#boshwrites

[basiatlu]

Road to Hell

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Rating: M (for language/canon-typical violence) Other relevant tags: injury, anxiety, slow burn, Post Season 3, canon divergence -☆-

A shiver of relief raced up and down Steve's skin as he jogged to the red door of his home in Loch Nora. Things were really turning around for the better. After ten days of scouting around town for help wanted adverts and pestering what seemed to be every store and office within the boundaries of Hawkins, both Robin and Steve were once again satisfyingly employed.

Sure, his new manager, Keith, was a lame dweeb with a superiority complex as thick as the cheeseball dust that coated his greasy fingers, but Steve was certain that if given a month of the old Harrington buddy-buddy charm, he'd have his ex-classmate eating out the palm of his much cleaner hand. The visual of Keith pecking at him for chips like an overgrown crow popped into his head.

Steve couldn't help the grimace that flashed across his face. Jesus, he really needed to stop watching PBS every morning. Robin was already giving him shit over his admittedly narrow scope of cinema. The interview for Family Video could have gone smoother, sure, but he had nothing to prove. So what if Keith didn’t think he was a real Star Wars fan—whatever that meant. He’d been telling the truth. Those little bear aliens were cool. They reminded him of Dustin, which he had not liked one bit when Steve had brought it up during their Sci-Fi-Bananza. Plus the third movie had space bikes? That was pretty cool, too.

Whatever. 

Either Keith would have hired him or wouldn't have. Take it or leave it. Obviously, the place had been short on staff for a while, considering the jerk was already titled as management after leaving the arcade. Steve had a feeling it was partially to blame for no one in town willing to work alongside the lump.

Back in the quiet of his home, Steve tossed the green uniform vest—so much better than the sailor suit—along with his keys at the table in the entry. He sauntered over to the kitchen to snag a beer before flopping onto the more worn in corner of the couch. Here the den was hit with a lazy late afternoon sun and the dust motes scattering in the air reminded Steve of his neglected chores.

His deep sigh broke the silence of the house. Occasionally, the air conditioning unit would kick up before falling back into an ignorable hum. The high of getting the job started to dwindle. He should probably call his mom. Give her the good news. But then he worked through the potential steps of calling first the Indianapolis office secretary, being forwarded to the New York branch, then reminded of the current location for his parents gauntlet of business networking, only to be circled back to a hotel receptionist to leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Harrington to return when next available—yeah, Steve's good mood shrunk just a touch more.

Slouching into the soft cushion of the couch, Steve rested the bottle of pilsner on his chest. The glass tinked against the necklace charm tucked under his t-shirt. The sound made him think back on the last few weeks.

The bruises were mostly gone now, with only the scabbing cuts serving as an itchy reminder to the horrific start of July. Sleep was still escaping Steve. Each night slipped through his fingers as he grasped at his sweat-soaked sheets. His room seemed to vortex the groans of a too-empty house deep into his eardrums. Trying to bury his head while lying face-down caused his stomach to swoop like he was yet again free-falling down elevator shafts. Staring up into the dark ceiling of his room caused imprints of fireworks to explode into his vision. Nightmares would rattle him awake in the early hours of the morning.

And then as he would lay there pretending he wasn't hearing the distinct ebb and flow of a half-formed conversation nearby, Steve would talk back. Sort of. Really would talk to himself. Or sometimes listen to the kids chatter in the walkie if he felt like switching it on. Anything to drown out the voices murmuring curses and encouragements at his side table.

It was fucking pointless.

So yeah, he was fucking tired. Maybe that's why so many of Hawkins’ finest had turned him down for their job listings. Steve Harrington was starting to crack, and the festering panic of his soft insides was slowly oozing out for all to see. Bless Robin and her surprising attachment to him. He really did adore her even if she was a stubborn jerk in the best way. He didn’t deserve her patience with him lately.

She had been quite insistent they kept on working together. Two peas in a Commie-tortured pod. Truth serum and bonesaws really brought people together. Robin joked that she wanted to be nearby in case more inter-dimensional horrors wanted to pop up for Labor Day. The holiday sales at Melvald's were always killer.

