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𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍 seemed to be embedded into your DNA.
It wasn’t like you believed in destiny or any of that star-aligning shit—but you swore on everything you loved that Steve Harrington was put on this earth, in the same small, shitty town, to torture you.
Indiana’s population was just shy of seven million people with over a hundred cities, and by some curse, you’d landed the misfortune of being born in small town Hawkins.
The same Hawkins where gossip spread like Polio, where everyone still remembered That One Embarrassing Thing™ you did way back in grade school, where Steve Fucking Harrington lived. Did you mention that already?
Middle school was where it all started, where the name Steve Harrington was just starting to gain traction. Before, he was just the boy in your class who laughed a little too loud during lessons, but you figured all pre-pubescent boys were like that. Annoying, obnoxious, and every other synonym you could think of. Nothing to look at.
Until the fall of seventh grade. Which happened to be the same fall that Tyler Sullivan moved in.
Tyler, with his sun-kissed skin and copper hair and gentle eyes.
The second he walked into Ms. Reagan’s class with his backpack slung over one shoulder, time quite literally slowed down. It was like you were in a goddamn romcom, the ones you would watch in your room, stomach against the mattress and chin nestled atop a pillow. It wasn’t then when you decided that this boy would be the love of your life.
It was when Ms. Reagan asked him to introduce himself, the apple of his cheeks dipping to reveal his perfect dimples as he smiled and smoothly stated his name, before sauntering over to the empty seat beside you.
You still remember how Tyler turned to look at you, even if it was just for a fleeting moment, tilting his head up with a “Hey.” A poor, curt excuse of a greeting, but in the eyes of a middle school girl, he might as well have gotten down on one knee.
That was when you decided that you would take his hand in marriage.
The boy got along with everyone frustratingly easily, so it was no surprise that just about half the female population in your class sprouted crushes on him, too. The rest of the guys seemed to already have accepted him as one of their own, too.
Tyler was, to put it simply, perfect. At least to your standards.
Now, listen. You were a thirteen year old girl with a raging crush on the boy who sat directly next to you. Since it was established that he was well-liked and somewhat popular (he was getting there), confessing was out of the question. No shot.
So you stuck to your daydreaming, drawing hearts around his initials in the margins of your notebook. Sneaking glances at him during lessons. Watching him play basketball on the bleachers. It was an innocent, harmless crush.
Of course, because the universe decided you should suffer the pain of a thousand soldiers, one day you made the mistake of leaving a page of your diary dog-eared on your desk. Not even fully open, just marked so you could continue writing without scouring the pages.
You had taken the bathroom pass during Ms. Reagan’s lesson, blissfully unaware that Carol Perkins was already snaking her curious hand towards your desk, where your beloved diary lay.
It was only when the bell rang for lunch that you finally noticed the absence of your diary, panicking and cursing under your breath as you fished through your backpack for the book. Had this been your punishment for leaving it out and about in the open? Shit. You didn’t even have the one with the lock on it.
Someone cleared their throat, your head whipping in the direction of where the sound came from. Your heart fell down to your toes at the sight of Steve Harrington—Tommy and Carol snickering on either side of him—holding your diary and reading it out loud like it was some kind of royal order from the queen.
The three had only started hanging out the summer before seventh grade, and decided that picking on random students was the funniest thing they could possibly do.
“Dear diary, I can’t stop thinking about Tyyyleerrrr,” He read, voice high and mocking. There was a stupid, cruel smirk on his face as he looked at his friends beside him for approval.
Blood rushed to your head, ears burning with embarrassment. You moved without thinking, reaching to grab the diary. There weren’t any thoughts in your head except for Getthediarygetthediaryget-
Steve held it above your head—when did he get so tall?—laughing as you tripped.
“Give it back!” You’d shrieked while fighting back tears, vision cloudy. If there was one thing you weren’t gonna do, it was letting them see you cry. Humiliation crawled under your skin, all you wanted to do was melt into a puddle on the floor.
“Oh dude, this one’s too good,” Steve cleared his throat again, palm against your forehead to keep you away as he read the rest of your inner monologue.
“How can a boy be this perfect? He’s not mean or snobby like most of the boys in our grade…” His words droned on, but all you could think about was punting him right in the face. That would teach him a lesson.
