Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Twenty-One. Caught In A Dream

TWENTY-ONE
— caught in a dream

IN HER WHOLE life, she had only seen two men cry. One, was her father— when Sara died, the emotionless wall Jim had built up came crashing. His youngest daughter was gone, and he was a mess; his two other children witnessed it. It was an unforgettable scene, watching her father sob, while she had tear-stained cheeks herself. It added to the realness of Sara's passing— if her father couldn't handle it, who could? The second was Vinny Pierce, when she accidentally revealed to her third grade class that the tooth fairy wasn't real. She had never seen such horror in someone's face.

    But, Lucy could now add Steve Harrington to her list of men she'd seen cry. He wasn't ballistic, he wasn't sobbing— just subtle heartbreak. He sat there, glasses on the edge of his nose as he sank lower into the drivers seat of his BMW. Steve was so deep into wallowing in his own misery, he hadn't even seen her approaching— but when he did, he wasn't happy.

    A frown tugged on her lips. "Harrington?" she spoke. "You okay?"

    He was defensive, almost immediately. "Can you mind your business, Lucy?" Steve pressed the glassed all the way up to his face. "You're— you're the last person I wanna see right now."

With a clenched jaw, Lucy shook her head. "You don't mean that."

Steve hesitated. He looked away, "I do."

Lucy would usually snap and threaten to shave his head, but the way he stormed out of the party told her that something was wrong with him— Steve Harrington never left a party early, especially not without Nancy. Leaning forward, she repeated herself. "Are you okay?"

The tenderness and genuine tone in her voice made the pit in Steve's stomach grow. He sunk deeper into the seat and nodded his head, keeping his mouth shut.

She exhaled, nostrils flared. "Take off your glasses, Steve," Lucy muttered. "Look at me."

"No," he refused, shaking his head.

    She acted fast— launching her hand forward, Lucy snatched the glasses off his face. He didn't even bother to cover himself, to cower away so she wouldn't see him; Steve only blinked hard, gaze averting forward.

   Taken aback, she put the glasses on her head. "You're actually crying," Lucy gaped, eyes wide. "Oh, Steve—"

"What the do you want?" he snapped, throwing his hands up in the air, "You're better off just leaving me alone, Hop."

Lucy knew she had a lot of empathy, but she was also loaded with awkwardness. The type of awkwardness that made it difficult to comfort people in situations like this— she was worried how they'd react to her hugging them, or how they'd react to her standing like an absolute mannequin. But, she knew Steve, and she knew that he wouldn't cry, not unless something was actually wrong. She gathered her pride and marched over to the opposite side of his car, opened the door, and plopped into the passengers seat.

She watched Steve shift his gaze her way— he wasn't crying, not anymore, but she could see it in his face. "She was drunk," Lucy said lowly. "She was really, really drunk."