So somebody died? How did they die? They died mysteriously. A he somebody or a she somebody? He. Told you I wanted to discuss this in private. Chuck is part of my private. Ain't part of mine. I don't know her.
Hai! Request for Evan McCone! A scenario where Dan Killian is being too comfortable with reader, and McCone is unable to do anything about it. ^^ TYSM and have a happy new year!
Boss ⋆˚. ♡ ´-
Evan McCone x Reader
Thank you for the request! The reader works for the running man set as a technician, and Dan Killian is too comfortable being boss tee hee sorry I giggling writing this fic lmao ok. Part of a series of short stories! SMUT WARNING
the running man, evan mccone x reader, masked man, masked men, slow burn, tension, workplace romance, guns, dan killian, choking, SMUT, fem reader
You kneeled by the cable racks, fiddling with the mic packs, letting your mind drift. The hum of lights, the faint whir of cameras, the clatter of crew boots, it was the usual rhythm, and you were almost bored with it.
Evan was nearby, methodically running his gloved hand along his favorite rifle. Just work. But you had gotten used to his quiet presence, the way his attention lingered on the small details, how he seemed aware of everything around him without saying a word.
You stretched slightly, trying to shake off the monotony. A ripple of movement caught your peripheral vision. You glanced up. Someone was approaching from the far side of the stage, moving with an ease that seemed to part the crowd. At first you thought it was just another crew member, but the posture, the silhouette of his jacket, the easy confidence. It was Killian. Sliding through the space like he owned it, which, of course, he did.
He stopped in front of you unexpectedly. You straightened slightly, your fingers pausing on the strap. You hadn’t expected him today.
“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth, teasing. “Keeping my favorite asset busy, are we?”
You glanced at Evan. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as lifted a hand in response, mask and dark glasses unreadable. But the sharp tilt of his head, the way his gloved fingers tightened just slightly, only you could tell he sensed something was off.
Killian adjusted his posture to face you, letting one shoulder press lightly against the console. He didn’t step closer just yet, just watched you for a moment, like he was assessing, amused.
The faint scent of whisky drifted distinctly now, mingling with the industrial tang of the set.
A long pause followed.
“Good morning sir —”
“I’ve been meaning to find you,” he said, voice low, smile glinting in the faint stage light. “I was impressed by how you had handled Chief McCone for our last episode.”
You blinked. “I...It was just my job... sir.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, grinning. “But most people don’t do it… with finesse or… flair.” His eyes drifted to yours, lingered. “And some finesse deserves recognition, don’t you think?”
You shifted, awkward. “Well… I appreciated that.”
“Flattery won’t get you the promotion,” he said, voice teasing. “But neither will ignoring it.” He stepped a fraction closer, just enough that the light caught his cuff link. “Maybe... a title upgrade. I think you’d like it.”
You flushed, not knowing quite how to respond to his forwardness.
“Don’t be modest,” he interrupted softly, leaning closer, letting his hand brush the edge of the monitor near you. “You make him look flawless. You keep everything in line. Someone should thank you.”
You glanced at Evan. He was now frozen in place like a statue. His hand held the gun magazine, looking down, yet you could tell he had paused his check mid-air to listen.
Your eyes traced his frame for a split second, feeling the weight of silence, then back at Killian. “I'm not sure—,” you stuttered quietly.
“Flattered looked good on you,” Killian murmured. “Better than you realized.” He gestured at the emptying set around you, his back to Evan, tone teasing, almost intimate. “Everyone else has wandered off. It's just us now. Don’t make me wait.”
Your stomach twisted. Out of sight, Evan didn’t move. Didn’t even look towards you. Yet the air around him hummed with quiet menace. Each deliberate motion, adjusting a strap, sliding a buckle, was sharpened, more forceful now, almost pointed. You could hear it. And when your eyes met his dark lenses past Killian's shoulder, for the briefest second, he didn’t need words. You felt it. The unspoken warning: the moment the space cleared, he was coming for you.