Steve thought maybe Robin needed the reminder she was alive and breathing, too.

Draining the dredges of his beer, Steve hoisted himself out of the couch. Tossed the bottle a little on this side of too rough just to hear it loudly bounce in the trash. He decided he'd at least change out of his sweaty clothes with nothing else to do for today. Even with the air chilled around him, the humidity from scouting across town had caused his hair to flatten to the back of his neck.

Halfway towards the second floor he recognized the growling.

The lights in the hallway were cycling again. Their flickering almost mirrored the tempo of Steve’s heart as he followed. It was with a despondent acceptance that he saw them inevitably lead to his bedroom. The chattering that he swore was only of his overactive imagination brought on memories of dank tunnels. Brought back a phantom smell of rot that tickled his nose. A looming dread hung over him as his feet dragged forward. His hand twitched for the bat. For fire. His bedroom cast a yellow glow of warning into the hallway.

Steve reached the opened doorway and all of hell broke loose.

The guttural noises of a demodog were louder in his room. Steve lunged for the bat leaning just within his closet. Nearly popped the sliding mirror doors off their track in his haste. How many? Where were they? They were right on top of him.

Steve spun around, shoulders tensed in anticipation—attack at the ready. The lamp at his dresser flared wildly. Nothing was there—he couldn’t see anything—but he heard them. He felt fucking crazy but Steve’d rather be admitted than dead. He squinted from the blinding lights, whipped at the air while checking the corners at the ceiling. 

The dresser skidded to his left and Steve swung wide. The nails of the bat dug into the wood with a sharp crack. The landline he kept in here jumped from its cradle. Instead of the usual dial tone, the whirling noises of otherworldly beasts doubled in volume through the receiver.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” 

Steve kicked the dresser as he yanked back the bat. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned towards the closet and watched in dumb horror as Billy Hargrove lunged—a switchblade reared back in his bloody hand.

Steve startled so badly that he overshot with the bat, hurtling backwards. He realized what he was actually seeing was only in the mirrors lining his closet door. It didn’t stop the most unsettling sensation of what could be described as a swoop of cold wind passing through him.

He looked down at his shirt to check that nothing had actually pierced through. He was okay? The cracks in Steve’s psyche continued to spread as he stepped back. The mirrors served as a bizarre window to Hargrove fighting a goddamn demodog in Steve’s childhood bedroom. 

The visage of the creature was gaped open—a horrific flower that only promised gore. Rows upon rows of teeth dripped with a slime Steve had been all too familiar with last November. And there it was attacking his fallen classmate. He wasn’t quite sure which of them was the true star of his breakdown.

Noise from the phone continued to provide matching audio. The living dead played a fucked up little stage show just for Steve. It was as the beast finally flung itself towards the closet to dodge Billy when the glass splintered at impact. Steve gave a shout and rushed to the closet only to see it still was not ‘here’ and was still ‘there’ (in Steve’s head?).

Inching closer to the reflection, Steve watched as the mirror’s Hargrove kicked and destroyed his dresser out of frustration in the rotting visage of his room. The noise crackled behind him, following along with a slight delay. The out of sync nature of it caused the insanity to continue bubbling up Steve’s spine until he finally kicked at the destroyed door. Glass rained on top of his bare feet. He didn’t really care.

“Hey!” Steve shouted. “Quit that shit out, asshole! Just stop it already! Go away!” 

The guy haunting Steve’s summer didn’t fucking notice him. Steve kicked the sliding door again for good measure before stumbling back to the phone. Glass crunched under his shoes. He could hear the heaving sobs that had to be from Hargrove as Steve raised the transmitter to his mouth.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?!”

[basiatlu]

Road to Hell

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Rating: M (for language/canon-typical violence)

Other relevant tags: assumed MCD, grief & mourning, injury, anxiety, slow burn, Post Season 3, canon divergence

—+-+-+—

It wasn't until well after Steve's roundup of the kids that he felt his shoulders ease into a looser droop. Oh, for sure, the morning had been a rough one, but the rise of noise—Dustin and Lucas' bickering intermixed with sharp rebuttals from Mike all while Will watched with a fond grin—brought Steve back to a mood he could have simply described as "soothed" despite the racket.

