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Steve Harrington wanted to die sometimes.
It was always there. A nagging thought in the back of his mind, persistent but never quite taking control. An afterthought for when things got rough, when it was just himself and his thoughts and all he could think about was how much he wanted his life to end. He never actually went through with it. Of course he didn’t. He had girls to kiss and beer to drink and cigarettes to smoke. He had escapism, a way to punish himself for existing without directly trying to. He had excuses, reasons to pull the shit he did and reasons to get him out of wasting people’s space.
But it was always there. Of course it was. The idea of Steve Harrington, dead at the ripe age of 16 or 19 or however old he was, was always there. Always. Always there, always bothering him, always in the back of his mind beckoning him to listen. It didn’t help that his parents could give less of a shit about him, either. Neglecting him, yelling at him, starving him—anything they could to get the useless fuck-up out of their house. Steve had learned from a very young age what it truly meant to fend for himself.
The first time death had entered his mind was when he was 13 years old and his grades weren’t the straight As he had been looking for. When he had been scolded by his father, ignored by his mother, and forced into his room to think about what he had done. When he laid on his bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about how much he had wanted this pain to end. When he was tired of sucking it up, when he was tired of being a man and forcing the tears out of his eyes because boys don’t cry and if he cried he would just be weak and weakness was the last trait a man should possess so he should just suck it up and take it. He was so fucking tired of it.
And there had been a pair of scissors sitting somewhere on his dresser.
He hadn’t actually done anything. He was too afraid to, too afraid of hurting himself in any shape or form. But he had thought of it. And thought of it. And thought of it. And thought of it. He thought of the knife piercing through his throat, killing him instantly. He thought of taking the longer way out, of slicing his skin until he had no choice but to slowly bleed out on his bed. But any method he could come up with would only leave a mess. A terrible, terrible mess that would stain his bedsheets and carpet and walls that would only take time out of people’s days to clean up.
(Steve hadn’t known at the time, but it wasn’t about staining his room.)
So, he opened his window, threw the scissors out of it, and sobbed into his bed until his throat was raw.
When he became popular, the urge slowly ebbed away. His mind had become preoccupied with sex or parties or alcohol and there was no need to think about death when he had everything he could ever want right in front of him. He had friends, he had popularity, he had hot chicks that wanted to be with him and wanted to love him. Steve Harrington had become one of the most well-known people in Hawkins, Indiana, and he had adored every second of it.
But he knew it was all fake. Deep, deep down, he knew that nobody gave a shit about him. It was all some made-up facade because people just wanted to know what it would be like to get in Steve’s pants. It was just a fraud, an illusion made up by every fucking person his age because he was King Steve, the most well-known asshole of the early 80s, and people wanted to know what it felt like to be friends with him. And he hated it.
He just wanted to feel loved. He wanted to feel real, genuine love, the connection of a person who wanted him and needed him and relied on him. He didn’t care how he got it. He didn’t care how many girls he had to fuck, or how many drugs he had to try, or how many beers he had to drink. Steve just wanted to feel loved.
He may have been dumb, but he wasn’t dumb enough to not know it would never happen. That no matter how hard he tried to find to a real, genuine connection, nobody would ever want him back. He could give and give and give as much as he possibly could, but he would never be able to receive it in return. Steve Harrington would always, always be alone.
He had gotten close many, many times, though. He had gotten close when he had met Nancy Wheeler, and suddenly, he actually meant something to someone. Suddenly, he felt worth something, more than just a hot guy and more than just a dumbass fuck-up who could never do anything right. She had made him feel loved, loved in the way he had longed for for so, so long. Even if he messed up, even if he did something wrong or hurt the wrong person or said the wrong thing, she had always come back to him and had loved him far, far more than anyone else ever had.
So when Nancy Wheeler broke up with Steve, it was like his entire world had fallen apart.
He knew it was his fault. He didn’t know why, or how, but there was a growing weight in his stomach that said all signs pointed towards him being the problem. And, of course, he had to fix that. Because he could handle rejections from any other person, but Nancy was the one person he could not lose.
But then Dustin Henderson had wormed himself into Steve’s life. He had shoved himself into the passenger seat of Steve’s beamer and demanded that he grabbed his bat and told him that they had to go now. Right as Steve was about to fix everything, right as he was finally about to feel worth something again, Dustin Henderson had torn him away from it and forced him into a box he didn’t want to fit into.