Killian's hand suddenly brushed your arm so noticeably that it almost stung.
Evan’s posture tightened imperceptibly, gloved hands pressing a little harder. Inside, something sick and uncomfortable was slow-building, simmering. Flattered by him? Really? That drunk fucking bastard—
Evan couldn't help but silently remember the way you laughed at a joke he’d made last week while tightening his harness. The brush of your fingers over his shoulder, how you stood closer...and now you were closer to him, to this piece of shit he had to kiss up to every day. To Killian. It burned something hot and uncomfortable in his chest.
Killian leaned back slightly, smirk sharp. “I hope I’m not being too forward,” he said, eyes glinting. He spun toward Evan, finally acknowledging his presence.
“Chief McCone,” he said casually, voice raised. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked your opinion.”
Evan didn’t look up. His hands resumed with mechanical precision, slotting the magazine home, checking the chamber. Click. Smooth. Controlled. Killian chuckled.
“Still the strong, silent type. That’s why they love you.” He turned slightly, positioning himself so you were caught between them without actually moving you.
“But you work closely with my technician here, don’t you?”
Evan’s jaw tightened.
“Yes, sir.” Evan's voice was low and sultry as always.
“Look at me.” Killian's voice was more firm this time.
Evan hesitated, only a fraction of a second, then obeyed.
Killian began snaking his arm around your waist as if dangling you in front of Evan's face like a treat. It was obvious how he was teasing. Killian searched his masked expression, slow and deliberate, savoring the restraint, the fury he kept on a leash.
“You’d never cross that line,” Killian said softly, his voice almost too low. “Not without permission, without being told.” He spoke intimately, as if only Evan should hear. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”
Evan’s answer came out strained.
“My focus,” he said nonchalantly, “is maintaining operational readiness.”
Killian tilted his head. “And if my attention interferes with that?”
The lenses hid his eyes, but not the tension in his neck, the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his chest rose too fast before he reined it in.
“It wouldn’t,” Evan said almost too quickly.
Killian’s smile sharpened. “You’re sure?”
Evan’s mouth opened. Then closed beneath the mask. Killian watched him like a man watching a wire fray.
“How very disciplined,” he murmured. “You always this careful with things you want?”
Evan’s fingers twitched.
“My wants are irrelevant.” Evan's head tilts back, as if playing a chess piece.
Killian stepped closer still, invading space deliberately now. Evan’s head turned just enough, not toward Killian. His dark lenses angled toward you. Just for a second. It was a mistake.
Killian’s eyes lit up.
“There it is,” he said softly. “That look. That hesitation.” He straightened, satisfied. “Relax, Chief. I’m not asking you to say anything.”
Evan swallowed hard. His throat bobbed visibly beneath the mask. His gaze did not leave you.
“I’ll need my technician to meet me in my office after filming,” Killian said, turning toward you, voice smoothing back into charm.
Evan didn’t answer.
He started to leave, then paused, glancing back at Evan with a knowing smirk.
“Try not to glare holes in my back, Chief,” he said. “It’s unprofessional.”
Killian disappeared behind the curtain. The fog machine puffed lightly against the stage, the final checks being made before the next scene.
Before a beat could pass, you felt Evan's hand lock around your arm and shove you into the nearest costume room. The force was so sudden that by the time you finished stumbling in, you heard the door slam hard behind you.
"Hey-" You tried to stammer, but Evan spun you around with one smooth motion, pinning your arms back, face first against the wall. Necessary or not, he often exercised the ability to subdue you in highly tactical ways.
Hands still firm against your back, you felt him peel off his mask behind you. You could imagine his long greyed hair fairing out from his temples. You felt his grip tighten on your forearms as he leaned in. All you could see was the wall against your cheek.
"You're not going. Say you're sick, you're busy, I don't care." His voice was low and sultry against your ear. "You're not going." he instructed with a sickening finality.
"Evan...he's-" you tried to wiggle free from his grip.
