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Steve Harrington had never been a smart person. At least that's what he started to think and believe when his grades in school were mostly bad, despite his efforts. This belief had been further strengthened, even scribbled in his mind, when his father discovered his bad grades and began to repeat to him constantly how stupid he was or the shame of his family he was to be so mediocre. And over the years, Steve who was convinced that he was what his father blamed him, had stopped trying to make efforts in his studies.
When he had started to frequent Nancy and then dating her, she had tried to help him up his grades, helping him with some homework or trying to teach him some things. He remembered that night, where after having dinner at the Wheeler's, Nancy had taken him to a corner of the family living room, to make him understand how he could solve the mathematical equations he had missed during a test. Or again, of that famous morning, where she had tried to correct and improve one of his dissertations. The beautiful, gentle and intelligent Nancy Wheeler... She had gone to great lengths to try to show him that he was not stupid, as he often said. But in the end, she, too, had in a sense, preferred to throw in the towel.
Yet despite this lack of intelligence, Steve had abilities and facilities for some things. After all, he was the captain of his high school basketball team. He was a good player, a good teammate you could count on, but also, surprisingly, a good strategist. He had sometimes managed to reverse the game, just by telling his team where to place and how to play in the minutes that would follow. Similarly, had not he been nicknamed, in his first year of high school, King Steve, because of some of his performances at parties? It was him who was breaking the records when he still liked making kegs, before a certain California jerk stole his title. It was also him who had managed to charm and kiss the beautiful Penelope Pike, a senior high school girl who had been elected Miss Hawkins, on July 4, 1982. Him again, who had managed to go out and sleep with most of the pretty girls from his high school, thanks to his charm, his humor and his pace. That, or the fact that, according to rumors, he was well proportioned on the side of his crotch and knew perfectly well how to use it. And finally, it was still him who managed to beat James Weiss, a looser who had been a little too enterprising with some girls, at a party that had degenerated quickly.
Yes, Steve had skills he liked to rest on, when his grades did not allow him to shine. This was how he liked to reassure himself. Playing basketball and winning a match, flirting and finishing a party with a beautiful girl, getting drunk and having fun at a party by proving that he was still King Steve, all that helped the young man to feel pretty good about himself and in his head. But all to an end, and this period of his life was over. He was just Steve "The Hair" Harrington. His life had begun to crack when Barbara Holland, Nancy's friend, had disappeared after a little party at his home. And his life had definitely exploded when he had discovered a cruel truth: monsters exist. Or at least the Demogorgons, and especially in a world called the Upside Down, from what Nancy, Jonathan, Mike and his friends had told him.
The problem was that Steve did not know how to digest this information and deal with this new reality.
The first time he had to face one of these monsters, Nancy had been there for him. She too had been involved and he could talk to her about these fears, these anxieties, when he had trouble sleeping several nights in a row. But the second time, Steve had found himself alone. After that awful night he had to deal with new things, such as the fact that a strange girl had psychic powers (like some of the comic book superheroes he sometimes read), that Billy Hargrove really knew how to use his fists to hit hard, or the monsters were back and he had to fight several of them. Demodogs this time, according to what Dustin had explained to him. And no matter how he managed to survive, what looked like hell, he was now alone to face his anxieties.
Nancy had finally break up with him, to go for Jonathan Byers. She was no longer there for him when he went or had an anxiety attack after a night of nightmares. And it was certainly not to the young Henderson that he was going to turn, to tell him how much the stench of the tunnels or the one of the Demogorgon haunted him and seemed to stick to his skin. No, Steve Harrington was alone. There was only him, a bedside lamp constantly lit to illuminate his room at night, the sound of his voice whispering in a loop what Dr. Owen had told him ("It's over, they will not come back.") and the weight of his baseball bat in his hands, to fight his panic attack, reassure himself and try to go back to sleep, when he had had a nightmare again. And Steve knew that all this would drive him crazy, if he continued like this.
***
It was finally in January 1985, shortly after celebrating the New Year, that Steve began to discover the beginning of a method to relieve his tortured mind.
His parents had come back for the end-of-year celebrations, and as soon as they had finished, they were on their way again. While his father was away one last time, to settle some business affairs, his mother had siting in the living room, taking advantage of the brightness of the large windows of the room, to indulge in her favorite hobby: painting.
Mrs. Harrington was an artist, a painter whose canvases were piled up in the attic and cellar. She did not paint for others, only for herself. And this strange hobby had always made her husband, but also her son, doubtful. The two men in the house had never understood why this woman liked to paint, most often, things that made no sense. She could sometimes spend hours covering a canvas of paints in various shades, without that representing anything.