And suddenly, Steve had found a new escapism. A new way to keep the never-ending thoughts in the back of his mind, a new way to drown out the urge of death, a new way to feel like he was worth something again. Suddenly, he was getting the shit beat out of him biweekly instead of swallowing pills he didn’t know the origin of. Suddenly, he was using whatever power he could muster to protect 6 little kids instead of downing as many drinks as he could in one night. Suddenly, he was putting himself in danger as often as he could, but it never felt intentional. It never felt like something he wanted to do, but rather, something he had to do.
When he met Robin, this behavior was instigated. When those stupid Russians had taken over the mall, and Steve had thrown himself into the arms of a Russian soldier at least 10 different times to protect the people he cared about. When he had taken the beatings, the torture, the pain and the agony and the suffering because he did not want to know what would happen to Robin if he continued to lie his ass off. Steve could not lose Robin. He learned that very, very quickly.
Suddenly, he had found something to live for again. Dustin was almost constantly hanging out with him, he and Robin were attached at the hip, and he had found well-paying jobs and friends to hang out with and things to keep the thought of death as far away as he could. Even if his parents were on the fence between cutting him off for life or letting him stay, even if half of his friends didn’t really give a shit about him, it was far, far better than the life he was living before. For a very short period of time, Steve had finally felt like he had something to live for.
But when Eddie died, all of that had fallen apart.
Dustin Henderson hated Steve’s guts. That was something he was 100% sure of. Eddie’s death had finally made Dustin realize how useless Steve was in comparison to Eddie, and now, he was sick of him. Dustin wanted him gone, wanted him out of his sight and out of his life and probably rotting away six feet under. He wanted Steve to leave him alone, to stop poking and prodding and asking over and over and over if he was okay, if he was alive, if he wanted to stay alive. Dustin was fed up with it, and all Steve could do was pretend to go along with it.
But Steve couldn’t let Dustin win. He couldn’t. Because if Dustin won, and Dustin died, Steve couldn’t handle it. He knew he couldn’t. Dustin was his lifeline. Dustin was his tether, his rock, the one thing that kept him from spiraling off of the deep end now that he wasn’t going back to his old habits. Dustin was a constant, something that was there for him over and over and over again and kept him from finding those pair of scissors again. And sure, he had Robin, but it wasn’t the same. It could never be the same. Steve couldn’t handle losing one of the only things that was still keeping him alive.
Steve knew it was selfish. He knew Dustin was worth far, far more than just an outlet for Steve to not feel suicidal. He knew it was selfish and dumb and it made him a huge, huge asshole, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t. Dustin was amazing and smart and wonderful and all of the things that Steve wasn’t, and all he wanted was to feel like he had a purpose. Like he had meant something to someone at some point.
Steve loved Dustin more than anything in the whole wide world. And even if Dustin didn’t reciprocate, even if Dustin had never loved Steve the way Steve loved Dustin, he had still made him feel like he was worth something, and that was all that mattered.
But Steve couldn’t have that anymore. He didn’t deserve that anymore. He didn’t deserve Dustin’s love or care or affection. He didn’t deserve Dustin, period. And clearly, Dustin agreed. Clearly, the more Steve fucked up any chance at healing what had been broken, the more Dustin was holding back from nasty choice words that would lead to their inevitable falling out. Clearly, the more Steve let his anger and his rage and his frustration towards Eddie build and build and build, the more Dustin let his anger and his rage and his frustration towards Steve build and build and build. Clearly, the two of them were getting absolutely fucking nowhere with fixing their relationship, and Steve was growing tired of it. He was growing so, so tired.
“Will you shut the fuck up, Steve?” Dustin had practically growled into Steve’s face after a particularly bad argument, holding his arms close to his chest. Steve had been taken aback, so shocked that he could barely even muster up a response. “W- what?”
“I told you to shut the fuck up!” Dustin repeated, so angry that Steve wondered if steam would rise out of his ears.
But Steve couldn’t muster up a response. Not after Dustin Henderson, the boy who had changed his whole world, had just told him to shut up. The boy with the big, bright smile, the laugh that could light up a room, the eyes so full of love it practically radiated off of him. There was nothing Steve could say in that moment that could heal the gaping wound Dustin had just left in Steve’s heart.
