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Steve was fourteen the first time his mother told him she doesn’t love him.
She said it off-handedly after a few too many glasses of wine one night.
Steve didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to say, what the fuck he was supposed to do.
She told him she didn’t feel bonded to him when she was pregnant, too focused on hating the changes her body was going through. She thought, maybe once he was born, once he was a real person, it would happen for her.
Then he was born, and she didn’t feel anything new towards him. He was squishy and ugly, crying far too much for her to deal with him. She thought, maybe the pain of labor was clouding her emotions, maybe when he grew a little. She’d love him in a few months.
Apparently, that didn’t happen. He was fussy, crying out for attention near constantly for the first two years of his life. She tried everything to bond them, holding him when he cried, tending to his every shriek, singing to him in the rocking chair while he gurgled gently.
She still didn’t love him when he cooed his first Mama to her. She still didn’t love him when his chubby legs took him across the living room for the first time on his own power. She didn’t love him the first time he presented her with a picture of the three of them, a stick figure family holding hands with little hearts drawn in pink crayon.
He loved so fiercely for someone so tiny, someone so immature, and she didn’t understand how she could look at someone so little, so obviously sweet, and just, not, love him.
So she started following her husband on his business trips. And booking more vacations. And visiting her family in Italy. And spending less time with this tiny person who breaks her heart every time she looks at him and feels nothing. Nannies were brought in. Maids came twice a week to clean the house, clean his laundry, stock the fridge.
Steve was five the first time his father called him a disappointment. He was having a hard time learning to read. The kindergarten teacher called his parents in for a meeting, brandishing pamphlets emblazoned with the words dyslexia and learning disability and suggested some testing. Trying to make a plan to move forward with this little boy’s education. His father stood abruptly. He threw around words like stupid and retarded and promised Steve would work harder. He brought Steve into his study telling him he was a disappointment and sending him to bed without dinner.
Steve’s father was Hawkins royalty. Born and raised in the small town, he made something of himself. Created a company, created a brand of the Harrington name. He made money, married someone too good for Hawkins, too interesting, too foreign . He settled in a big house in the expensive part of town. He kept an apartment in Indianapolis near his work. Stayed there when his son was born, claiming he needed his sleep, couldn’t be kept awake by a screaming child and a mother trying in her native tongue to soothe him. Not when he had a full day of work ahead of him. He came home every weekend. Then every other weekend. Then once a month. Then he stopped coming home.
He always had high hopes for Steve. Creating a carbon-copy of himself to throw into the world. Someone he could trust, someone with his name to take over the company he loved more than his own son. But Steve was soft. He was sweet and silly and stupid , so he gave up hope on this little boy. Buying him toys, buying him sports equipment, but never playing with him, never coming to games.
He made sure Steve knew he was a disappointment to the Harrington name by the time he was old enough to understand the power of the Harrington name.
So Steve began lashing out. Trying to get attention in any way possible.
He was eight when he threw a rock through Mrs. Canfield’s window. His mother told him to apologize to the old woman. His father told him he was a bad kid and smacked the back of his head.
He was ten when he put a thumbtack on the substitute teacher’s chair. His mother told him to write a letter to Mr. Kendall explaining his behavior and that he knew it was wrong. His father told him he was a bad kid and smacked the back of his head.
He was twelve when he tried to jump from the roof into the pool, smacking his arm into the concrete and shattering the bones in his hand and forearm. It took two surgeries to fix everything. His mother called the neighbors across the street to drive him to the hospital. She didn’t feel the injury warranted leaving their trip a week and a half early. His father told him he was a dumb kid and extended the trip by another six days.
He was thirteen the first time he messed with Aaron, a weird quiet kid who was easy pickings. He called him a queer, breaking his soft graphite pencils and throwing his drawing pad to the ground in the parking lot. Tommy H. shrieked King Steve and it stuck.
And he was fourteen when his mother said she didn’t love him. So he stole booze from the liquor cabinet and took it to Tommy’s house on his bike. And they got drunk, and they called Carol and she and Laurie came over, and Steve was drunk, and sad, and wanted attention in any way he could get it, so he fucked Laurie. And it was terrible and he came in about two minutes, but she held him and ran her fingers through his hair and he so began to learn.
He was fifteen when he started going to parties. He learned that he could hold an impressive keg stand. He learned that girls liked it when he kept a cigarette behind his ear. That they would watch his mouth when he pulled them outside to smoke it. He learned that girls are soft, that they liked it when he was gentle. He learned to call them beautiful and put his mouth between their legs.
He was sixteen when his parents received a call to their hotel from the high school, informing them of Steve’s failing grades. His English Lit. teacher recommended a tutor and the words test Steve for dyslexia sent his father into a tirade. The phone call home from the hotel made Steve shudder and cry, covering the receiver so his father wouldn’t hear the sniffling. His father yelled at him to try harder. He told him he was stupid, an idiot . Told him he was disappointed his only son was a retard .
He was sixteen when he drove to Indianapolis in his brand new BMW. And he snuck into a bar with a fake I.D.s made by Tommy’s older brother’s friend. And Steve learned that he’s pretty. Pretty enough to get attention from older guys that like that he looks like he’s damaged . He learned how to fake it, how to hide his tears in a pillow and that it’s okay, I already finished explained away a soft cock and an empty feeling.
He was seventeen the next time his mother told him she doesn’t love him. She had had two martinis too many at the country club with his father and came into his room to update him on the fact that she doesn’t love him before jetting off to who-the-fuck-cares with his father. So he called Tommy, and Carol, and grabbed Nancy at school and threw a party. And then that Barb girl went missing from his backyard. And he learned what nightmares are. He learned what guilt was.
