look away and continues.
“It’s the one rule in the Harrington household. I’m allowed to do whatever I want. Host as many parties as I want, spend as much money as I want. But under no circumstances, should I ever draw the attention of the police. Cause… An investigation. He uh… He doesn’t want…” Steve gestures at his face, “he doesn’t want people to know what he’s really like.” He slowly turns to face her, breath catching in his throat. Panic rises up his chest, and his stomach twists as he waits for her to respond.
“Steve…” Nancy starts, her voice thick with emotion, her voice breaking. “I..”
He interrupts again.
“I wasn’t going to tell you because… Well, no one’s supposed to know, ya know? But then you said that we weren't supposed to keep secrets and I just…”
Before he can continue, she stands, slowly walking over to him. She cups his face gently with her hands, stroking his cheek with such tenderness that he could cry. A quiet settles between them, and he slowly lets his forehead fall against hers.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.” He feels her shake his head.
“Steve,” she says gently, waiting until he meets her eyes, “We… We need to tell someone, Steve… This isn’t okay. What they’ve done to you isn’t okay. We.. We should go to Hopper,”
Steve swallows hard, pulling away from her grasp easily, before beginning to pace in front of her window.
“Nance. I– What?? Did you not hear what I said? I–I can’t. He– he did this because Hopper merely called him. I can’t report him.”
“Steve,” she tries again, “we can keep you safe–” Steve laughs humorlessly at this, shaking his head.
“Nancy, my dad will make bail in an instant. My mom will fucking pay for him to be released. And then he’ll come to whoever is holding me, drag me out by my ass– or… or fucking worse, murder whoever else is keeping me for the night, and I–”
“He’s not going to–”
“Nancy, you don’t know – I’ve been dealing with this since I was ten . He’s more powerful–” he nearly shouts, turning to her and gesturing wildly. Her eyes widen, and she steps back. Fear creeps into her big, brown eyes, and all of the energy leaves Steve instantly. He slowly sinks into her window seat, biting his lip,
“I can’t… We… You have to promise me, okay? Please…”
They stare at each other for a moment, both holding too tightly and stubbornly to their thoughts. Steve knows the consequences of reporting his father. Nancy fears the consequences of not.
Nancy nods slowly,
“Okay,” she whispers, “for now… just… please promise me that you’ll think about it, okay? I… I think Hopper could help.”
Steve sags in relief, nodding quickly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll keep it in mind, of course.” he promises, reaching out to her as she approaches him again. He pulls her close, pressing his forehead to her stomach. Nancy slowly runs her hands through Steve’s hair, relaxing against him.
“It’ll be okay,” She whispers gently, “It’s going to be okay, Steve.”
And for a moment, he believes her.
He lets himself believe that it will be okay. Even when Nancy insists that they buy Jonathan a camera to make up for the one he broke in November.
He lets himself believe that it will be okay. Even when he climbs through her window at 3 am after a particularly rough night at home. She’s gentle with him, soothing. Cleans up the blood while pushing him to talk to Hopper. She even offers to wake up her parents, but when he insists it’s fine– he is fine, she just holds him close until the next morning.
He lets himself believe it even when she brings up Barb. He lets himself believe it’s okay, despite the not-so-subtle way she talks about what happened that night… Making it clear that it’s she who blames them… Blames him for what happened to her best friend.
He lets himself believe it, even when they fight at least once a week.
He lets himself believe it, even when they go to awkward dinners with Barb’s parents. Even when they have to dodge questions about what happened that night, he can feel her gaze piercing the back of his head.
He lets himself believe it for nearly a year.
And then it’s Halloween.
And Nancy is drunk, so he tries to stop her from filling her cup again. But she’s pulling away from him. She’s trying to fight him, and the juice spills all over her white shirt.
“What the hell,” she stutters, glaring at him drunkenly. She stalks away from him, heading towards the bathroom, and he’s following her–calling after her. They get to the bathroom, and he watches as she roughly drags a wet towel down her front, trying to clean the stain.