“Leave me alone, Steve,” Dustin had mumbled, pushing past Steve and power-walking as far away from him as he could. “I’m tired of you.”
Steve was tired. He was tired of hurting and suffering and constantly feeling like he was nothing but a useless piece of shit that dragged everyone down. He was tired of waiting for something that would never happen, of waiting until he finally felt the love and affection of others when it was clearly something he did not deserve. He was sick of waiting for a cure, waiting for the thoughts to go away, waiting to feel better when it would clearly never happen. He was sick and tired of pretending like people cared about him when the harsh reality was that nobody did.
And then, one night, it clicked.
Suddenly, Steve wanted the scissors again. He didn’t care about making a mess, he didn’t care about the stain it would leave, he didn’t care. He just wanted to die. He just wanted death.
So, he waited. He waited, and waited, and waited, until it seemed like Dustin wasn’t one step away from ending it all himself and Steve could work in secret and he could go out in a way that would kill him instantly and leave no chance for hesitation. He waited until the coast was clear, until he had found an excuse to kill himself and a time to do it that would leave his body found and taken care of by the end of the day to spare everyone the pain of wasting time on him.
“Rob!” He had called out one sunny evening near closing time, almost laughing in the fact that he would be speaking his final words. “I’m gonna go do a maintenance check, okay? Make sure the tower’s good ‘n all.”
“Wow, really?” Robin had called back, somewhere in another room. “And you’re going to leave me all by myself?”
“You’ll survive,” Steve replied, and he meant it. She would survive, but he would not. She would live to see the light of day by tomorrow, and he would be dead on the ground, rotting away in whatever Upside Down themed afterlife he would be sentenced to.
“Just don’t fall off, dingus!” Robin had called back out, and for a split second, Steve had to physically bite back the urge to tell her the truth. Of how he would fall off, about how it was his plan to, about how he wouldn’t even say goodbye—
Steve stopped the second he reached the doorway, breath being caught in his throat as he realized that he forgot to write them all goodbye letters.
But he saw how that went with Max. And it would only create more problems instead of solve them.
Steve does not leave letters behind. He does not leave a letter or a reminder or anything at all, because nobody would really care. They wouldn’t.
He climbs up the roof of the Squawk, immediately feeling his stomach churn at the sheer height of the tower. But he couldn’t turn back. He wouldn’t turn back. This was the only way out.
So he climbs. He climbs and he climbs and he climbs, until the sun is only half over the horizon and the sky is a deep shade of pink and orange. He climbs until his limbs ache, until his body screams in pain from the amount of steps he had to climb and all he wants to do is jump right off and spare himself the pain of sore muscles.
Steve reaches the top and feels something in his mind shift. There is a small flicker of hesitation that crosses his train of thought, and he can’t help but give in to it. He treads to the ledge of the metal platform, gazing at the world below him. Holy shit, he’s so high up. If he fell, he would die. This would be it.
A part of him keeps giving in to that hesitation, keeps waiting and waiting and waiting as if he’d change his mind and go back down if he sat here long enough. But he won’t. He fights back, fights until there’s nothing left in him and all he can bring himself to do is mindlessly climb over the ledge, lifting himself over to the other side. And now, he finds himself here, stuck on the edge of a 200-foot Radio Tower with the only thing keeping him from plummeting towards certain death being the feet planted into the platform and the hands gripping the railing behind him.
Steve Harrington doesn’t really want to die. He realizes that now, as he’s dangling off the edge of the tower and his stomach is twisting, his heart is about to beat out of his chest, and his body is shaking so hard he swears it’s shaking the tower, too. He swallows, his mouth achingly dry and sore. He listens to his heartbeat, of the loud and aggravating thumping in his chest that will soon be silent.
Steve is going to die. In a few seconds, he will let go, fall forward, and die. Ten years of pain and suffering and waiting for it all to be over will finally end. 10 years of fighting the urge to find those scissors again, of fighting the urge to make a mess, of fighting the urge to prevent stains. But Steve couldn’t care about that anymore. He just couldn’t.
For a split second, Steve hears someone—Dustin—calling out his name, raw and full of a frantic desperation to reach him. Steve can’t help but let out a pained huff of laughter, his stomach twisting at the thought of Dustin Henderson of all people saving his ass. The one person who wants him dead more than anything in the world, racing againt the clock to stop him from embracing it.
