She hated him. He hated her. And that was alright in their world until one night. Everything changed then, conversations exchanged between drags of a shared cigarette having developed a mutual respect between enemies.
-----
Slowburn enemies to frie...
I slide a department store's worth of bobby pins into my hair, spraying down every last inch with extra-strength hairspray, just to be safe. Dustin claims it's overkill, but I have to move around a bunch to keep the kids out of trouble at the dance. I tell myself that I only care about appearances because Dustin's teachers will be there and that it's for his sake. Honestly, neither Dustin nor his teachers could give a crap about what I look like. Yet I still find myself perfecting my hair and makeup before the event.
I pick up loose powder with a powder puff, dabbing my face with it. The motion feels familiar, almost repetitive. As I attempt to retrieve the memory, the lights flicker. Slowly at first, but faster as I dig up the past few weeks.
The odor of rubbing alcohol and saline solution wafted around the tiny bathroom. My hands shook as I readied the supplies to stitch Steve up after he refused to go to the hospital, fearing his parents would find out.
Steve was trying to act tough. It wasn't unusual for him, but it was rather annoying. He closed his eyes tight as I dabbed the blood from his face to reveal the blemishes from his tussle with Billy. He groaned, wiggling in his seat a bit.
"Sit still," I scolded.
"It hurts," He complained. "Why are you helping me, anyways?"
I remember it so clearly. What I said at that moment. "You helped us. I owe you one,"
"This feels more like you get a sadistic pleasure from causing me pain," he winced as I cleaned the wounds. I glared at him, pressing an alcohol pad directly to a big gash under his eye. "Ah, fuck!" he screeched.
I laughed breathily. It was fun to tease Steve Harrington.
We were silent for a long time. As I finished bandaging up his face, I bit my lower lip. I knew what came next, but the idea of initiating it was almost too awkward to bear.
My eyes wandered to his torso, clothed with a dirty, bloody, cotton-white shirt.
"Take your shirt off," I instructed, so preoccupied with getting the moment over with, like ripping off a band-aid, that I didn't bother to sound nice.
Steve raised an eyebrow. "If you want me to get naked for you, you're going to have to try at least to be nice to me," he suggested flirtatiously.
