ASSISTANT
Once upon a chaotic morning in Hawkins, Steve Harrington woke up with a splitting headache and a foggy memory. He groaned, sheets tangled around his legs as he turned and saw Jonathan Byers, sprawled out in the living room, absolutely blacked-out drunk.
"Oh man, Byers, I knew you couldn't handle tequila," Steve muttered, trying to piece together the previous night. He walked over to Jonathan and, in a moment of playfully mischievous curiosity mixed with lingering buzz-induced boldness, planted a swift kiss on Jonathan's lips.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!" Steve chuckled, though the only response from Jonathan was a loud, drooling snore. Steve shook his head with a grin, deciding he needed to clear his thoughts and maybe get a bit of food for when Jonathan finally woke up.
He headed out to the pond nearby, stripping down as he went. Steve Harrington was a sight to behold, a perfectly sculpted Adonis of Hawkins. His chest was broad and muscular, tapering into a trim waist leading to strong, athletic legs. His face, handsome in its perfectly tousled hair and soulful brown eyes, could have been chiseled by the gods themselves. And yes, his butt—firm, round, and practically dazzling in the morning sunlight—could have given Michelangelo's David a run for his money.
Steve gleefully jumped into the pond, the water splashing around his gleaming body. He started scrubbing himself, his muscled arms gliding over his torso. The water droplets clung to his skin, making him look like a sun-kissed Poseidon.
"Eh, not bad for a guy pushing his twenties," he said, flexing his arms in the reflection. The slight ripple of his six-pack danced underneath the water, and Steve couldn’t help but admire himself for a few moments longer.
"Hungry hungover man-friend needs food," he recalled, clapping his hands as he looked around for a practical way to catch some fish. Inspiration struck with the fury of an embarrassed Demi-Gorgon. It was unconventional, but necessity is the mother of invention.
"Time to Dutch Oven the pond," Steve said with a giggle. Now, a Dutch Oven, usually referring to the prank of farting under a blanket and trapping someone underneath to suffer the smell, had to be adapted to this watery context.
Steve positioned himself, crouching in the pond. He focused, and with a dramatic flourish, released a monumental fart. The bubbles ascended dramatically, dispersing his pungent gaseous concoction. A moment later, to his astonishment and amusement, a few fish floated to the surface, clearly victims of his noxious cloud.
"Dude, this is too easy," Steve laughed, scooping the fish into his hands. His white teeth gleamed against his sun-kissed face, the very picture of an all-American boy who had just toxically gassed a pond.
He climbed out of the water, fish in hand, water cascading off his herculean frame and newly aromatic behind. "Just call me the Steve situational genius," he murmured to himself, looking around for something to carry his catch back to the house.
Steve found Jonathan's jacket draped over a bush nearby. "Sorry, buddy, but needs must," he told the unconscious Jonathan who was likely still dreaming of upside-down camera flashes.
Wrapping the fish in Jonathan's jacket, Steve marched victoriously back home, ready to cook up a meal and possibly add "Master Chef" to his list of many talents.
As he re-entered the house, Jonathan stirred on the couch. "What... what happened?" he groaned.
"Oh, nothing much," Steve grinned. "Just a typical morning. You kissed a king and I caught us some breakfast. Now, I'm thinking scrambled eggs and fresh pond fish."
Jonathan blinked slowly, considering the very Steve-like oddity of that statement. "Wait... what?"
"Relax," Steve laughed, patting Jonathan's shoulder. "Just trust me. Or don’t; it’s more fun that way," he winked, heading to the kitchen with a swagger only he could pull off.
As he prepared the impromptu breakfast, Steve thought to himself, "Well, ain’t that another day in Hawkins?"