Dustin was riding shotgun, but nearly backwards as he was half-kneeled into the Bimmer's leather seat to fire away counterarguments at Lucas. With about 10 minutes left of their drive, the boys reached what Steve barely followed were Spy Hunter strategies that could lead to the best mark on the scoreboard.

"No, listen man, you're not thinking of the big picture. You need to go as slow as possible to ensure you can merge into traffic to avoid enemy fire. Lie low—then hit 'em with the oil slick during their cooldown!"

"But then you're fighting the timer. It's obviously best to go faster, hit hard at the start. You're just saying that because you're too damn slow to dodge in time."

"Language," Steve said as a tired reminder.

Lucas had the nerve to roll his eyes but muttered a sorry anyway. Steve watched in the rearview mirror as Will cupped his mouth into a hand to further hide his quiet laugh. Eyes back on the road, Steve made a left turn onto Old Cherry Road as they usually do en route to The Palace. The chatter cut to a sudden halt and Steve glanced at Dustin who had settled to stare down the street with a sour look.

"What?" Steve asked, mind reaching. "You guys forget to invite Max?"

There was a bit of shuffling and a huffy sigh from behind. The silence answered him for a moment too long for comfort before Will's voice piped up.

"She can't come today."

There's a whispered "Dude!" followed by a smack and Lucas' following hissed "Ow! What?" Will continued from his corner as Mike and Lucas managed to grapple on the bulk of the bench.

"Her parents changed their mind this morning, and told her she could come next time."

Steve mulls on that. Max Mayfield's mom and stepdad had been rightfully protective of her since the recent chaos. He had watched on with Billy Hargrove's necklace clenched safely in his own fist streaked with grime as the little girl—they were all just kids—was wrapped in the tightest hug from the two shaking adults. As they drove past the Hargrove-Mayfield residence in silence, Steve remembered Mr. Hargrove's booming shout for his son carrying across the destroyed parking lot.

Yeah, Steve didn't blame them for keeping Max a little closer at home for a while longer.

They pulled up to the arcade. The unlit sign read The Palace in a sun-bleached display. Despite Summer meeting catastrophe at its midpoint, Steve could see the youth of Hawkins running amok inside. Figured that since the snazzy mall was in smoldering rubble and the pool was closed for repairs, there wasn't much else to go.

Steve barely got the car in park before the kids spilled out onto the hot tarmac. They complained loudly of the heat before running towards the promise of sweet, air-conditioned relief. Steve shook his head with a testy tilt to his jaw.

"You're welcome, shitheads!" he hollered after them. It's then he realized Will had yet to join them and turned back with a hand braced on the headrest. "Hey, you ok?"

Will gripped at both his knees and let out a slow sigh. He bobbed his head, once, twice, side to side in a vague way--a sarcastic look about him.

"Yeah, I mean—as much as we can be?" He looked out the window towards the arcade where Mike must have realized they were down one and was gesturing at the car in a rapid wave from the doorway, refusing to leave the cool mouth of the building. Steve waited Will out, not really knowing where this was going.

He turned back to Steve with a shy smile. "The funeral is this Thursday. Max will want you there." The rubber bands in Steve's shoulders pull taut once again. The comfort of the drive sucked away from him. "Mom and me—Jonathan, too—we're all going. We can pick you up on the way?"

Steve covered up his wince with a fisted cough. Tried to smile.

"Ah, no that's ok, man. But I'll see you there? For Max."

For her brother, was left unsaid.

"Yeah I think she'd really like that." He opened the car door. "Bye, Steve! Thanks for driving us."

It wasn't until the whole squad was tucked inside that Steve collapsed back into his seat. The energy he'd kept up the last hour drained from him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair as the silence of the car made way for the radio that had been crackling on an empty station in low cadence. Steve was sure he'd flipped the damn thing off earlier. Dustin must've kicked it on with his flailing.

Now left with his thoughts for company, Steve went to search for some music. Maybe the Top Hits channel from Muncie was still in range here. It was as his fingertips brushed the rigged surface of the dial that a sharp pop of static shocked up his hand.

"Ah, shit!"