He was seventeen when he saw Jonathan comforting Nancy, holding her in her room, the place that should be reserved for Steve. And he got jealous. And he got mean. And he and Tommy spray-painted trash all over the town. And he fought Jonathan. And they ran from the cops.
He was seventeen when he thought he was gonna die. He watched that monster fall from the ceiling. And he picked up a bat, and swung, and defended, and protected. He learned that he loved to the point of dying. He learned he loved to the point of killing.
He was seventeen when he held Nancy to him on her family couch. He learned that Nancy gave him attention, Nancy gave him love when he was sweet. When he took care of her. When he bought her things and told her she was beautiful and charmed her mom and played with her sister and made faces at her brother and talked country club with her father. The Wheelers were easy to infiltrate, and he began to spend more time at their house than his own. He learned what having a family was like.
He was eighteen when Nancy slurred bullshit in Tina’s bathroom. He didn’t need her to tell him that. Didn’t need her to tell him what he already knew. He had built himself out of thin air, learning what people liked enough to give him the time of day and adapting, putting on whatever Steve Harrington the occasion called for.
He was eighteen when Billy Hargrove rumbled into town. His blue eyes following Steve wherever he went. Steve had to be careful not to eat the attention with a fucking spoon. Boys weren’t supposed to want attention from other boys. He learned to roll his eyes. he learned not to engage. He learned to lock every Princess and every Pretty Boy away for when he was feeling lonely. When he was feeling unlovable. He learned that when he ran into the arms of strange men, if he imagined it was Billy behind him, Billy above him, he didn’t feel quite so disgusted with himself after the fact.
He was eighteen when he thought he was gonna die again. He pulled Dustin to him, using his body as a shield. He felt the monsters run past them, around them. He learned, again, that he loved to the point of dying.
He was eighteen when he learned that he was actually a pretty damn good babysitter . He liked Dustin. The kid was weird and a big nerd, but he was funny and kinda cool and he liked Steve . He invited him over for dinner with his mother, who ended the evening by pushing a Tupperware of leftovers into Steve’s hands and pushing the words you’re such a sweet boy, and Dusty loves you so much and I’m glad he has a role model like you into his shoulder when she hugged him. He learned what a mother’s love feels like. He learned what it feels like to love a brother.
He was eighteen when he met Billy at the quarry. He got to lose himself in creature comforts, the warm body of another on top of his. He invited Billy to his empty house, carving out a space for them in the quiet chill of an empty building. He learned that Billy loved just as fiercely as he did. He learned that Billy had a father who spits slurs and insults. A father who uses his fists and calls it a lesson. He learned that having sex with another man could be gentle, slow, caring. It didn’t hurt when it was with someone he loved, someone that loved him enough to make sure he was okay.
He was eighteen when he received the rejection letters from every university to which he sent applications. His father told him he was stupid, an idiot . He took away the job offer at his own firm and dropped him off at the career fair at the brand new mall with a stack of piss-poor resumes and the clear direction not to come home until he has a summer job.
He was eighteen when he began putting on the sailor suit after school. He memorized sundae recipes and took pride in creating perfectly round scoops. He leaned Robin was cool, that she laughed when he embarrassed himself in front of girls. He learned to be goofy, to be silly and stupid and not to take himself seriously.
He was nineteen when he threw himself to the Russians. He used his body to keep the door shut, giving Dustin and Erica time to escape. He learned what torture was. He learned that he was quick to comfort others and that even real assholes can be forgiven.
He was nineteen when he got drugged with Robin. He tried to get one kind of love from her only to receive another kind. He learned that he loves unconditionally. He learned that platonic love fills his heart just as well. He learned what it’s like to have a best friend. He took Robin to her senior homecoming dance in the fall. They got high before they went and danced to lame music and drove to the quarry and confessed that they loved one another.
He was nineteen when Billy’s veins went black. He saw him, possessed and not himself, rev his engine and drive straight for Nancy and the kids. He timed it out and stepped on the gas. He learned what is what like to mourn his love. He learned what the grief of a lover was like. He learned what it was like to feel empty inside.
He was twenty when Billy came back. He was working in Family Video, a job he got because of Robin. He learned that Robin loved by making fun of him to his face, and defending him behind his back. He learned that Billy remembered everything he had done while possessed. He spent the better part of a year teaching Billy that he was still worth it, still worth love despite his guilt. Despite his scars. Despite his pain. He learned that Billy liked it when he cooked for him. He learned that Billy liked it when he held him and told him he was good.
He was twenty when he packed up his car, his and Billy’s things taking up the space in the back, him and Billy taking up the space in the front. He learned how long the drive is from Hawkins to San Diego. He learned that Billy snored when he fell asleep sitting up. He learned what the sun looked like when it set over the pacific ocean.
He was twenty-two when he opened up to Billy. He told him his mother never loved him. He told him his father called him a bad kid, a dumb kid, a disappointment, a retard . He told him about Laurie and Becky and Amy and Nancy and the men from the bar in Indianapolis and how he would cover up groans of pain with faked moans of pleasure. He told him about pretending, about faking until he got love. He told him about learning what guilt is, learning what torture is, learning what it’s like to grieve a lover.
He was twenty-two when Billy held him to his chest and rubbed his back and told him he was so sorry you had to go through that, Pretty Boy . He learned that being pretty got him Billy’s attention. He learned that being sad, sweet, happy, silly, stupid, angry got Billy’s attention. He learned that being Steve Harrington got Billy’s love .
Steve Harrington was twenty-two when he learned he was worth love.