Just the sound of you simply referring to Killian made him burn with rage. With no hesitation he yanked your jeans to your knees, causing you to gasp. The air was cold against the backs of your thighs. But he was unbelievably warm.
He rubbed his fingers too firmly against your pussy through your underwear. Your face burned hot against the cool surface. The pressure on your pinned arms began to ache. He was holding you too tightly.
"Evan we have to go back to work-" You struggled against his grip, knowing he was just pissed, you hoped he would relent and get over this before next rolling.
You felt your underwear pulled roughly past your knees, pooling over your jeans. All you could feel for a moment was his fingers running over your entrance. It made you feel stupid.
You heard his zipper come undone, the squeak of leather and something metallic. Then the white hot crack of him pushing inside of you with no warning. He came around to grip your neck with his half gloved hand before you could let out a moan.
Three thrusts and you felt your wetness coating his length entirely. You didn't have time to let out anything more than a whimper. He was going so fast you couldn't tell if you were dripping on your thighs yet. You hoped not. He let out a labored breath.
"What you're going to do," he started pounding harder. "Is stay here and take it, you understand?" His fingers hooked into your cheeks, pulling your head back against his chest. The position had you completely immobile against his height.
You felt yourself drooling on his gloves.
The pounding was so fast and loud that the table beside him began rattling with each thrust. The chair next to his leg scraped the floor so loud when he kicked it aside for a better angle, you were sure anyone walking on set outside could hear through the feeble walls. By the time you knew for sure you were dripping all over the floor, you didn't even have to let out a moan. He was already fucking so rough it sounded like the wall was shaking each time he slammed into you.
His goal was for Killian to hear, wherever he was. Evan hoped he was right outside the costume room.
────୨ৎ────
When he finally pulled out, he came on your ass. Hot and sticky covered your bare skin in the cool air. When you grabbed the chair to steady yourself, he had already zipped up his costume. He only glanced at you for a spilt second before sliding his mask back on. He left you to clean things up.
The rest of the shift went as expected. Evan acted as if nothing happened at all. But when he was on for a commercial scene, he was unusually hasty with the rifle that run. They had to redo the scene 3 times.
summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.
How hard could it be?
[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]
STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL
"Be my girlfriend."
The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.
You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"
Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.
"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."
You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.
Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.
"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."
Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."
Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.
"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"
Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.
"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.
"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"
"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."
He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.
"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."
Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.
"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"
He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.
"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."
You take in his words. "But you're not."
"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.
"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."
You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."
Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."
His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.
"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."
You take a moment to think it over.
"When is it?"
"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."
"Dress code?"
"Formal. Duh."
"How many people?"
"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."
Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.
You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?
Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.
You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.
It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?
Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.
Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.
Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.
"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."
You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.
He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."
You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.
Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.
He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."
Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.
"You've got a deal, mister."
Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.
"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."
Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."
You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.
"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.
Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.
His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.
He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."
"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."
—
A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.
You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.
Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.
You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.
You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.
It would take an hour, tops.
A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.
"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.
Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"
You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.
"And just what are you trying to say?"
Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.
"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."
He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."
You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.
Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.
You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.
"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.
"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."
"Different?"
"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"
His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.
You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"
Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.
"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"
You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.
You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.
His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.
You could do that.
"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"
"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."
You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.
A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.
"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."
You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.
Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.
"Think this'll do?"
Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."
You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.
"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."
Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.
"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."
Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"
Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."
Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.
"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."
Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.
"And Brandon."
"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."
"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."
Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."
You blink, perturbed. "What?"
"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."
You cringe a little. He does have a point.
"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.
You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."
Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.
"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"
You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.
"Yeah," You say.
Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.
Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"
"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.
You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.
"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"
Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."
"You lost that game."
"I still scored!"
"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."
Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."
You laugh again, soft and light.
"Who asked who?"
"I asked you." Steve says.
You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.
What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.
Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.
That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?
You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.
You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.
For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.
"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"
"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."
He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.
"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.
Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"
Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."
Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!
Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"
Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.
"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.
"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"
STEP TWO: THE ACT
Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.
Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.
You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.
"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.
He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.
You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.
"We got together the 20th—"
"—of June, last year." You finish for him.
Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."
You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"
"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."
That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.
"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.
"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."
"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."
Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.
"Thanks." He murmurs.
He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.
What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.
You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"
Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.
"They definitely did."
There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.
Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.
"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.
The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."
"Steve."
"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."
"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.
"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.
"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."
"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.
You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.
"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.
Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.
You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."
Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.
Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.
Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.
"Ready?"
Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.
He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.
A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.
As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.
Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.
Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.
Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.
Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.
Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?
“Steven.”
The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.
You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.
“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”
He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.
“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”
You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.
“No, Mom, you didn’t.”
There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.
That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.
“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”
The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.
Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.
“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”
You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.
Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.
“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”
This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.
The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.
“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.
Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.
“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”
It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.
Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.
“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”
“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?
You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.
You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.
Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.
“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.
“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”
Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.
He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.
“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.
“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.
Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.
The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.
“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”
The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.
“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”
For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.
However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.
“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.
Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.
A new voice interrupts.
“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”
You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.
He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.
The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.
“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.
Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.
Then he does the same to you.
It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.
God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.
“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.
You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.
“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”
Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.
Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.
“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.
He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.
Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”
He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.
You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.
And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.
Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.
“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”
“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”
Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.
You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.
“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”
Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.
“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”
“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.
He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.
“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.
You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.
“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.
“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”
There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.
You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.
The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.
You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.
“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.
“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.
He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”
He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.
You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.
Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.
It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.
As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.
“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.
From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.
You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.
“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”
“You think?”
You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.
If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?
"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."
Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.
"Touchy?" He provides.
You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.
The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.
And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.
You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.
How different would it really be?
Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.
Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?
The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.
Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.
Just more. More of this.
Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.
"Hm?"
"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”
Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."
Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.
"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”
The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.
Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.
The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.
“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?
He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.
“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.
How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”
“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.
“Okay," You say. "Fair."
"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"
It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.
"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."
Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
"What about you?"
Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."
"Too late."
“Yeah, well, obviously.”
There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.
“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.
He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”
“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”
Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.
Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”
You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.
“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.
You’ve met him thrice.
Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.
Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.
“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”
Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”
Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”
Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.
Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.
You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.
You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.
“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.
Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.
“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”
There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”
Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”
“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.
“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.
A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.
“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”
Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.
“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.
You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”
He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.
“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”
The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.
Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.
Does he really think all those things about you?
Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.
He turns back to his father’s business friends.
“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”
You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.
It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”
You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.
Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”
There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.
“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.
“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”
“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”
Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”
Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.
You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”
Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.
“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”
“Eh, what’s the big difference?”
“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”
He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.
“Steve? Leaving so soon?”
The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.
“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”
Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.
Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.
Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.
“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”
He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.
“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.
“It’s like- wait, no—”
Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.
“Is he paying you?”
You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.
“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”
He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.
STEP THREE: THE KISS
You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.
You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.
And… oh.
He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.
For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.
And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.
Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.
He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.
“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”
The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.
“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.
STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH
It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.
You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.
Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.
You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.
Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.
Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.
By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.
Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.
As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.
“I'm sorry, okay?"
Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.
"What?"
"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.
"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."
You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.
"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."
Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"
His particular wording isn't lost on you.
"But you are mad." You press.
"I'm not."
You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?
"You sound mad."
Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.
"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"
“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”
Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.
"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"
“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”
That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?
Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.
His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.
"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"
He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"
He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.
A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.
"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.
"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."
"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."
He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.
"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.
"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”
There's desperation in his final plea.
A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.
A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.
"Wha... You never said anything."
It comes out a little insulted.
Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"
"I didn't think I was your type!"
Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.
"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"
"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”
Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.
“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."
"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.
He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.
"And... now?"
Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.
"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"
It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.
"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"
Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.
"Would you... want that?"
"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.
Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.
But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.
And there it is; the true revelation.
"And I don't think I want to."
The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.
He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.
How the hell did you miss it?
"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"
What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.
"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.
Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.
But you want to try.
That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.
