in for a penny, in for a pounding

by elsie (the_technorats)

Summary:

The word slut is in red. It’s all he sees when he sees Nancy again, when she slaps him, when Jonathan inches up behind her to drag her away. When he sees her leave with him, he sees the words he says in red. Queer. Screw-up. Father.

When he gets punched in the face, he feels them in red too. They feel bright, even when he runs, even when his guilt remains like a message in blood at the crime scene, dripping in Tommy’s cruel handwriting. Byers. Perv.

 

Or, the one where Steve's life was miserable and complicated even before Jonathan Byers was ever a part of it.

Notes:

back at it for "Upside Down August," or Stranger September, as i'm now calling it, and will adapt the title of indefinitely until i finish this prompt list that mysweetgirl2 and i cooked up 2 whole years ago.

heads up that this is kind of weird and word-soup-y but this prompt has been uninspiring for 2 years now, so we're going to have to take what we can get. this is fresh off the dome, 1 proofread. our word count parameters are 500-2k words with the purpose of keeping this sustainable for a month straight, but i can't speak to my output with any kind of confidence. i can say that most of the remaining prompts will probably not be in this style, so, sorry/don't worry, whichever.

enjoy!

Steve’s always liked the color gray. It’s a lot of things; it’s the darkest kind of cool, the fuzziest kind of warm, the safest kind of taken for granted. 

He sees a lot of blue sky, a lot of red brick. A lot of silver spoon. A lot of green and gold. 

He slides through Nancy’s bedroom window, pale colors and dim lamp, soft skin and slight bones. She’s like a bird, he thinks. Sharp, bright. Too quick for him, too smart. But he picks up her flash cards anyway, reads them and feels like the parrot. 

When her eyes meet his through the nest of her lashes, he sees gray, and he wants, and it’s a relief. He knows how to want, he knows how to have, and he has her fooled enough to let him. 

 

The hallways are bright, screaming linoleum and the shatter of locker door and the knead, the need, of hands on him, in his hair, remarks he knows how to make, attitude he knows how to have, callousness he knows how to feel. 

He makes fun of Jonathan Byers until Nancy tells him to stop. He hates that look on her face, like he’s better than that. He isn’t. He doesn’t know what she sees in her locker mirror when he wraps his arms around her from behind, but he doesn’t have to know what he is to know he isn't that. 

 

Tommy and Carol are always there, back of his beemer, back of his house, back of his mind. They dull out the Hawkins clamor in a way that doesn’t feel good but at least feels not bad. Some comfort in not being the one who hates themselves the most. 

He doesn't think they like him; he’s stupid but not that stupid, though enough alcohol doesn’t like him either, and it works just about as good. Or—well. Well, not good. Nancy corrects him on that even in his head. 

He hasn’t had alcohol since that night, the last time he’d smiled around Tommy and Carol, the last time Nancy’d smiled around him. He doesn’t need any drink, though, not when those two are there, hawks on his shoulders, digging in their claws. There’s power there. He doesn’t know whose it is. 

The word slut is in red. It’s all he sees when he sees Nancy again, when she slaps him, when Jonathan inches up behind her to drag her away. When he sees her leave with him, he sees the words he says in red. Queer. Screw-up. Father. 

When he gets punched in the face, he feels them in red too. They feel bright, even when he runs, even when his guilt remains like a message in blood at the crime scene, dripping in Tommy’s cruel handwriting. Byers. Perv. 

 

 

 

When Steve gets home, his dad’s in a bad mood, so Steve parks himself in the bathroom and runs the faucet on cold and scrubs the gravel out of his face with the handedness of someone who doesn’t feel pain. The gray mixes with the red as it circles the drain, and it hurts brighter than usual, makes his heart thud louder, but really, it just feels like it usually does when Steve gets home and his dad is in a bad mood. 

The black eye looks the way it always does. The scuffs on his jacket and jeans make them look a far cry from how they were just a day ago, like they were straight off the rack, and closer to the ones that Jonathan usually wears. The skin scraped off his kneecaps, the heels of his hands, though; the ache throughout his knuckles—that kind of hurt is brand new, fresh out the box, still has that new-pain smell, because it’s the kind that comes with fighting back. 

 

 

 

He goes to apologize. He goes to apologize, but really he goes to the Byers’ house, and has his heart set on something that feels bright red and obvious as words across his face, and Nancy opens the door, but Jonathan’s the one who’s further behind it. Nancy points the gun, but Jonathan’s ready to fight beside her. 

He goes to apologize, but really he goes to the Byers’ house, and so he really should have expected some monsters in the closet, and he really should have been prepared to get himself out of it, but the lights, colorful and bright, go out with a whimper, and he’s in now, in for a penny, in for a pounding. 

He’s only able to save Jonathan because he sees the glint of steel, the nails in the head of the bat, and swings with a strength he’s never had, a strength he’s only ever been on the receiving end of, and he can’t help but think of himself from a day ago, shoved down to the ground, blood running hot, with hands on him because they wanted to be, the gray of Nancy’s eyes terrified, and Jonathan, pale and dull, blunt like the weapons that hurt the most, and Steve no longer knows how to want.

Notes:

For the Upside Down August/Stranger September 31-day prompt challenge.
Day 03: gray

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Upside Down August: a 31-Day Prompt Challenge