The static seemed to intensify—or was that his ears ringing? And then a garbled voice pushed through the speakers.

"—skkkkkrrrvvvk—otta be kidding me?"

Steve stared down into the holes of the console speaker. Didn't think he had heard that quite right. Radio host was maybe caught with a hot mic. Happened, right? Weird. They almost sounded exactly like—

The buzz of the radio crested again with an angry wave. The gruff but so distinct voice of Billy Hargrove sounded.

"Get it together."

Steve scrambled to turn down the volume, change the station, select a preset, but like a skipping record the mockery of his dead classmate demanded over and over.

"Bzzrtrrt-together... Get it togetherrrrrvvvrrt—it together. Get it together."

A panicked groan ripped from his throat as Steve toggled the radio off. A layer of sweat was starting to collect at his brow. The salt of it stung his sores. He needed to go home. Needed to clutch at the nail bat with an eye on the Scoops Ahoy uniform in the gap beside his bed. No need to sit in a hot parking lot by himself. Had to get out of here. He could freak out in his shower again for a little while. That sounded so much better. But the kids would need to be picked up in three hours and the thought of zig-zagging across town made Steve pause. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

Steve checked over his face in the rearview. Right, yeah, get it together is fucking right, Harrington. Damn. He needed a nap.

Across the street was another lot—extra parking for the local church. It was nearly empty on a Wednesday afternoon and the far corner was blessedly shaded with reaching boughs from the trees lining the perimeter. Perfect.

Decided, Steve swung his car over to a choice spot for a little shut-eye. The drop of temperature was immediate. With a sigh he rolled down his window and killed the engine. The breeze was nice enough despite it being July—screw this entire month, man—and the jitters still hadn't left him. He reached over to the glovebox for a pack of slims and tapped out a cig.

It wasn't until he was a couple drags in that Steve felt able to give the radio a last chance. A quick search and he finally tuned in on a station just as the DJ announced the next track. That song from Alphaville that had played at every school dance for Steve's senior year. The singer's voice crooned and something in the wistful lyrics caused Steve's throat to seize.

He took another puff before humming along, singing whatever words he could follow in time.

"… Sooner or later they all will be gone—Why don't they stay young..?"

And as the beat played on, summer breeze a relief to the sweat on his skin, Steve could once again remember he was still alive.

[basiatlu]

Road to Hell

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Other relevant tags: assumed MCD, grief & mourning, injury, anxiety, slow burn, Post Season 3, canon divergence

-☆-

Billy Hargrove’s funeral stayed on-brand with a blanket of tense energy and haggardness. Steve had watched the priest sweat under the sun while casting dirt onto the empty coffin. He kept himself tethered to the present with an arm hooked around Robin’s shoulders. The two of them had matched in similar black blazers by chance, but it still caused Jonathan Byers to stare from across the 6 ft hole in the ground. He tried to catch Steve’s eye with a curious look. He was left ignored.

The secret under Steve’s black button-down caused its chain to pull down steadily at his neck.

To the left of the Byers was the family in mourning. Max looked nearly the same as she had in the smoky remains of the mall—covered in scrapes and heaving wetly. Her mother’s fidgeting hand gripped at Max while a hanky was offered in the other. Max’s red hair had been plaited into a sleek tail down her back that whipped about in irritation every time an attempt to wipe her snot and tears was made.

The impulse to wear the necklace now felt like a stupid gamble. Steve didn’t understand why he chose to stow it against his breastbone instead of simply in his pocket. During the parting condolences would have been the time to offer it to Max. He had kept it safe from the destruction. From wherever Billy’s body had been taken. A push for fonder memories. That was something to say, right?

But instead: Neil Hargrove had pushed over the priest.

“This whole damn thing is a mistake!” Mr. Hargrove had slurred.

Steve didn’t bother to stay long after. The arguing between Max and her stepdad had escalated until someone braved to cut in. Steve and Robin trekked through the humid air of the cemetery to his car. He was extra mindful of the inconspicuous grave markers amongst the grass. One wrong step would stack more bad luck against him. He leaned over to mutter in Robin’s ear.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Yeah, well, we watched him die.” She bit her lip in a way that reminded Steve of Nancy when she would reorganize her flashcards. What to cover next? “Which—yeah, wow duh you were there, sorry—I just mean. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t?”

