EIGHTEEN I'LL TELL YOU MY SINS

(SO YOU CAN SHARPEN YOUR KNIFE)

💀

       ESME'S EYES FLITTED OVER THE FILE before her, her brain absorbing as much information about Hawkins Lab and MKUltra and the other dimension Anita had called the Upside Down as possible. But it was hard for her to focus, her attention always slipping away from her, to the note Anita had left her before leaving, taunting her from its place on the counter beside the files: Going to Mike's, don't worry about me, I'll be safe. Esme had done nothing but worry. She knew Anita. She knew what she and her friends had been up to the last couple of days. She did not doubt that they were up to something again.

       ... Which did not ease her nerves in the slightest.

       She was more jittery than usual — and no, it was not because of caffeine, she'd only had two cups so far and it was afternoon, she'd been good — and her mind was taking her to the darkest pits of her imagination, coming up with scenarios of the Midnight Man getting his claws on Anita, dragging her to the Upside Down, out of Esme's reach. Just like India. They'd found out what happened to her but found no way to actually help her, to get her back. And her dad's files only led her to one dead end after another. Esme felt so helpless, so useless — she couldn't just sit around while her sister was in danger, stuck in the Upside Down, in the clutches of a monster—

       She heard something shatter.

       Fright seized her muscles, and Esme almost fell off her stool. For a split-second, she thought of the worst, dread poisoning her thoughts. However, when she looked in the direction of where the noise had come from — the living room —, she saw her mother clumsily kneeling down on the floor, gathering glass shards in her hands. It was just a wine glass, Esme thought, letting out a sigh of relief.

       Walking toward Opal, she could hear her muttering to herself. The acid-like smell of alcohol surrounded her, and Esme's stomach twisted into a knot at the sight of her, of Opal's greasy hair, her pale complexion, the dark, almost purple bags under her eyes, and her wrinkled nightgown. She hadn't even put on her dressing gown, which she always did. Esme hated seeing her mom like this — drunk, broken, only a ghost of the person she used to be.

       Esme crouched down opposite her and helped her pick up the last of the shards. The stench of the wine made her want to vomit. "You shouldn't drink so much," she said, her voice quiet. She didn't want to upset her.

       Opal lifted her head, almost losing her balance, and looked at Esme. "You don't get to— tell me what to do. I'm the adult."

       Esme huffed, feeling resentment crawling up her throat. The adult. Right. She had left all the responsibilities to Esme, had locked herself away, physically and mentally, and now she wanted to be the adult? Anger started bubbling in her stomach. The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them: "Why aren't you acting like one, then?"

       Opal didn't respond, simply stared at the floor, at the broken glass.

       Say something, she begged silently. Do something. Be our mom again.

       Tears welled up in her eyes, and she bit down on her lip to keep them at bay.

       "Here, my dear, take this." Opal's voice was weak. She put the shards she picked up into Esme's cupped hands, like a sanctified wafer being given to her, with sharp edges that cut into her skin. Then, grabbing the edge of the sofa, Opal pulled herself up halfway and rolled onto the sofa, lacking the usual elegance she always carried herself with. Now, her body moved in a staccato of graceless motions, like a puppet on a string. "Be a good girl and get me another wine glass, yeah?"

       As Esme watched her mom, saw the hollowed-out look in her eyes, she wasn't sure what she hated more — Opal locking herself up in her bedroom, or getting drunk on red wine and despair in the living room.

       Esme left her mother rotting away on the sofa and threw the glass shards into the trash in the kitchen. She didn't get her another wine glass, though — if Opal wanted to drink herself into a state between life and death, then she had to do it herself. Esme would not help her in distancing herself from her daughters even more. She was about to sit back down to continue studying the files from the lab — when the doorbell rang.

       Confusion washed over her. Who could that be? And then came the panic. The last time the doorbell had rung, it had been Jim Hopper, functioning as the messenger of Death, telling her that Will Byers had been found dead (although, apparently, he wasn't dead). He had brought home a blubbering, weeping Anita— Anita. What if something had happened to her? No. Esme would've felt that. Esme rushed to the door, throwing it open with her heart in her throat and a prayer on her tongue. And God seemed to have listened to her unspoken plea — because it wasn't Jim Hopper standing in front of her, bearing bad news.

       It was Steve.

       With his face all bloody and bruised.

       "I'm sorry," he said, his voice as thin as a thread about to snap. "I... I can't go home like this."