You don’t even notice when the topic of your diary entry enters the classroom because you’re too busy seething.
Steve notices, though. Immediately. “Oh, hey Tyler! Perfect timing, actually, see we were actually talking about her massive crush on—“
CRACK!
Maybe if Carol Perkins hadn’t picked up your diary, if Steve told her to put it back instead of reading it out loud, if Tommy Hagan hadn’t egged him on, you wouldn’t have picked up some kid’s metal lunchbox and swung it directly into the asshole’s face.
Whatever.
What was done was done, and now the boy was clutching his nose, presumably broken, blood so dark it looked black dripping down the back of his palm.
Were you wrong for not instantly regretting it? Maybe, but it didn’t stop you from just standing there, completely detached, middle and ring finger still curled around the handle of the lunchbox.
Holy shit.
”What the fuck, what the fuck?!” Steve cried, pain exploding in the center of his skull as Tommy and Carol dumbly rushed to his side, diary forgotten on the floor.
You wasted no time retrieving the book, suddenly heavier in your hands, and swiftly made your exit, shoulder checking a stunned Tyler on the way out.
Fast forward, you got three weeks of suspension and two weeks of community service. Your mother was terrifed of you potentially getting expelled or even sued by the Harrington family—it didn’t help that they were extremely wealthy. Initially, you hadn’t felt pity for him at all (the guy had it coming from a mile away), but the look of distraught on your mother’s face was enough for a pit to form in the bottom of your stomach.
Your poor, hardworking mother coming home to a call from the principal about her daughter assaulting some kid in her class. Imagine that. You still remember the disappointment that had formed on her face, the way her eyebrows arched in worry.
When you got home she broke down, head hung low, face in her hands. You heard it all the way from your room, because you knew you’d be subjected to going there anyway. Why wait for her to bark orders at you?
You’d grown up mostly with just your mom, who you loved and appreciated greatly but wasn’t always… emotionally stable. Who could blame the woman? She got knocked up by a deadbeat at the young age of nineteen, only to get left in the dust after four years when he decided that he was too good to play family. You could understand her rage.
Despite it all, you watched how she took up job after job, just to keep you fed and clothed and sheltered. Watched how she erupted in flames when she argued with your dad, and yes, you remembered their fiery arguments even at four years old.
So you didn’t question the resentment that had built up inside her over time, it was justified. You could see it in the way she gripped whatever was in her hands a little tighter when she was irritated, how her eyes flared up with anger before she delivered a blow with her words alone.
Now she thought that maybe she’d passed down all that anger, instilled it in you by letting her bitterness seep through the cracks of the walls she’d put up while raising you.
The guilt ate at you in little sections, letting you feel the weight of your actions.
Luckily, your principal held some bias as it was your first time doing something like that—your record was squeaky clean. By some miracle Steve’s parents decided not to press charges either, much to your relief. His excuse was that they had ‘better things to do than waste money on someone so unimportant.’
Word got around easily, and now you were the crazy girl who broke Steve Harrington’s nose and had a huge crush on Tyler Sullivan.
Great. Maybe the three week suspension wouldn’t be so bad, at least you’d be temporarily free from the looks and whispers in the hallway.
For the next few days you were practically bedridden, sobbing into your pillow. Your diary sat in the trash, pages ripped up. Your feelings were too big for your body, spilling out of you in the form of salty tears, staining your cheeks and your pillows.
But when you did come back, you weren’t as hated as you thought you were. It was pretty 50/50—you heard whispers of “I can’t believe Steve got his ass kicked by a girl!” but also “Isn’t that the weirdo who tried to kill him over a crush?”. Pretty mixed reviews.
Then came eighth grade, and the whole breaking-Steve-Harrington’s-nose fiasco was old, old news. That didn’t mean he forgave you, though, sending you nasty glares in the hallways or obnoxiously talking shit about you. Loudly. You had half a mind not to rearrange his face a second time.
Determined to leave violence in the past, avoiding Steve seemed to be your best option. If you were around him for too long, it would only be a matter of time before the two of you wound up in the principal’s office.
