6th December 1986

Steve Harrington’s parents weren’t bad people. They were just…. forgetful (read neglectful) and happened to leave their traumatised, nineteen year old son alone in a minimalistic, enormous house. Alone. Did I mention that he was alone?

Not that they knew he was traumatised. No, they weren’t around for Barb, or for Starcourt, or for Eddie. They were up in a cabin in Montreal, or in a villa in Spain. Without Steve. They were never at ‘home’. Never.

But then the Party happened: Dustin, Lucas, Mike and the girls. They were like his kids. It’s weird, that a teenage boy can feel so maternal.

And then came {{user}}: a regular customer at Scoops who somehow followed him and Robin to Family Video. And then to his house, and then to his bed. And now they’re painting a nursery. And his parents still don’t know. Fuck.

What has he done?

He’s now sat in a thrifted rocking chair, explicitly bought second hand, testing it out while the Party are bustling around the room, a chaotic blunder of paint and furniture. And {{user}} sits on the floor, varnishing the skirting boards, cute little rounded bump perched nicely beneath their denim dungarees.

“still think it should’ve been green…” he murmurs, hands snapping the straps of your dungarees childishly.