He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.
He pauses just before your lips can touch.
Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.
Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.
You're excited.
His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.
"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."
The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.
He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.
You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.
"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.
"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"
"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.
God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.
"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.
You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.
"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"
Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.
"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.
You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.
Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.
One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.
Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.
As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.
taggin some peeps below!
@illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime
just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm
The Rewrite. {Mike Wheeler x Eleven | Jane Hopper}
Rating: General audiences.
Chapter: 2 of 2. Read chapter one here.
Word Count: 1695 exactly.
Summary: Crunchy roads, the sound of water, the smell of freshly baked bread and the most loving embrace. A reunion.
A/N: The support and lovely comments I received from chapter one meant the world to me. Writing chapter two came a lot easier than i anticipated. I hope you enjoyed this tiny little story and its ending.
The ground crunched beneath his feet as he followed the map he’d managed to purchase after leaving the airport. His fathers shoes were slightly too big but that seemed to work in his favour as after walking for miles his feet were miraculously blister free.
The fields he walked across were quieter than the ones before, the crowds had started to disperse as daylight began to disappear. He had contemplated getting a hotel and starting his hike towards the waterfalls early the next day but his heart simply wouldn’t allow it.
The fight between his heart and his head was won easily as the past six years rested heavily on it, and he thought back to that night, to his graduation where he silently searched for her face in the crowd, to the book signings when he’d see a faceless woman that had her hair and was a similar height - it was simple, he’d waited long enough.
For six years he was stuck in purgatory. Wondering if she had died that night and the story that he’d conjured in his head and still hung onto with an unwavering sense of hope and devotion.
As the distant sound of water hitting rocks rung out in his ears he briefly thought back over the past few days, thinking about the night after his received the postcard and he sat at his parents dining table and informed him of his impromptu flight across the globe to visit a country that he’d never mentioned wanting to visit before; his mothers excitement but visible worry etched across her face as she told him how proud she was that he was taking some time just for him, and his father nodding in agreement. He looked over at Holly who was silent, but smiling, she seemed to be searching for answers about this trip that she knew he was keeping hidden.
That night he slept in his childhood bedroom for the first time in years, but not before making a few short phone calls to the people he needed to hear from the most.
The first call was to Lucas, he figured it was the easiest as he knew Max would no doubt be sitting next to him with the phone nestled between their heads. He hadn’t seen them in a few months because they’d been travelling together, backpacking South America and getting engaged at Machu Picchu in front of an enthusiastic crowd of strangers. They’d sent Postcards from each destination they’d visited and let him know they expected one in return and he laughed and promised that he’d make it his priority before saying a soft “see you later” as the word goodbye was out of limits to the party from that very night.
The next was to Will. The shortest call of the three as he was getting ready to go to the theater that he worked in. The understudy of the main character in a show that had dazzled him shortly after moving to the city. Will had made him promise that his return flight would include a pit stop in New York so they could eat good pizza and have a much needed catch up and he agreed with a sense of excitement.
And the last was to Dustin. Dustin who always answered before the third ring. “Iceland, huh?” He’d said with an obvious intrigue. “You just woke up and decided it was calling to you?” And Mike laughed before answering with a simple “Yes.” Dustin laughed back before letting out an amused sigh. “I’ll see you soon.” They both said to each other at the same time before Dustin insisted that he’d call him from Iceland. To which he agreed without hesitation.
That night sleep came easier than it had in a long time, the possibilities for once seemed endless and it bought him peace.
Lost in thought his feet moved quicker than before, the overwhelming feeling of anticipation almost making him feel weightless as the sound of water was closer than ever. He’d expected to have been exhausted by the hike, by the climbing and the different terrains he trekked across but he was content.
One tiny rocky climb left and he took each step with caution, not willing to allow himself to get distracted by the glorious sound and risk harming himself and once he was at the top safe he finally allowed himself to look.
The view was astonishing, a beauty he’d never experienced first hand before laid out in front of him and leaving him speechless. Even with the dark creeping in and the realization that he didn’t quite know where he was going he was unable to think of anything but the view in front of him.