But alas, when has anything ever gone your way? Mr. Blocker, your new history teacher, was clueless about you and the boy’s history.
That’s how you found Steve Harrington in your bedroom one night in the eighth grade, a sight that would’ve made pre-pubescent you throw something across the room. Unfortunately you were working out your anger issues, so that was off the table. It’s just a project, you told yourself.
You would’ve asked to switch partners, but for some bullshit reason your teacher had decided that it was fair to take off points for a partner exchange.
It was no surprise that you did most of the work, while Steve, like the useless bum he was, snooped around your room. You were too focused on getting the work done because the sooner you finished, the sooner you could get him out of your house—to notice that he was searching your room for whatever reason.
“Holy shit. You still play with dolls?”
What was it with this guy and touching stuff that wasn’t his? He had some serious problems. The old box of dolls in the corner of your closet were meant for charity, but of course that was his initial assumption. Maybe he just had a knack for embarrassing you.
And maybe you did toy around sometimes with your old dolls. Just for the hell of it, sure, but Steve didn’t need to call you out!
Long story short, you warned him that if he told anyone, you’d snitch on him for contributing absolutely nothing and he would have to do the project himself. It’s not like Steve cared about his grades that much, but it was a dumb thing to get an F over.
“I mean, yeah, sure. I won’t tell. I’d be embarrassed too, doll.” Steve had this stupid grin on his face, like coming up with a corny nickname for you was the pinnacle of humor.
If old age wasn’t gonna kill this guy, you were. But you’d save that for another day. Preferably a day where he wasn’t lounging on your bedroom floor, the evidence would be absurdly obvious.
You’d actually sell a limb to go back in time, to tell your eighth grade self to find a better hiding spot for your beloved pieces of plastic. Because nicknames stuck. And now instead of your name—which you hated when it came out of his mouth, but was objectively better than what he called you on the regular—his way of addressing you was fucking doll. Dolly, when he felt like being a real prick. You couldn't wait to get out of this town. Or until Harrington croaked.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
Freshman year was when somehow everyone hit their growth spurt. Steve grew at least a foot taller and suddenly decided his hair was the greatest thing on earth, but in your opinion he just looked, well, stupid. How any girls were attracted to the bird nest he called his hair was a mystery you've yet to solve. He was like an unskippable ad, the fact that he was popular amongst your grade only made it worse.
You'd grown too over the summer, growing just above an inch over the summer. Since high school was a big development, it didn't hurt to maybe upgrade your wardrobe or experiment with makeup.
To describe the first day of freshman year as 'overwhelming' would be a massive understatement. There were kids bumping into you to get to their classes, couples sucking face against the lockers, the whole shebang.
Really the only great part was meeting your best friend. She was new—you could tell the second you saw her in the halls. It wasn't just because you didn't recognize her, Hawkins wasn't some big city where you saw new faces everyday. It was more so because she had this clueless look. Like she'd never set foot on Hawkins soil.
"You need any help with that?" You'd so graciously offered, approaching the cherub-faced girl. It was so obivous she'd never touched a locker before.
"Oh! H-Hey, yeah, um—that would actually be great. We didn't use lockers in my old school, and the counselor kind of just gave me the combination without any explanation..." She trailed off when she realized she'd been rambling, nervously twisting a strand of her dark coils between her fingers.
Endeared by her mousy demeanor, you quickly waved a dismissive hand. "No no, I get it! I mean, it's totally confusing—took me at least two weeks to fully understand how to mine open in middle school. So, let me see the first number..."
The introductions came after you successfuly assisted her in opening her locker. You'd come to learn that her name was Aurelia—Rory for short. It was a beautiful name, you'd never heard anything like it before.
After finding out about your mutual passion for art, the two of you had been inseparable, joining art club together and teaming up for work projects.
You'd never had a best friend before. You had friends, it's not like you were the lonely outcast quiet kid. Said friends were more like the girls you followed around and sat with during lunch. But hey, their gossip sessions were pretty decent.
It had taken a while, but it was so good to see Rory break out of her shell, at least around you. To others, Rory was still her cautious, cagey self. With you, she was unafraid to drone on about her interests, what she hated, or engage in playful banter with you. Although it would be great to see Rory fade less into the background during social interaction, you loved every version of your best friend and had no problem speaking up for her.
