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Steve Harrington was many things. A son, a selfless fighter, a brother and friend for the gaggle of freshmen kids he had acquired, but Steve swore up and down that no matter who or what he was, he would never be his father. Unfortunately for him, the similarities had begun to show up and terrify Steve, paralyzing him with more fear than the Upside Down ever could.
The Harrington’s were the face of the “American Dream”. They were rich, had their big house adorned with a white picket fence, and a son who was a star basketball player. Or maybe that's what they told people. Truth be told, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington hadn’t the slightest clue what their son was up to now that he had graduated high school.
They really just didn’t care.
Steve's father had always bordered on drinking too much. Maybe not enough to be deemed an alcoholic, but enough so that he blamed his infidelity on it, enough so that he justified yelling at his son and wife because of it. But that didn’t matter now. He was never home anyways, always out of state on “business trips” that Mrs. Harrington tagged along on.
Steve knew she only went to curb his need to cheat on her once more.
All things considered, Steve had it good. Sure, his parents started leaving him home alone at the age of 11, saying something along the lines of “you’re old enough, act like an adult. Men don’t cry. Try not to need us”. The warmth a child would receive from a mothers hug is replaced with the warmth of the too complicated stove as young Steve had to teach himself how to cook without burning the house down, lest he go hungry.
The silver lining to being alone in a big house with a big property was the recklessness he got to exhibit as a young kid. Playing in the backyard, running a muck down the quaint streets of his far too big neighborhood with Tommy, which always ended up with scraped knees and the occasional black eye from playing too hard. All in all, he didn't have a bad childhood, it just had gaps and a lot less tender love than most of his friends had.
As the years went on, Steve learned to detest his father. How dare he leave him and steal his mother away. How dare he expect everything from Steve and give him nothing in return. How dare he ruin his childhood and perception of love.
The worst part is, Steve knew that, compared to his kids, he had it good. His father wasn’t Neil, he didn’t physically beat or hurt him, he wasn’t El’s “Papa”, not by any means. So Steve shoved his ill feelings towards his father deep down to the point of repression. If he didnt think about how screwed up it was to leave an 11 year old alone to fend for himself, it was okay.
It wasn’t okay.
Steve had found himself drinking more. Drinking to pass the time, drinking to fall asleep, drinking to forget that his parents didn’t call for his birthday. His favorite was drinking the fancy scotch from his fathers cabinet to numb the pain that bloomed in his face after yet another fist fight and another unchecked concussion. And when he started to feel like he was becoming his father, he drank a little more.
Everytime he thought about the glaringly obvious similarities between himself and his father, he drank a little more.
Grabbing his fourth beer of the night, Steve sunk into the couch in the big, empty living room and prayed that maybe, just maybe, his parents would come home one day, give him a big hug, and apologize for the wrongful neglect they had given their son. Or maybe, they would come back and Steve would be long gone. Maybe he’d follow the Byers to California, he thinks, he certainly would be happier there for at least a month or two, before the crushing reality of him being the problem hits him.
Lost deep in his spiraling thoughts, Steve heard knocking at his door. Nothing good ever came from unexpected visits by anyone, Steve knew. Choosing to ignore it, he continued nursing his beer, staring straight ahead mildly dissociating. When the knocking stopped, he sunk down further, letting the cushions consume him and give him the comfort his mother and father would never be able to.
Steve was only phased when he heard the door unlock and swing open.
“Hello?”, a voice rang out into the vacant entrance of the Harrington house. That voice was certainly not one of his parents, and Steve still barely cared, in his impared state he could barely notice. It was times like these that he liked to blame his apathy on the tipsy fog of his brain, rather than the fact that at this point in life, he didn’t care what happened to him. Three years of living in a perpetual state of paranoia had lost its charm, he had recently decided on one of his liquor store runs.
In the haze of everything that had gone on in the last few years, Steve nearly forgot he had given Dustin a key to his house, “just incase”.
What this was “incase of '' was unclear, but the younger boy never used it without calling or walkieing first, so Steve knew he had fucked up somehow. Fucked up like he somehow always does, even though he tries his best to do better and be better, he swears it up and down.
“What are you doing! You promised you’d drive me to the Wheelers today! Are you just sitting here getting drunk alone? What the fuck, Steve.” yelled a disgruntled, but seemingly relieved Dustin Henderson.
Steve must’ve winced hard enough to clue Dustin in that he had just hit a nerve, as the younger boy muttered out a hello and a sorry. He knew that he had disappointed Dustin, and the worst part is that Steve laughed, giggling to himself as he realized that yeah, he is his father. He has been the Dustin in this situation, endlessly upset by his fathers disregard for him while he sipped away his issues.
The older boy shook his head to help gather his thoughts, the fog in his head feeling more like an unforgiving black ocean by now.
“Dustin--,” Steve had started, stopping only to pat the cushion beside him, beckoning the younger boy to sit beside him. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to forget you like that. Time must’ve slipped away. How can I make it up to you”? Steve pleaded, barely able to make eye contact with the boy he had grown to love like a brother.
And then Steve heard the sniffles as Dustin quietly wiped at his face, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of tears. “I thought something had happened to you” he hiccuped through his words. “You didn’t answer your walkie or your landline, Steve”. And fuck, he was right. In the ghostly haze he has been in, Steve must’ve knocked the landline off the base, looking towards the hall where it hung dangerously close to the floor. He knew deep down he probably dropped it on purpose, as the thought of someone calling him and saying that “its back” plagues his dreams and nightmares alike.
Steve knew he couldn’t unload all of his problems to this child, who somehow, despite all the bullshit he had gone through, still had his innocence. Still was seemingly unscathed in the grand scheme of things.
So Steve did what he did best and he shoved his real feelings deep down. Without second thought, Steve ruffled Dustin's hair and smiled. “You think you could get rid of me that easily, kid? I promise I’m okay, and I’m sorry”.
Now he was lying like his father does.
Dustin let out a wet laugh, a laugh that sounded like it boarded on not believing what his pseudo-brother had just said, but wanting, no, needing to believe him at the same time. He looks over at Steve, really looks at him. Notices the deep eye bags, the pale greyish tint to his skin, his greasy mop of hair, and his defeated slump. Electing to not speak just yet, Dustin launches himself at the older boy in a bone crushing hug. Neither one knew who needed it more.
After promising Dustin he was fine, he sent him home with a movie and a hug, and a promise to the kid that he’d reach out more. Steve missed everyone with every fiber of his being, he just didn’t know how to be a person right now, and he didn’t need his kids seeing him like this. He had barely even seen Robin recently, and felt like utter shit for it too.
Settling back into the couch, Steve turned on the tv and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. He guesses that's where he differentiates from his father. Mr. Harrington would throw a grown adult hissy fit if he saw Steve's feet on his nice, cherry oak table. Grinning to himself, he pushes his feet out further, in hopes that the tiny display of rebellion would help him feel like himself again.