       Esme stared at him in abject horror, her gaze roaming over his face frantically, taking in the damage. His right eye (her right; his left) was rimmed by a laceration, a red gash reaching from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, and his lip was busted. He tried to smile at her, but winced, pain exploding from his lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath. Esme had never seen him like this — so fragile, so small, so... unlike him. He opened his eyes again, and the expression on his face, the pain, the insecurity, pulled at Esme's heartstrings.

       "... I didn't know where else to go."

       Without saying a word, she opened the door wider.

       Shock washed over Steve's features, like he hadn't expected her to let him in. But Esme didn't even think of turning him away. No way.

       She gave him a soft smile. "Come in."

       He entered, taking off his sneakers and his jacket, putting them in their designated places, doing so with such a natural air about it as if he'd been here a million times already. For some reason, Esme liked the idea of that.

       "Those wounds need to be cleaned, before they get infected," she said, a little awkwardly, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands. "We should have everything we need in the bathroom upstai—"

       "Esme?" Opal's voice echoed through the house, louder than it needed to be.

       Esme jumped. She'd almost forgotten she was there. Steve looked at her, something like guilt shimmering in his eyes. Guilt about coming here, when he was more than aware that Opal Deverell hated his guts. "I can leave, it's OK—"

       "No," Esme cut him off, her voice firmer than she had expected. "Like I said yesterday, she'll have to suck it up."

       The corners of Steve's mouth twitched upward.

       "Esme, who's at the door?" Opal's words were slurred together. Esme hated the sound of it, how the alcohol weighed down her tongue.

       "Is she drunk?" Steve asked.

       Esme nodded, avoiding eye contact.

       With that, she walked into the living room, Steve following her. Opal sat upright on the sofa, her hand wrapped around the bottle of wine, taking a swig. But when she saw Steve, she jumped to her feet, almost stumbling over her own two feet — Esme took a hurried step forward, worried, but when Opal caught herself before tilting over, she stopped in her tracks. "Mom, are you OK—?"

       "What's he doin' here? What's he doing in my house?" Opal gestured to Steve with the wine bottle. The muscles in her jaw ticked, the skin over her cheekbones was taut. Her forehead was lined with deep indentations. She was furious.

       And Esme's anger was coming to meet Opal's halfway.

       "He has a name," Esme said, her voice shaking with barely contained rage. She was so sick of this, of her mom acting like a child. Esme's blood started to boil beneath her skin. How dare Opal condemn her, when she was a mess of ugly chaos who could barely take care of herself.

       "I thought you knew better than this, Esme. They're not good people."

       Next to her, Steve seemed to shrink in on himself.

       Esme suddenly felt protective. "You're not better."

       Her mom's expression became wild, untethered. "What?" she hissed, like a snake.

       And like Eve in the Garden of Eden, Esme let herself be seduced into sin. Her words were dripping with venom when she spoke, "I said, you're not better. You pretend like you're a saint, but you're just as bad as Kenneth Harrington. I get it, you hate him, but don't let it out on his son. Steve has nothing to do with this, you have no right to insult him. Just like Mr. Harrington has no right to insult me."

       Opal stared at her, her eyes darkening. "I really don't like this new habit of yours of— of patronizing me—"

       "Then stop giving me reasons to!"

       With that, Esme grabbed the sleeve of Steve's hoodie and tugged him along, up the stairs, and into the bathroom. She shut the door behind her, more fervently than needed, and the loud bang! made her jump. She stared at the closed door, her emotions running wild, her hands shaking — from anger, from disbelief about what she'd said, she didn't know. But, for once, she knew that her anger was justified. Her mom had insulted Steve, the one person who'd been there for her through everything in the last few days, and she couldn't accept that. She wouldn't.

       "You didn't have to do that, y'know," Steve said. Esme turned around to him. "Defend me like that."

       "I did." Esme looked at him with the most genuine expression she could muster. "I did have to do that, my mom was... way out of line." Thanks to the alcohol, Esme thought, bitter. 

       "Is she... often drunk?" Steve asked, hesitant.

       Her stomach twisted. She shook her head. "No, that— that started after the funeral yesterday. I think. I don't know, she locked herself in the bedroom after Dad—" She swallowed. "I didn't see her much."

       Steve frowned. He opened his mouth to say something, but Esme cut him off before he could: "Sit. We've got to clean those wounds of yours."

