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
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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.
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