He slowly let the straps of his backpack fall off his shoulders for the first time in hours, and placed it carefully on the ground before lowering himself down. Sitting on a jagged rock in front of the Waterfalls and listening to the harmonious sound of the waves crashing against rock and hitting the ground beneath them. It was a peace he had never known.
The other side of where he sat was the top of cliffs in which the waterfalls stood. Lushious green land stretched out across for as far as the eye could see, a smattering of campers sat peacefully in the field and that’s when he allowed himself to wonder.
For a sneaky and unexpected moment he wondered if this could be a sick prank, a postcard sent from someone to taunt him and further haunt him silently but it soon fell away as he remembered that only two people were aware of the conversation about ‘faraway lands and three waterfalls’ and he knew Hopper would never hurt him this way.
So it had to be. It had to be her. He knew she couldn’t use her powers that night, the machines that had pointed at her were much too strong. She was out here somewhere, and she was ready for him to come and find her.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a fresh bottle of water, taking a few sips before slipping it back in and pulling himself up. He carefully descended back down the rocky hill and began his journey around to the other side.
Each step seemed to bring even more hope, the uncomfortable pain that lived in the center of his chest seemed to numb as he moved forward. He had spent years convincing himself that the pain that felt permanent was worth it, because it would constantly remind him of her. And when the pain was at its worst, it was okay, because after it would settle down she would visit him in dreams.
He walked slowly through the crowd of campers trying not to seem conspicuous or a threat as his eyes studied each one, desperately trying to get of sense of who could be inside them, if she could be inside them but after inspecting them all or getting a glance of the people inside or outside of them he found nothing. No trace of her. Nothing that indicated that she would be inside one of them.
He sighed loudly, feeling a little frustrated before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the mysterious postcard that was sitting heavily in his pocket. And that’s when he saw it. A tiny scratch, clearly made deliberately in the field past the waterfalls. He stepped backwards and moved the postcard away so it was at arms length and he studied it for a few moments before letting his eyes scan the area in which the scratch was situated.
And that’s when he finally saw it. A tiny camper in the distance. Half white, half pink. Smoke blowing out of the top like steam spouting out of a tea kettle. The smoke wasn’t dangerous, it was inviting, the kind of smoke that pumps through an air filter from the heater being switched on or food being cooked on a tiny stove.
He stood still for a few moments. The gravity of the moment finally weighing on him. The torturous what ifs roaming through his mind for what felt like an eternity before he slightly shook his head and took a step, and then another and then another and a whole bunch more, and before he knew it; it wasn’t in the distance, it wasn’t so far that he couldn’t make out the finally hand painted flowers on the lower half of the camper that had been delicately painted pink.
He could smell freshly cooked bread and sizzling bacon and it was dizzying in the best possible way.
He took a few more steps before he stood directly in front of the door of the camper. He inhaled and exhaled deeply before reaching his hand up to tap the door but before it could reach the door swung open and for a second he couldn’t catch a breath. The earth felt like it had moved beneath him. And a feeling he hadn’t felt for years swept throughout him in the most breathtaking manner and just when he felt like he might collapse from the rush of adrenaline that was sweeping throughout him he heard it.
“Mike.” Her voice anchored him back down, and he was able to confirm that what he was seeing was real. It wasn’t a dream this time, the cold air hitting his face where a stream of tears floated down his cheeks was the shock he needed to know this was real.
A choked “El” slipped through his lips in response as he sobbed and laughed harder.
The ending in which he was alone, the ending in which she was alone had been rewritten.
She was there. Only a step away from his grasp. Their tears falling in synchronicity with the sounds of elation that slipped through both of their lips.
Six years of pain, six years of unknowing, six years of grief and misery melting away as they reached out and embraced each other.
The Storyteller and the Mage. Their happy ending was finally rewritten in the greatest love story ever told.
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto
2087
vaporwave