       He raised an eyebrow at her, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

       He sat down at the edge of the bathtub. Esme could feel his eyes on her when she kneeled down and opened the dresser under the sink, combing through its contents, looking for the first-aid kit they knew they had. Anita was an energetic child; there had been more than one occasion when she had to patch up a bruised knee. When she found it, she let out a triumphant "Ha!" She stood up, the joints in her knee popping. There was one more thing she needed, though... From the mirror cabinet above the sink, she took out a pair of white surgical latex gloves.

       She pulled them over her hands, the feel of them on her skin making her stomach roil, and Esme wanted to do nothing more than rip them off again. But she needed to do this, Steve's wounds needed tending to. And he had come to her — her, the Deverell Witch, the girl he had still hated just a few days ago — because he didn't know where else to go. He trusted her with his vulnerability, just like she trusted him. Esme had to do this. She took a deep breath through her nose, fighting against the nausea. I can do this.

       Esme lifted her hand, struggling into the glove, then let the latex snatch against her wrist, the noise echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

       Steve gave her a skeptical look.

       "What?" Esme asked.

       "Nothing."

       Esme gave him a look.

       "You're just giving off a serious mad scientist vibe right now and I'm not sure if I like that."

       She blinked, looking at the latex gloves on her hands. And then — unexpectedly, unwillingly — a giggle bubbled from her throat, which then ripened into a laugh, a proper laugh. Esme couldn't remember the last time she had laughed, really. And now, here she was, laughing at something Steve Harrington had said — despite all the horrors ravaging Hawkins like a biblical plague.

       Steve's gaze was glued to her face, an awestruck smile on his lips. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh since... ever, actually."

       Esme's laughter died down immediately, remembering the tragedies surrounding her, the reasons why she didn't laugh, and immediately felt guilty. She shouldn't be laughing when her dad was gone; she shouldn't be laughing when her sister was missing; when her mom was losing herself to her grief; when Anita was out there somewhere, possibly in danger; when the Midnight Man was back, ruining her life all over again.

       She shouldn't be laughing when her whole life was going to shit.

       "There's not much to laugh about these days."

       Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't mean—"

       "Let's just do this," Esme interrupted him, taking some gauze from the first-aid kit and soaking it in tap water. Hesitantly, she stepped closer to Steve, stopping right before her knees touched his. For once, she was towering over him, not the other way around. He looked up at her, an expression on his face that she couldn't read. Esme took a deep breath, readying herself for touching him.

       With a shaking hand, she started to cleanse the wound, gently rubbing the wet gauze over the dried blood and the injury next to his eye. With her other hand, she held his hair out of the way. The feel of his skin, even through the gloves, was overwhelming. Her fingers felt like they were burning, her stomach was churning uncomfortably, and her head screamed at her to stop.

       Her inner turmoil must be visible on her face because Steve softly told her, "You don't have to do this. I can do it myself."

       But Esme shook her head. "No—no, I can do this."

       She wanted to do this. She wanted to be able to do this. This touch aversion was a ball and chain, limiting her in everything. Yes, she couldn't touch people skin on skin, not if she didn't want them to see their worst nightmares come to life, but this was more than just her being careful. After three years of never touching anyone — apart from her sisters —, her body had learned to reject it. And she didn't want that anymore. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to work through this.

       Steve studied her, a soft look on his face. "OK."

       Esme continued cleansing the gash beside his eye, ignoring how every touch made her skin crawl. She had to fight the urge to vomit. I can do this. Then, she reached for the disinfectant and put some on a new piece of gauze. But before she put it on the wound, she warned him, "This might burn a little."

       Steve smirked. "I can take it."

       Esme carefully wiped the disinfectant over the wound.

       Steve hissed in pain.

       Esme looked at him, bemused. "Mm-hmm, you can take it."

       "Shut up, Deverell."

       It was Esme's turn to smirk.

       Then, her face became solemn, though, and she finally asked the question she had been afraid to ask. She didn't want to pressure Steve into telling her, but she was curious. And he had come to her, so she thought she had a right to ask. "What happened?"

       His eyes met hers, the warm brown of his eyes dulled by pain and... and something that resembled shame. That made Esme frown, concerned. He averted his gaze again, looking anywhere but at her.