“It's my way of expressing myself, evacuating frustration, anger or all the negative emotions I can sometimes feel, Stevie. A bit like you when you fight against someone. Do you understand sweetheart?”
No. Until now, his son had never understood the meaning of these words, when one day he had asked her the question. Steve did not understand the link between painting and a fight. He did not understand how his mother could compare this boring activity to the one of a fight. Swinging his fists in someone else's face or torso, feeling the adrenaline running through his veins, bending his muscles to anticipate a blow or strengthen one of his own... No, really, Steve did not understand. However, on this January morning, he had asked his mother the same question, hoping this time to understand the answer she would give him.
“Well, as I've told you before, it's my way of expressing myself. I apply on the canvas my feelings, I put what annoyed me, but by using my brushes and paint. Sweetheart, you seem to like to fight against others, me, I paint, said Mrs. Harrington, while not leaving her eyes from her canvas.
- I do not understand.
- What do you not understand, Stevie?
- All of this, I guess?” He said, pointing vaguely to his mother, the canvas and the material around her.
The housewife of the home, when she was at Hawkins, stopped, looked at her son to see what he was showing, and began to smile. With a delicate and graceful gesture, she put the paint-filled paintbrush into the water-filled jar, before grabbing a dirty towel, which she only used for her leisure.
“How can I explain it to you, Stevie? When you fight against someone, it's because you're angry?
- I supposes.
- And when you fight, every punch you give to your opponent is to hurt, but also to evacuate this anger?
- Yeah, we can say that.
- It's the same for me, but through painting. The white canvas is my enemy. Brushes are my fists. Painting is the punch I give. Every time I paint, it's like I'm fighting. I evacuate what does not please me.
- What you do not like?
- You know, sweetheart, adult life, it's not always easy. Although thanks to your father, we can lead a pleasant and more comfortable life than most people, some things are not always pleasant. And these things, those bad feelings, I try to expel them, to get rid of them, through painting. Some people, it is through the sport they will do that, others will be through shopping. Everyone is free to choose the way to free themselves from their anxieties, Mrs. Harrington finished in her soft, calm voice.
- From their anxieties...” Steve repeated softly, as if the word had resonated in his head, and made it possible to understand the speech he had just heard.
Her mother placed one of her hands on her child's face, caressed with her thumb the cheek strewn with some moles, the same as hers, as if to mark the link that united them. It was one of the rare gestures of affection that Steve accepted from his mother when she was trying to give him one.
“Are you all right, sweetheart? I know that me and your dad are seldom at home, not at your side when you probably need it. But I'm here.” She said, plunging her big green eyes into those of her son.
Steve put one of his own hands on his mother's, who continued to caress his cheek, before closing his eyes, letting himself rocked by the warmth and sweetness of the gesture. He hated his parents for never being with him. He had hated them every time he had hurt himself and he would have liked to be comforted. He had hated them every time he saw Joyce Byers, a single mother who had fought the world to save her son Will. And he hated them every time he'd woken up, after having had a nightmare of the Upside Down, finding himself alone, in that huge house he hated. But this time, for once, he let fall his hate, preferring to embrace the tenderness of the gesture that his mother lavished on him. He released a sigh, which had been stay stuck in his throat for far too long, as if to free himself from a weight that weighed on him too much.
“Oh, Stevie...” Her mother whispered when she realized that some tears were starting to flow from her son's eyes.
***
“Hey amigo, what are you doing here?
- Get out, Hargrove. Leave me alone... Hey! Give me that!”
Billy had grabbed the notebook Steve had, a few seconds earlier, in his hands. The young man, although slightly smaller than his comrade, managed with dexterity to keep the object he had stolen out of reach. He moved constantly, preventing the elder one from being able to take back his property, while trying to see and understand why the high school student was absorbed by it.
“So, what are you hiding inside? Pictures of naked women? Or, pictures of guys? Billy whispered, in a deliberately nasal and provoking voice.
- Shut up, asshole! Give me back my thing!
- No, I know, King Steve has found a new hobby! So, you write romance novels, to win back Wheeler? Or poems, because you became a fagot?” Replied the young man with tanned skin, always opting for a tone that was well enough to enrage his opponent.
It was finally after a few seconds that Billy stopped to gesticulate and sneer, to bring down the notebook near his face, to better observe the interior. The pages, previously white, were filled with sketches and drawings of all kinds. He could see that among them, this weird and elongated shape, it was none other than the BMW of Harrington, while what looked like a rotten potato, was actually a rather failed hand.
“Man! It's really shitty what you draw, Harrington!”