Steve knows he shouldn’t be so hard on Dustin. He was just a 16-year-old kid who was grieving the loss of his best friend. But his self-absorbed response to Dustin’s aggression was just another reason why he deserved death and just another reason why Dustin would be better off without him. Better off without his annoying presence, without his annoying protests, without him.
But if he was dead, nobody would check on Dustin. Nobody would make sure he was okay, or safe, or alive. Nobody would help him after a fight, nobody would try to knock some sense into him and get him to take off that damn Hellfire Shirt club, nobody would put time into their day to take care of Dustin because they’d already moved on a long, long time ago. Out of every bad thing Steve Harrington has ever done, the only thing he can give himself credit for is being one of the only people left who still cared about Dustin Henderson.
Steve suddenly grips the railing tight, so tight his skin burns and he’s sure his knuckles are turning white. He doesn’t want to die. He really, really doesn’t want to. But he’s backed himself into a corner he can’t get out of, and the only thing that will bring him peace is accepting it. Accepting death.
Steve thinks of Robin. Of her looking out the window, wondering why it’s taking him to long to do a maintenance check, and instead seeing his dead body plastered on the ground. He thinks of her reaction, devastated at the sight but relieved that he was finally gone. Steve knows Robin will be happier without him. He knows she will. But for some awful, awful reason, his mind is stuck on her reaction to finding out, and it won’t move on. It won’t.
He doesn’t want to die. He really, really doesn’t. But there is no other way out of this.
So, with the shakiest and most pathetic final breath he’ll ever take, Steve Harrington lets go of the railing, allowing himself to fall forward and off of the Radio Tower.
————————————————
There are a pair of arms wrapped tight around him, squeezing so hard he might heave from the sheer force on his stomach. Steve takes a moment to collect himself, realizing that he is not, in fact, plummeting to his death, but instead, hanging off the ledge, one of his feet barely grazing the metal floor and the other already dangling in the air. His arms are flailing forward, pathetically drooping towards the ground one hundred feet below him as if begging to be released. From the way he’s positioned, if whoever is holding onto him right now let go, he would immediately fall forward and die. A part of him wants them to.
He looks down, sees arms covered by thick biege sleeves coiling around his torso. He can’t see the person’s hands, no, they’re wrapped way too tightly for that—but there is only one person he knows with thick beige sleeves.
Steve must be imagining things. He must have fallen, and this is the afterlife, and his mind is just playing tricks on him. That must be it. Maybe the person isn’t even here, and his mind just wants to die pretending they were. But if they weren’t here…then Steve could let go. He could pull their arms off of him, fall forward, and finally end his suffering.
So, he holds the arms wrapped around his stomach, grips them as tight as he can, and pulls.
The person behind him screams.
Steve is so surprised by it that he barely even registers what happens next. The arms grip tight, so tight that their fingers pinch the skin underneath his clothing, and throw him backwards with as much force as they can muster, shoving him over the railing and back onto solid ground. Steve’s back slams against the metal flooring, but his head does not, instead falling onto something soft but solid, stopping any potential damage to his already fucked-up skull.
Steve takes a moment to allow his brain to catch up, his mind absolutely reeling by what the hell just happened to him. His body suddenly feels very, very heavy, as if the shock of being thrown tied him down and stopped him from getting back up. His heart beats at a mile a minute, pounding at a rate that cannot be normal. He can see clearly, but his mind is too overwhelmed to take anything in. All Steve can do for a pathetic few seconds is stare at the dark and cloudless sky above him and realize that he is not dead. He is not dead. He is alive, on top of the Radio Tower, and somebody caught him. Somebody caught him.
And that somebody was sobbing so loud that the noise filtered through his ears almost instantly.
“Ste-ee-eve,” Dustin Henderson wails, his voice turning Steve’s name from one syllabus to three. Steve has been repositioned into Dustin’s lap, the back of his head cradled into the fold of Dustin’s left arm and his lower back being supported by Dustin’s right. Dustin looks down at him, hat barely hanging on and hair askew and face a total fucking mess. For a second, Steve realizes that Dustin looks far worse than he had ever looked before. The thought of that brings tears to his eyes almost instantly, especially when Dustin only cries harder.
“St-Steve,” Dustin whines out again, sounding nothing like the 16-year-old boy he was supposed to be. Dustin chokes on his sobs, crying so hard he sounds like he’s struggling to breathe. Something in Steve finally clicks at that, and he feels grounded back to reality almost instantly. His hand shoots up, gripping at Dustin’s shirt, a silent plea to grab his attention.