Steve didn’t argue that. He had his own questions over how the script had played out in the Starcourt atrium. Could they have stopped the Mind Flayer sooner? Stopped Hargrove sooner? What did he even mean by that? Stopped. He meant “saved,” right?

They were back in the Bimmer and Steve caught the eye of his reflection wincing back at him. The bruises were yellowing. The stitches would be getting removed tomorrow. He rubbed at his chest for the pendant—felt the easy rise and fall of his breathing beneath it. He started the car.

It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that Steve started to feel an equilibrium holding together his day-to-day.

[basiatlu]

Road to Hell

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

So I've been having fun with a Harringrove rp and thought to share some of my turns. Is it any good? Ehhhhhh. Here's a writing WIP for your Monday:

Current rating: M (for language/canon-typical violence)

Other relevant tags: assumed MCD (sorry, I gotta spoil that bc I'm a baby), grief & mourning, injury, anxiety, slow burn, Post Season 3

-☆-

Steve pressed in on the swollen pulp of flesh beneath his socket with a wince. A hissing breath escaped him as the pads of his fingertips prodded down into the hinge of his jaw. It had been clicking whenever he chewed for the past week. His face looked so fucked. Robin and Joyce both had already pestered him on multiple occasions to quit messing with the bruises that painted his skin but he just couldn’t. Likened it to wiggling a loose tooth—a popcorn kernel at the back of his throat. The purple and red aches reminded him that the fever dream from the 4th of July had happened.

Starcourt Mall was gone. The Russians were gone. Hargrove. Hopper. His sleep cycle. A chunk of Hawkins snatched up by the things that went bump in the woods. Not a shadow—the Mind Flayer, Dustin had reminded him with little patience. To be honest, it all felt like a sick joke. The Scoops Ahoy uniform was still in a heap in the narrow space between his dusty desk and bed. The fabric clung to the smell of gunpowder and blood that made Steve’s mind swirl with panic when he’d catch a whiff in the dead of night.

It’d be better to forget this had ever happened. And yet there Steve stood in front of his mirror as the steam of his shower fogged up the view. He continued to stare in a trance into his own face in a sick fascination of his own wounds. How long until the bruises faded away? How long until all of this shit would finally leave him alone?

Steve Harrington—the backup, Mr. Reliable, the getaway driver—he’d never felt more pathetic after getting the living snot beat out of him yet again all while strapped to a cold metal chair. He could still hear Robin’s hysterical pleas vibrating in his ears when he let his mind drift enough. Now the mirror only reflected back a ghostly silhouette of his hunched shoulders as he stood dripping with a towel wrapped at his hips.

Not even the lush comforts of his parent’s house could provide a reliable cocoon from the outside. After being released from the military clinic with a fresh set of stitches and another contractual ultimatum demanding his silence, Steve had been jumping at every creak that echoed in the hallways. The noises were chilling but the silence made his brain ring with flashes of last week.

But it was fine. He was fine. He lived right? Still breathing as easy as his sore ribs allowed. Could be worse. Steve cringed in memory of Max sobbing over the still corpse of her brother. Her screaming protests as they all were corralled from the shattered hull of the mall.

Yeah, could be worse.

“Goddamnit.”

Steve ripped open the medicine cabinet hidden in the mirror panel to track down another token he’d hoarded. A necklace. The necklace.

The faux gold chain felt so fragile in his palm as Steve let the pendant trail into his water-soft hand. He cupped it with care, surprised still by how dainty it felt when removed from the devil-may-care guy who had bombarded into his life with such a reckless force and left it just as explosively. The embellished design of the figure wasn’t one he was familiar with. He rubbed at the smudging over the lone man wielding a walking stick with a thoughtful frown. Steve had meant to give this to Max—she would want it probably? He’d return it. Soon.

Steve draped his stolen trinket back behind his cache of hair products and snatched up his razor. If he didn’t get his shit together soon, Dustin would start sounding in over the walkie and when that didn’t get through, the phone would start ringing. He had promised to swing by to pick up the little mooch around 1 o’clock to play taxi.