Back with you and Steve, things weren't improving. Yeah, you two were high schoolers now and pretty over the whole name calling era, but there was still bad blood between the two of you. It wasn't lost on you how Steve and his friends just got crueler and crueler.
Second week of sophomore year, while strutting down the hallway, Steve had tripped some poor nerdy freshman. Awfully cocky for someone who was just at the bottom of the food chain three months ago.
You happened to be in the same third period as both that poor freshman and Steve Harrington. From your peripheral you could see your mortal enemy pestering him for answers, and the kid, terrified out of his mind, gives them to him. Seriously, how low did you have to go to bother some kid fresh out of middle school for answers?
The next day, when your teacher was passing back papers, you saw Steve's stupid smirk at seeing his perfect grade.
What an ass.
You thought that if you told Mrs. Click that Steve had cheated, she would've just given him the grade he deserved or made him re-do it in detention. So when she called you in after class, with the familiar brunette and the freshman shaking like a leaf beside her, you knew you were in for it.
"So, you're telling me you saw Steve cheat off of Derrick here?" The middle-aged lady says, looking at you from above the rim of her glasses.
Yes. That's what I told you, not sure why you had to reconfirm it in front of them. You don't say. Instead you silently nod your head, paying no attention to how Steve is glaring holes into your skull.
Mrs. Click turned to Derrick. "Is this true?" Now Steve's shifted his attention to him, except this time he's making direct eye contact with him, silently asking Do you really wanna do this?
Much to your dismay, the freshman folded under his threatening glare. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Seriously? Steve didn't have the balls to actually beat anyone up. The worst he would've done was knock his books over. But of course he didn't know that.
Well, after a year of not getting into any major arguments with him, this little fiasco definitely rekindled your hatred for one another.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
You liked Nancy Wheeler.
Really, you did. She was book-smart, pretty, modest, and rather shy. You could totally understand why Steve would dig a girl like that. What you didn't understand was how Nancy could like a guy like Steve. The only thing he's got going on for him is his looks. Yes, even you could admit that.
But you still doubted her intelligence for that decision.
Steve spent the first half of junior year flaunting her around, his arm around her shoulders, stealing kisses from her whenever he could.
You still remember bumping into Steve when you were entering the restroom, scowling at each other before he exited. Inside you found a rather flustered Nancy.
"Gross," you muttered once they were both out of earshot.
He had also been getting pretty close with Nikolai Campbell ever since he joined the basketball team at the start of year. He'd been hanging around with Steve and the other two for a while now.
By now, you and Rory had been in Hawkin's High Art Club for three years. The club only had around nine members, with the two of you being the eldest. The seniors who ran the club graduated last year, so naturally adminstration deemed you and Rory in charge. She was really only social when it came to you and the rest of the club, as most of them were underclassmen and as artsy as the both of you. Except for Theo, the only other junior.
Because Steve Harrington had climbed his way up the popularity poll, word got around that he and Nancy had broken up and apparently Tommy and Carol were cut off. You didn't hear anything about Niko, though, but you still saw him walk around the halls with him so you assumed he and Steve were still cool. How much of an asshole did you have to be to stay friends with a guy like that?
It definitely intrigued you, since Steve, Tommy, and Carol were so tight knitted since middle school. But Nancy? Damn. Good for her, especially after the spray paint incident. Maybe Steve getting his ass handed to him gave him a new sense of clarity.
You couldn't deny that Steve had definitely changed a little for Nancy. Toned down the bullying a notch, until, well... He was primarily still a cocky, priviledged bastard who was full of himself.
All of this had happened after Will, Jonathan Byer's younger brother, got lost in the woods.
Luckily, only a week later was he found and brought home safe.
And by some miracle, Nancy took Steve's sorry ass back. Imagine your surprise when they walked into school hand in hadn after hearing that she'd slapped the shit out of him just days ago.
You assumed he must've done a lot of ass-kissing. Either that or Nancy's taking him in as some sort of charity work. Honestly, out of everything, that might've been the crazy shit that happened.
Now it was the summer of senior year, and you were certain that your last year would be perfect. No Steve Harrington would ruin it.