“Dustin,” Steve chokes out, surprised at how difficult it is for his mouth to form words. His throat suddenly burns from how dry it is, and he can’t help but let out a weak cough, his hand gripping Dustin’s shirt even tighter. “Dustin, it’s okay.”
“Steve,” Dustin cries out, as if that is the only word he can say. The hand snaked under his back suddenly moves, reaching up to grab Steve’s and pull it off of his chest. Dustin uses his left arm to pull Steve’s head up, wrapping Steve’s hand around the back of his neck and shoving his head into Steve’s chest, tearing out the loudest sob Steve had ever heard him make. Steve’s hand squeezes the back of Dustin’s head, cradling his curls. His other arm is shoved awkwardly into Dustin’s stomach, unable to move. Steve relentlessly forces it out, shifting Dustin ever so slightly, who only tightens his death grip on Steve. Steve wraps his other arm under Dustin’s, coiling around his back and successfully putting them in the most awkward hug of all time.
“Steve,” Dustin sobs into Steve’s chest, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. His hat falls off, tumbling onto the ground next to Steve and reminding him that he is alive. That life is continuing and things are moving and Steve Harrington is alive.
“Dustin,” Steve repeats like he’s crying out for his mom, squeezing his trench coat tight. Dustin doesn’t reply, just continues to sob loud and openly into Steve’s shirt. There’s a persistent and growing damp spot right above Steve’s heart, but he can’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything but Dustin right now.
“Steve,” Dustin cries out once more, lifting his head up ever so slightly to meet Steve’s eyes. “Steve, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“Dustin,” Steve can only say, moving the hand that previously rested behind Dustin’s head in front of Dustin’s face to pull back his bangs.
The affection only makes Dustin cry harder as he shoves Steve’s head as close to his as humanly possible, their cheeks pressed together. “I thought- I thought I wouldn’t—” Dustin chokes on his words, pressing harder. Steve’s jaw is uncomfortably shoved into the side of Dustin’s neck and his nose is met with the familiar scent of Dustin’s shampoo as the boy holding him cries out again. “Steve!”
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers out, so quiet and muffled he isn’t sure if Dustin even heard him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck—”
“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Is all Dustin says, and Steve’s chest stings with pain at the familiar words that came out of Dustin’s mouth. Steve doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t think he can, so he instead opts to hug Dustin as tight as he can. Holding him close, holding Dustin’s heart to his own, because Steve was somehow alive and breathing and solid. He didn’t die. He didn’t.
Later, when Robin finds them, Steve will spend a few moments fighting the urge to jump back off. But then he’ll think of Dustin, of the sobbing and wailing mess that he was reduced to, and any sort of fight in Steve will be lost. They’ll trudge back down the steps together, Steve in the middle, and will stay in complete silence for the rest of the evening. Steve will not explain himself. Not yet. Dustin and Robin won’t try to.
Steve doesn’t feel any different. In fact, he could even say he feels the exact same way he did hours ago, when he was moments away from ending his life. But Dustin Henderson, the boy that Steve was convinced had hated his guts, had saved him from certain death. Dustin Henderson, the sweet and wonderful and amazing best friend of Steve Harrington, still loved him. He still loved Steve. And Steve was many things. He was a coward and an idiot and completely worthless. But as Dustin gently guides him towards a couch, laying his head back on the armrest and placing a blanket over him like he was 5, Steve can’t help but feel like the light in Dustin’s eyes are returning. Like there’s something unspoken, something he can’t quite see, but can hear clear as day.
You die, I die.
Steve swallows. Dustin’s eyes meet his, and Steve just knows that that’s exactly what Dustin is thinking about. Steve hopes the look he give in return is enough to reciprocate the message.
You die, I die.
Steve Harrington cannot leave. Even if he wants to, even if he feels like it’s the only way out, he cannot let himself die because Dustin Henderson has agreed to die with him. If Steve goes down, so does Dustin. If Steve decides that he’s better off dead on the side of a 200-foot radio tower, so will Dustin. Steve cannot die because him and Dustin are tied together on an invisible string that can never bring them apart.
Steve Harrington wants to die. But right now, as he looked at his broken and bruised best friend in the eyes, all he could think about was how much he wants to live.