“Nance,” he starts gently, “I’m sorry…” he pauses, watching her angrily try to clean her shirt.
“That’s not coming off, Nancy…”
“It’s coming,” she growls, glaring at him in the mirror. He puts her arm around her waist, trying to support her.
“Come on,” he says, “Let me just take you home, okay? Come on, let me take you home. Come on–”
“You wanted... You wanted this, ” she says, her words slurring together.
“No, I didn’t want this. I told you to stop drinking.”
“Bullshit,” she yells, pushing away from him.
“No, it’s not bullshit–”
“Bullshit.”
“No, it’s not bullshit–” he says desperately.
“Bullshit…You…” She leans into him, eyes wide and glazed over, “You’re bullshit. ”
“What…?” he whispers, hurt and confused.
“You’re pretending like everything’s okay. Ya know like we didn’t… Like we didn’t kill Barb!!” Her eyes fill with tears, “Like your dad doesn’t beat you.” Steve flinches, staring at her, eyes wide and mouth agape.
“Like it’s great. Like we’re in love, and we’re partying…” she slurs, “Yeah, let’s party. Party… We’re partying. It’s bullshit.”
He steps away from her, his voice cracking,
“Like we’re in love..?” he whispers, reaching up to cup her cheek. She glares at him.
“Bullshit.”
“You… You don’t love me?” He asks, voice cracking as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Bullshit…” She repeats, glaring at him. He shoves past her, yanking open the door and rushing out. He slams it behind him, flinching at how much it reminds him of his father. He doesn’t stop moving, though. He’s just pushing through the crowd of people, escaping as quickly as possible.
She confronts him at school the next day, pulling him out of practice–just before he gets his ass handed to him by Hargrove (another reminder of how pathetic he truly is.)
“What are you doing here?” He asks, tone sharper than he intends.
“What do you think?” she snarks, “Where were you this morning? I missed first period.”
“I figured Jonathan would take you,” he deflects, refusing to meet her eyes.
“What..?” She asks incredulously, “What are you talking about?”
“Jesus, you really can’t handle your alcohol.” He sighs, “Uh. You remember going to Tina’s party last night?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?” he stares at her expectantly.
“I remember dancing, and… Spilling some punch. You got mad at me because I was drunk,” she says, shaking her head in frustration. “And then you took me home.”
Steve sighs, throwing the towel he took from the gym over his shoulder.
“No, see, that’s where your mind gets a little bit fuzzy. That was your other boyfriend. That was… That was Jonathan.”
“I don’t understand…” she says, and he shakes his head.
“It’s pretty simple, Nancy, you were just telling it like it is.”
“What?”
“Uh..” he starts, shifting his weight and staring at the wall behind her, “Apparently, uh…We killed Barb, and I don’t care ‘cause I’m bullshit. And.. And our whole… Our whole relationship is bullshit, and… I mean, pretty much everything is just… Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” He counts on his fingers, making a point not to mention her comment about his father. “Oh, and also you don’t love me.”
“I was drunk, Steve!” Nancy shouts, “I don’t remember any of that!”
“So that makes everything that you said… It’s what? Just bullshit too?” he yells back, frustration rising in his chest.
“Yes!”
“Well then, tell me!” he says desperately, voice breaking.
“Tell you what?!”
“You love me.” He winces at her raised eyebrow and disbelieving smile.
“Really?” she says, staring at him. The door to the gym bursts open, their classmate running out in time to save him.
“Harrington,” they yell, “dude, we need you, man! That douchebag is killing us! Come on!”
“Alright!” Steve shouts, looking back at Nancy. But she can’t meet his eyes. He shakes his head, turning away from her.
“I think that you’re bullshit.” He mutters, heading back towards the gym.
He lets himself believe that it will all be okay until he watches everything shatter in slow motion.
As he’s picking up the pieces of his own heart, he takes a moment to remind himself that this is why he never lets himself get close to anyone in the first place.