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“Thought I’d find you here.”
Dustin Henderson doesn’t need to lift or even turn his head for Steve Harrington to know that his younger friend heard him. There’s a tenseness in Henderson’s shoulders that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.
Well, mostly.
Steve isn’t sure the last time that he saw Henderson smile. He is positive that he hasn’t seen it in the past eighteen months, but even before that is hazy. Steve would be the first to admit that there’s precious little to smile about these days, but it doesn’t bother him any less.
It’s hard to look at someone and only see how they once were. The light that they once had in their eyes, now snuffed out for what-seems-like for good.
“You gonna keep ignoring me?” Steve presses. “I’ll take it personally.”
“You think I give a shit?” Henderson snaps. He looks up from where he’s crouched in Roane Hill Cemetery. “You wanna third-wheel, go hang out with Nancy and Jonathan.”
Jesus, Steve thinks.
Henderson was always the most quick-witted of the kids, but he rarely had a sharp tongue and was never purposefully cruel. Not in general, but especially not to his friends. Even when Steve would piss him off or infuriate him, the sophomore wasn’t malicious.
Munson’s death changed him.
Steve looks down at the headstone.
Edward Munson
Now At Peace
1966 – 1986
As much as Steve might try to convince himself otherwise, there’s a part of him that’s beginning to feel like peace is overrated. Unattainable. Munson is a perfect case, because it doesn’t seem like peace is even reachable in death.
Not when the word FREAK is emblazoned on his headstone in blood-red paint. Steve looks at the ground surrounding the grave and sees Henderson’s supplies. Supplies that Steve knows are totally useless, and not just because they’re sitting there abandoned.
“You’re wasting your time.”
Henderson whips his head around now, but Steve is no longer looking at him.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“Move.”
Steve doesn’t wait for Henderson to respond or do it. He nudges him aside with his leg before falling into a squat beside him. Steve reaches into the left breast pocket of his jacket.
“What are you doing?” Henderson demands.
Steve turns to look at him and arches an eyebrow. He turns the bottle so that Henderson can read it. He watches comprehension dawn on his best friend’s face.
Sheffield Lacquer Thinner
“If you’ve got an open flame,” Steve intones, “now’d be the time to back the fuck up.”
Henderson doesn’t say anything. He starts to reach for the bottle, but Steve shifts it to his other hand. The one further from Henderson’s reach. Next, he grabs a clean rag and gets to work.
“Don’t leave this shit on too long,” Steve mutters as he works. He feels Henderson’s eyes boring into him. “I don’t know about stone, but it’ll eat right through car paint.”
“They’re not the same.”
“No,” Steve agrees, curtly. “But do you really wanna test it?”
Henderson’s answer is in his silence. A memory reemerges for Steve. One that he hasn’t thought about in a long time. It brings him as much shame now as it did then, if not more.
“You need a hand?”
The man on the ladder looks down from the Hawk Theater’s marquee. He scrutinizes Steve’s bruised face with disdain and some kind of understanding.
Accusatorily, he demands, “Did you have something to do with this?”
“I just … I want to help.”
The employee reluctantly climbs down the ladder. Steve is already removing his jacket.
“All yours,” the man says.
All the Right Moves was playing that week. Steve remembers it, because he kept staring at the lettering and wondering how his decisions led him to that particular reckoning. He remembers it like it was yesterday, standing there in the cold and trying to scrub away his regrets.
Now his regrets have regrets.
Steve was trying to right a wrong then. Do penance. It isn’t remotely the same situation, but it sort of feels like he’s trying to prove something similar now. Trying to prove he can do right by Henderson even though, in this instance, it’s not his fault that some asshole tagged Munson’s grave. Maybe it’s more about the penance part.
Feeling guilty that he’s the one who survived and Munson didn’t. It may be egotistical, or even downright selfish, to see it as a contest for who Henderson liked better, but Steve is not totally clueless. Henderson hero-worshipped the metalhead.
It turns out, for good reason.
Steve was picked first for things most of his life, but it was never because he deserved that preferential treatment. People were drawn to him, but it was for entirely the wrong reasons. Stupid social hierarchies. Money. His last name. Steve was the life of the party, but he was never the kind of guy who’d lay down his life for anything. He never felt guilty about it.
Not until it was truly life or death. For that reason, he didn’t deserve to live more than Munson. Steve certainly didn’t deserve to stick around when there’s not a damn thing that he can do to make it easier on Henderson.
The lacquer thinner is doing its stuff. Steve secures the bottle and hands it wordlessly to the boy beside him. They continue crouching there in silence, silence stretching between them.
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
Steve glances to his right, but Henderson is looking straight ahead. His jaw is set and, even from this angle, Steve can see the glassiness in the teen’s eyes. He inwardly sighs and also faces forward.
“You’re a good friend.”
The best I’ve ever had.
“You're not God,” Henderson counters after a beat. “You can’t fix this.”
“I know.” Steve looks at him again and waits until Henderson meets his eye. “I know.”
He continues staring at Henderson, trying to convey what he’s leaving unsaid. Steve cannot be sure if the message is received or if Henderson’s just fed up and wants to be left alone. It could be either option when the boy purses his lips and looks away. But one thing’s for certain.
Steve won’t stop trying.