He's been brought up to believe in God's and Monsters. But he's never truly considered what either means, not properly at least, not beyond shadowy shapes under the bed and hymns at long forgotten christenings.
But now he thinks about it, really gives it some proper thought, he figures that in a way they're the same, they both need a solid belief. And that's the bit that jars with him, the thing he can't wrap his head around.
The belief.
Something tangible, like bone, something pliable, like flesh, something to provide validation, like blood.
And sometimes lying awake in the dark, bathed in a silvery, black sea cast by the moon, he feels as though someone must have sliced a chunk out of him and drained away all the good, leaving the bad to fill in the hollow crevices.
But then he meets Nancy Wheeler and the whole world goes out of kilter.
…
It sounds like a goddamn cliché, it really fucking does, so even when he's telling Tommy and Carol why they're wrong about Nancy and why they need to shut their miserable mouths, he can feel an odd sort of push and pull ripping through him, a strange visceral tear, slashing at the canvas of everything that he thought he knew.
And they stop and stare at him like he's gone insane.
Maybe he has. But what's so great about being normal anyway?
…
He's waiting in the car for Dustin, wondering if the kid's quiff managed to hold up for the duration of the ball, but he doesn't shift his gaze to the panel of glass in the auditorium door.
He tells himself there's no need, after all, Dustin will be out shortly. But more importantly, that it's nothing to do with Nancy Wheeler and her potential companion.
And then he barks out a laugh at the injustice of it all. It reverberates around the car sounding tinny and hollow, almost as if it doesn't belong to him and perhaps it doesn't in a way.
You won the battle, but you lost the war Harrington.
He flicks the radio on, but all he gets is static and he's no longer sure if the tapping he can hear is his foot or his brain.
He glances down at his watch (still not the door, there's no need). Dustin is fifteen minutes late.
Fuck.
He slides out of the car, a fall breeze slicing at him and he spots Eleven and Mike and the new kid Max. They wave at him and he nods back. And then his eyes shift past them, until they land on Dustin. He's grinning at Steve, sorta gummy and proud, hair seemingly having survived the course of the evening.
He gives Steve a thumbs up and just as he's about to respond, Nancy wheeler drifts out of the shadows as if she's some sort of spectre.
She ruffles Dustin's hair and he squirms free, still looking utterly thrilled and she smiles at the kid in a way that makes Steve's chest feel tight, as breath seems to catch in his throat, before scissoring its way out.
He toys with the idea of calling out to her, or at least jogging up to her, making small talk, just being okay. And maybe that will make him feel less like shit and maybe it won't.
But then….Jonathan fucking Byers. Camera slung around his neck, the one that Steve himself had picked out as an apology.
The pair walk off, hand in hand, back inside the hall.
And stood there, surrounded by a graveyard of fall leaves, Steve Harrington thinks he's finally figured out all there is to know about God's and Monsters.
Because Nancy Wheeler is both.