Taking the opportunity that was offered to him, Steve recovered his sketchbook by tearing it from the hands of Billy. He closed the whole thing, while giving a murderous glance at the young man, who began to cackle, after his discovery. The brunet did not even try to understand if the blond one was making fun of him, because of the mediocre quality of his drawings, or because he had found his secret hobby.
Drawing... Looking back, even Steve had a hard time realizing he was doing that. Himself, sometimes, began to laugh nervously when he saw his works dating back a few hours or days. But the feeling of well-being, of deliverance, that accorded him the scraping of the pencil on the paper, was without equivalence. The day his parents had left, he had found this sketchbook, with a black cover and no frills, in his room, wisely placed on his desk. A handwritten note from her mother was hidden inside, leaving no doubt about who had offered him this gift.
“Use this notebook as it fits you. Blacken these pages by covering them with texts, thoughts, drawings, collage or others. Everything is possible. Hoping that it will help you and bring you the same peace that painting brings me. I love you, sweetheart. Mom.”
It had taken Steve several days before he dared to use his gift for the first time. It was again after a nightmare, which had woken him in the middle of the night, that he turned to the sketchbook automatically, almost naturally. He usually took his baseball bat in his arms, hugged it like a lifeline, while he tried to breathe more calmly, to ward off the anxiety crisis that was lurking in the shadow. But this time, he had grabbed the first pencil that had crossed his eyes and had quickly opened his sketchbook, he began to draw the shape of a Demodog. His pencil strokes were quick and sharp, his hand seemed almost to act by itself. Steve felt like he was possessed, like a madman with an idea in his mind, a specific goal he had to fulfill right now: draw one of the monsters that tormented him during his nightmare. The urge to put on the paper the image that haunted him was irrepressible. The young man could feel that it was the right way to push everything out of his head. The feeling that each pencil stroke brought him, was comparable to a drug shoot, although he never took drugs (after all, smoking herb, it was different, it was more like a little special cigarette). This impulse that had invaded him was strong, almost uncontrollable, but delightfully enjoyable, as he drew. And although the end result did not look much like the precise image engraved in his head, the fact of being able to express this anguish that gnawed at him from the inside was unparalleled.
This was how Steve "The Hair" Harrington began to practice his new secret hobby and finally fully understand what his mother had explained to him a few days ago. Finally, he was fully aware of the liberating effect that painting could have on her, while he himself was essentially experimenting with it through drawing. Some nights, he did not draw but wrote, trying to put words on how he felt about what he was going through. At other times, he began to cut out images, photos, creating a collage, on which he sometimes drew on top, in order to accentuate some aspects of his work. He liked to try various artistic techniques, allowing him to see what was most effective to free him from his negative emotions. And most often, it was the drawing.
He was not as good as the young Will Byers, but he did not care. He appreciated more the feeling that the drawing gave him, than the result in himself. He did not care that his attempts to redesign what he saw, in a dream or in everyday life, often resulted in things that were often not easy to understand. Steve was improving, by passing lots of time at sketching, whether at night, after a nightmare, or during a quiet time between classes, but again, he was not trying to become a perfect artist. He was only trying to feel better about himself, in his head and face the new reality that had shattered his previous quiet and peaceful life.
“So, King Steve draws. Funny, you do not have the look of an artist. It's the fact of being dumped that made you even weaker? Or is it because I broke this dish on your pretty face, that it breaks even more your brain? Billy asked, still giggling stupidly.
- I warn you Hargrove, if you talk about it to anyone, you...
- What are you, Harrington? Are you going to make me bite the dust? Can you even do it?”
Steve looked at the blonde, sighed, before shaking his head, then starting to pick up his things.
“Just do not talk about it to anyone... Please.”
Billy let out a little cackle, as if what the high school student had said, was both hilarious and stupid, while in the same, he was taking a cigarette out of the package that was in one of the pockets of his jeans jacket. He lit it by quickly unsheathing his lighter, smoked a little, before blowing a puff of nicotine, to better then begin to lick his lower lip and let out a kind of chuckle again.
“Yeah, yeah, pretty boy, no worries, I will not say anything.”
Relieved, Steve started to leave, not wanting to stay with Billy. After all, the two young men were not friends and their current relationship was to stay away from each other, even during training and basketball games. The less they were together, the better they went. And the brunet hoped that this strange dummy peace would remain present until the end of the school year. Still a few months and with luck, he and Billy would never have to talk to each other again or even see each other.
“Hey, Harrington! The blonde shout, before the other disappeared entirely from where they were.
- What again? Steve sighed, before turning his head to the other.
- I lied earlier. Most of your drawings are really shit, it's true. But the kind of skull that smoked a cigarette, that man, it's really cool.”