Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Forty-Three. The Art of Eye Contact

FORTY-THREE
— the art of eye contact

AT LAST, IT was over.

     That night, in the tunnels, and in the lab, she thought her time was up. That death had come knocking at her door. She racked her brain for an answer on why, how she was still alive, after the events of November fifth. She feared death. She feared it's low and quiet calling. She feared the overwhelming heaviness that lingered deep in the pit of her stomach, the rush in her head, the flash of white in her bloodshot eyes. If death had succeeded, where would she be? With Sara, with her birth-mother, at the end of a tired life. But, she had lived. She lived to see the constellations for another night, to see hear the breeze blow through the wind-chimes, to feel his hands run through her hair.

    Her worries unwinded in a sequence of deep breaths and tired blinks. Her brow un-furrowed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. And, for once, her mind was at ease. She flipped through memories like a picture book. Everything she would have regret loosing if the Demodogs won that night. The ringing laughter from father, when they watched comedies at midnight. A sweet smile from Eleven, an endearing nudge from her brother, a longing glance from Steve.

God, Steve.

Her stomach ached, thinking about him. She remembered the grime of the tunnels, the horror of the lab, the hopelessness in the shed. But, in the end, she remembered him. On the doorstep. His knee between her legs, his arms around her, his lips pressed close to hers. Her chest falling into his, the feeling of her fingertips bathing in the mess of his brown hair. The words that left his lips in such a soft, careful whisper, she was afraid she'd shatter.

Now, she stood in his doorway. She was the one to drive him home.

One of the red double-doors was open. He pressed his head to the doorframe, tired eyes half-lidded. The house was empty. The lights were off. The heater hummed. A floorboard creaked. He inhaled, and pressed the ice-pack closer to his swollen eye. She looked at him. His busted lip, his bruised cheekbone, the dry blood that coated his rims of his nostrils. Lucy winced. "Steve, you're a mess."

He opened his eyes, because he wanted to see her. With a breathy exhale, or an exhausted laugh, he nodded. "Didn't notice."

Her lip twitched. She stepped past him, and into the house. Steve only turned to her, with a furrowed brow. She reached for his arm, fingers tightened around his bicep. "Come on," she spoke, "doesn't matter what time I get home."

Floorboards moved beneath his heavy feet. Her palm grazed the banister, as she swiftly walked up the carpeted steps, the soles of her sneakers silent against them. He huffed. "Hop," Steve spoke, quietly. "What're you doing?"

    She turned the corner. "You know, if you don't clean your face properly, you'll get an infection," Lucy spoke. "I don't mean to scare you, or anything, Harrington. But, if you get infected, you'll loose that pretty face of yours."

    He lowered the ice-pack. Steve opened the door to his bedroom, flipped on the light-switch, and gestured her inside. The childlike patterns of his wallpaper were comforting. Red and blue blocks scattered across the walls, blocked only by framed photos of cars and posters of swimsuit models. The light-switch was connected to a small lamp, on his bedside table. The dim, yellow light shone from the corner of his room.