       "Uh..." Steve cleared his throat. "Remember how I wanted to apologize to Nancy yesterday? For not believing her about Barb?" Esme hummed in agreement. "Well, I went to her house and— and saw her with Jonathan Byers. Holding hands. I... got angry, and I told Tommy and Carol, and today, they had an idea to make Nancy pay for it. I thought she was cheating on me, so I agreed, and" — Steve squeezed his eyes shut; Esme stopped tending to his wound to listen — "we went to the movie theater and sprayed Nancy 'the slut' Wheeler on the billboard with red graffiti. Nancy and Jonathan saw it and confronted us, and God, I got so angry, and I started insulting Jonathan and his family. Then he did this." He gestured to his face.

       Esme stared at him, unsure what to say. But she knew what it was like when rage took hold of you, controlling you.

       "You were right, I guess," he said, his voice hoarse. Regret glistened in Steve's eyes as he looked up at her. Like a sinner kneeling at the altar, asking, begging, praying to be absolved. Knowing he doesn't deserve forgiveness. Waiting for her to offer him that deathless death that comes with damnation. "I'm just like my dad."

       "You're nothing like your dad," Esme said, her voice soft but firm.

       For a moment, they just looked at each other, their gazes interlocked. There was something in Steve's expression that made heat shoot up into Esme's cheeks, and — once again — she was glad that her strange anatomy didn't allow her to blush. It was something shining, something... ardent, something close to reverence.

       No, Esme told herself. I'm imagining that.

       She averted her gaze, then focused on cleaning his wounds. When she was done with the laceration beside his eye, her gaze dropped to his split bottom lip. With the tip of her index finger, she lightly touched Steve's chin, lifting his head a little bit. She could feel his eyes boring into her. Her hand was shaking when she lowered it to his lip — her stomach protested, revulsion gnawing at her intestines like maggots chewing on a corpse. Her hand halted in mid-air. Esme tried to make it move, but she couldn't. It was too much. She felt like throwing up—

       "I can handle it from here, it's fine," Steve spoke.

       Immediately, Esme took a big step backward, closing her eyes, breathing through her nose, trying to get rid of the nausea clawing up her throat. She put the gauze aside and ripped the latex gloves off her hands. Instantly, she felt better, and the sickness receded, her stomach settling down. She leaned against the door behind her and slid to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. Shit.

       "I'm sorry," she said, sounding out of breath. "I thought I could do it."

       "You did enough," Steve said, trying to reassure her. "Thanks." Esme tried to smile at him, but she was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace. He got up to stand in front of the mirror, reached for the gauze and the disinfectant, and then cleaned the cut on his bottom lip himself. Esme watched him, saw the slight twitching in his jaw every time he touched the injury with the burning substance. And then, Esme made a decision. Steve already knew about the Midnight Man, about that night three years ago... And he had just told her something personal. Now it was her turn...

       She looked at her hands, at the white skin, the veins and artilleries shining through, forming a blue, purple, and red criss-cross pattern. And she said, her voice faint, "My touch is poison."

       Steve turned from the mirror to Esme, frowning. "What?"

       "When I... When I touch someone, skin on skin, it... it makes them see their worst nightmares come to life." Esme swallowed, playing with a loose thread from her black-and-green plaid pajama pants. "That month we were gone, three years ago... It changed us. Not just our skin and our eyes, but... us. I can't touch anyone without torturing them with their biggest fears." A tear dropped onto her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.

       Steve sat back down on the edge of the bathtub. Esme looked up at him, timid, awaiting condemnation. She had never told anyone about this — not Tatum, not Vinnie, not her mother. Her dad knew, but not because she had told him, but because he had found out through tests at the lab. But now she had told Steve Harrington, confessed her biggest secret at his feet.

       "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

       Esme shrugged, a small smile on her lips. "You told me something personal, and now I told you something personal. That's only fair, right?"

       Steve smirked. "You stole my line."

       Esme's smile grew. "I guess so."

       Steve chuckled.

       "So," he then said, a playful curiosity on his face, "does that mean you really are a witch?"

       "Yes," Esme said, her face serious. Steve's eyes widened. Esme couldn't help but giggle at his face. "No! No, I'm not a witch, I'm— I'm just—" She became solemn once more, lost for words.

       Steve's gaze became distant for a moment. Then: "... Weird?"

       At that word, Esme perked up. She remembered how he had called her weird before, in a tone infused with nastiness and mockery. Now, it was different. Now, he sounded kind and almost... sweet. Like it was a good thing. Like he intentionally took that negatively connotated word and turned it into something beautiful.

       Esme smiled. "Yeah. Weird."

