Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty-Two. Watercolor Eyes

FIFTY-TWO
— watercolor eyes

STEVE HARRINGTONS ROOM looks the exact same from the last time she saw it.

Blue and red walls, a framed photo of a red Corvette above his full-sized bed. Crinkled bedsheets, bundled at the end, and a tired indent of his body on the old mattress. A disordered nightstand— she saw a rubber-band ball, a metal water-bottle, and a picture frame. There were dirty-socks on the floor, and a clean Scoops Ahoy uniform sat on a swiveling-chair. A yellow-glow bounces off the walls, and the wooden floors, and fills each and every empty space in that cluttered bedroom. Finally, there's a silence— a heavy, overwhelming silence, that consumes the empty halls of the wide and tall Harrington house.

He insisted on making a stop before dropping her off at the cabin, sopping wet and shivering. She's standing there, in the middle of Steve's room, wearing wet jorts and an Orange Julius tee. Her sweaty-palms hug around her torso, and knead at the half-sleeved shirt that tightens around her waist. She shifts on her feet, in a one-two motion, the bottoms of her wet Converse squeaking against the wood.

      "You're not a stranger, Hop," his voice is like silk, "you don't have to stand there, like a mannequin."

      She unglues her hands from her sides. Lucy's chest unwinds with an exhale, and she's moving to peer at the picture-frames that sit over the top of Steve's dresser. A photo of his parents, shocking. Hawkins swim-team, the Hawkins Tigers. . . she sees herself. A gush of air is caught in her throat, and she withholds a cough. Hurriedly, she turns to Steve, "your parents are gone?"

      Like talking to her is second-nature, he hums, "they're in Cincinnati, I think."

      She hums, accidentally in the same tone. Her mind wanders, to spring, when his parents went on a two-week long trip to Los Angeles. He was home alone, and everyone was expecting a party— a Steve Harrington staple, to fill the empty halls of his two-story home. Instead, he spent his nights driving the burgundy BMW to the woods, so he could sneak through the window that Lucy would conveniently leave open. For two-weeks, he lounged in her room, unknowing to Hopper. . . if he could live like that, always, he would have asked his parents to leave more often.

      He's looking at her. Cinnamon-brown eyes trace her face, her damp body. His head snaps upwards, and he's suddenly searching his drawers for a dry pair of clothes. She averts her gaze down, and to her damp sneakers— a frown tugs on her lips. In a matter of seconds, she glances, up, and he's wearing a white tee-shirt. Steve's hair is disheveled, and he's tossing the wet Scoops outfit in a dirty pile of clothes. "You're probably. . . you're freezing," he says.

She sniffles. Her fingers tug at her shirt, which was stuck to her body, and she chuckles, "kinda," Lucy speaks. "My clothes are drying fast, though."

"No, no," he widens his eyes, "just— you can have something of mine."

      She watches him, as he hurries around the room. Steve opens the creaky-door to his closet, and moves a few hangers, before he yanks a hoodie into the palm of his hand. It's navy-blue, with two evenly tied strings. "You left your sweatpants here, back in May," he says, voice low. Steve holds them, grey and neatly folded, "forgot to give them back, I guess."

Her lips form an O, and she's moving to take the clothes from his hands. Her fingertips fumble with the bottom of her tee-shirt, and he turns his back to her. . . Steve suddenly becomes hyper-focused on his unmade bed. She blinks, and pulls the damp shirt over her head, so her naked torso is exposed. Without rushing, she peels off the jorts, and leaves them to drop at her feet— her hazel-colored eyes watch Steve as he smooths a palm over the bedsheets. He's still, now, and plants his hands firm over his hips— his heart hammers against his ribcage, knowing she's standing there in nothing but a bra and panties.