How the brats wanted to do anything at all was perplexing to Steve. Fuck did he know about coping mechanisms?

With a sharp snap of his wrist, Steve shut the cabinet. An attempt to shave some of the hairs growing around the sensitive welts on his face had to be made or he’d feel completely useless.

It was as Steve leaned over the sink to ready the first swipe at his cheek that a flicker of movement in the clouded mirror caught his eye.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. Frozen over the sink basin and shaving cream smeared on his chin in wait, the running water fell away into white noise as he tried to process what exactly was the slow movement through the mirror in front of him. What had passed—behind him?

Then a gentle clunk of ceramic came from the toilet in the back corner of the bathroom and Steve’s stomach filled with dread.

He pressed his tongue into the raw inside of his cheek. Someone was in the bathroom? Something? No, God, please no. He prayed for the nail bat waiting in the next room over. Elbow raised, Steve whipped around on his heel, a yell ready behind bared teeth.

He was alone. Just silly Steve and the dripping condensation along the walls of the shower stall. It was probably the pipes draining. Right.

Running a free hand down Steve’s battered face, he turned back to the sink and slammed the faucet off. The sharp pain centered him back to now. He refused to look into the mirror again and began splashing his face clean. Whatever—he’d shave another day.

Steve pictured the kids teasing him at attempting to grow out a shitty beard. Now that he didn’t have to worry about locker room jabs and swim team standards, his body hair was sort of running wild as the Harrington genes go. He bet he could rock a mustache. He huffed a wheezy laugh until he is reminded yet again of fucking Billy Hargrove. How Steve could have sworn he saw a phantom take shape in the foggy bathroom mirror. Had heard a curse grunted into his ear. Made him think of jeers and heavy breathing from behind as an accompaniment to the sharp pounding of a basketball.

“Fucking chill out, man,” he said into the sink.

Steve tossed in the plastic razor and stepped out into the hall towards his bedroom. And then the lights began to flicker.

Usually the house was lit up at every available fixture and sconce that Steve could get his hands on. At that moment, he watched with a growing unease as the lights in the ceiling above buzzed on, then off, then on again—one by one down the path—towards his own bedroom. The spotlights dappled across the hardwood floors in a pattern that was hard to ignore.

Despite every inch of Steve screaming to turn back into the warm pocket of the bathroom and hide, he followed the repeating cycle of the hall lights that were beckoning him onwards. He’d left the door to his room open and with a steady pace he pressed in without pause. The bat was in there. He was in a towel. Worse ways to be robbed. Or eaten.

But as he looked about, Steve realized once again that he was alone. He let go of a shaky breath he’d been holding in and started to get dressed. Deep breath in. Underpants, left sock, right, breathed out. Shirt, hopped into his jeans. Breathed in again. Steve glanced over at his bed just as the coils in his box spring groaned. His lungs squeezed up and he fought off the urge to run.

No, he’s just tired. Didn’t hear a thing. Breathed in. Out. In. Out.

His eyes clenched tightly closed as he felt around the desk chair for his jacket and then the bat. Didn’t look down at the crumbled Scoops vest he knew was there. Didn’t want to see the rusty stains for once. The slick of his palm made the wood of the handle slide as he blindly made towards the door. The path was familiar enough to Steve from years of stumbling his way through the house in the middle of the night. He barreled out into the hall yet again. The lights had stopped flickering now but had remained kept unlit as his paced picked up into an anxious trot towards the stairwell.

Still breathing, still alive. He was ok.

The dark nipped at Steve’s heels until he was down in the skylight of the entry. He shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes, snagged his keys and wallet out of his mother’s crystal catch-all bowl, and rushed through the double doors. He was halfway towards the burgundy Bimmer when he realized he didn’t hear the front bang close. He pivoted back on skittering feet and made sure he closed, locked, rankled the handles, and jogged back to his escape.

Plant your feet.

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin when the car’s radio blared Blondie at him. He slapped a hand at the console to shut it off before peeling from the driveway.

Breathed in. Then out. At least he was alive.

-☆-