       "So you've... never touched anyone in three years?" Steve asked, unable to wrap his head around it.

       "Only my sisters." Steve looked confused. "It doesn't work on them. Maybe because we're all the same... But they learned how to control it — I never did."

       Slowly, he nodded, processing. "Does that mean you haven't even had your first kiss yet?"

       Her eyes snapped to him. "After all this, that's what you wanna know?"

       Again, he nodded, but this time, he grinned.

       Esme shook her head in disbelief. But she answered him. "No. I haven't." She sounded more defensive than she thought she would.

       "Is there someone you'd like to kiss, though?" Intrigued, Steve slid down the side of the bathtub, now sitting on the floor across from her, at eye level.

       Esme remained quiet, her mind wandering. She'd never really thought about it, if she was being honest. Since it was out of the question anyway, she just... never bothered, not wanting to make her existence even more miserable. A picture of Tatum flickered to live in her head, the sound of her laugh, and a warm feeling hugged her. Esme frowned, unsure of what it meant. She'd longed to be able to hold Tatum's hand, to hug her, but she'd never thought about her as more than her friend — her best friend. And then she looked at Steve, the curious grin on his lips, the warm light in his brown eyes. He'd been there for her during the past few days like no one else had been. She'd trusted him with things she'd never told anyone before. She felt... comfortable with him. Safe, even. Which was something she would never have expected. It was weird.

       "There is someone, isn't there?"

       Esme didn't know what to say, what to feel. "I— I don't know." She wrapped her arms around her legs. She needed to change the topic. "What about you and Nancy?" Steve's gaze immediately darkened. "Do you... love her?"

       Steve suddenly became very still, his eyes trained on Esme. He stayed that way long enough for Esme to think that he wouldn't answer her question, but then he cleared his throat and said, "I think so..." He furrowed his brows. "I don't know, I've never really been in love, y'know. How do I know if I love her?"

       Esme tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, thinking. She'd never been in love either, at least not that she realized. But she thought back to the books she'd read, to the way authors described how the characters felt when they were falling in love with another character. "I think... when you feel comfortable and safe with that person, and you want to spend every possible moment with them and you miss them when they're not around..." She could feel Steve's gaze piercing her skin. "And then there are the butterflies, of course." Esme shrugged.

       "You sound like you've been in love before," Steve said.

       Esme shook her head. "I just read a lot."

       Steve hummed, not convinced.

       Esme tried to ignore the sound of Tatum's laugh ringing in her head.

       Steve let out a big sigh, from the depth of his lungs, like he was trying to breathe out all the things pressing down on his chest, and let his head fall against the bathtub behind him, his eyelids falling shut. "I don't know. I was a total asshole to her. A-And Jonathan. I don't know what I should do."

       "You should apologize."

       Steve looked at her, insecure.

       "Whatever happens after — if you... want her back, or not — you should at least apologize," Esme said. "'Cause you're right, what you did was pretty... asshole-y."

       Steve snorted. "Asshole-y."

       Esme gave him an unimpressed look.

       For a few seconds, Steve didn't say anything, probably thinking about what to do. Then, he nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right." He pushed himself to his feet and looked into the mirror again, frowning at his reflection, the shining red injuries adorning his face, the bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his bottom lip. But, then, he seemed to have an epiphany, and determination washed over his features. "I gotta go. There's something I need to do."

       Esme got up as well. "OK. I'll walk you out."

       They left the bathroom and went downstairs. Opal had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Esme would lie if she said that she wasn't relieved. She didn't like it when her mom was drunk; it made her feel uncomfortable. Steve put on his shoes and shrugged on his jacket, but before he left to go to his car, Steve said, "Thank you. For fixing my face and all that." His expression was sincere, his smile soft. "Really. Thanks."

       Esme nodded. "Of course. Good luck with Nancy."

       With that, he got into his car. He waved at her once more, which Esme reciprocated. Then he drove off. Esme watched his car disappear around the next corner and sighed. Her heart suddenly felt heavy, like a weight had been attached to it, dragging it down, when she thought of Steve apologizing to Nancy and getting back together with her. She didn't know why that was bothering her. It shouldn't.

       Esme closed the door, leaving her confusing feelings out in the cold.

oh it's been so long since I've written for esme I'm so sorry! but STESME! they mean so much to me you have no idea, and I've been looking forward to writing this chapter since i started this story, and now i finally could find the motivation for it.

i hope you enjoyed, and let me know what you thought!