𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧
You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au
10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining
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Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge.
Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing.
The threat of being caught propels him forward.
He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip.
"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary.
He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps.
It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.
He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here.
Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette.
He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence.
"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender.
Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes.
You're scared.
You're beautiful.
"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking."
"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else."
Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown.
His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear.
You glare at him.
"You can't stay here," you assert.
"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you."
He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant.
"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–"
"Holy stars, is that your hair?"
You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No."
"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."
Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor.
"You have to leave. Leave!"
Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat.
"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter.
You don't laugh, nor do you smile.
"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly.
He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay."
"She won't give it."
You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't.
"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.
Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly.
He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely.
"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after."
His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword.
"Ruffians?" you repeat.
He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."
"Not well enough, clearly."
"I got lucky."
You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease.
"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do."
Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?"
"No! Of course not."
"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate."
That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair.
"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly.
The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything."
—
Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best.
He's very, very fine.
You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward.
The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey.
"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense."
You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them.
"They're how I spend my summers."
"Looking at them?"
You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling."
You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time.
"I painted them myself."
The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks.
"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden.
"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."
"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days."
His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?"
"You aren't married?"
You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!"
"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."
You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps.
"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.
"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold."
He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.
"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo.
"Argento."
You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks.
"You're talking about money."
"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.
You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes.
Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower.
"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!"
You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.
The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–"
You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet.
"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning."
He doesn't move.
"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious.
"Please," you whisper again.
He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small.
"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling."
You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs.
"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper.
He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?"
You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight.
It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous.
"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that."
"Sorry, mother."
She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving.
"I hope you had some time to think about our argument."
You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother."
She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you."
"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does.
She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.
Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections.
"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs.
You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps.
"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars."
"No, you shouldn't have."
She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger.
You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores.
You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud.
"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled.
"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously.
But she is not kind.
You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents.
You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it.
"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot.
"It's dusty down here!" you call.
"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling."
"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother."
-
Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before.
He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like.
You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page.
You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour.
He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered.
Footsteps sound up the stairs.
Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide.
"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely.
He holds his breath as the door creaks open.
"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?"
He waves his hand from under the bed.
"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him.
Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile.
You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed.
Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars.
You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.
"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing."
You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them."
"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange.
"I wanted to go see them, but…"
"But mother said no?"
"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars."
He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.
"What's your name?" he asks quietly.
"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?"
"Steven. Steve will do just fine."
"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me."
His eyes widen.
"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again.
"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?"
"It's not what you think."
"I think it's exactly what I think."
You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians."
You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do.
You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head.
"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!"
"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults.
His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”
Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”
“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”
You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out.
“Don’t be mad,” he says.
“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily.
“Nobody’s perfect.”
Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely.
To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here.
“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”
He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”
—
“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark.
It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep.
“Yeah?” you whisper.
“The floating lights?”
Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”
“Those are called lanterns.”
You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”
“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”
“The lost princess?”
“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”
You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids.
—
"You want me to what?"
"I want you to take me to see the lanterns."
Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation.
"No."
"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee."
"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says.
You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon.
"Oh," he says. Nice.
He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow.
Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too.
"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving.
You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table.
"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were."
"This isn't how you negotiate."
"Good thing I'm not negotiating."
He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence.
"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."
You raise your eyebrows.
Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?"
You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.
"You'll be coming back this way anyhow."
Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge.
"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings."
You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."
Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit.
He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless.
"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse."
Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion.
"Do you have any better shoes?"
You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No."
"You don't get out much, do you?"
You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches.
Poor girl, he thinks.
"Don't worry too much about it."
"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun."
—
You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes.
Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon.
Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow.
"Are you coming?" Steve calls.
You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward.
The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath.
It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose.
Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass.
The world is even bigger from there.
"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town."
You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh."
You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped.
Steve seems content to languish in silence.
You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb.
As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me.
You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine.
Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon.
"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says.
You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?"
He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it."
"Oh. That's good."
"Yeah."
You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same."
"I'm an excellent navigator."
Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape.
"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice."
"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this."
—
Steve doesn't feel bad, at first.
He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there.
It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen.
He's still a two-timer. Case in point.
"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back.
"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute."
Adorable.
Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag.
"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room."
Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension.
Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade.
"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?"
Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly.
Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath.
You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection.
"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper.
His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee."
"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely.
Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint.
"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."
"And for the room and bath?"
"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together."
Steve frowns but hands over the money.
Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough.
"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?"
And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you.
"Both of us," he says, nodding.
You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together.
"Why did you say that?"
"It's what's expected of us."
"By who?" you ask, near belligerent.
He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?"
"You're not my husband."
He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back.
He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.
"I don't have a reputation," you say.
He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married." He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying."
"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage.
"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care."
Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag.
"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but."
He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me?
But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways.
The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him.
If they can, they aren't listening.
You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks.
"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted.
"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view.
The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone.
"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?"
You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery.
"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own.
Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water.
"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure.
"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung.
"The water’s barely hot."
"I've never had a hot bath before."
He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?"
"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?"
He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you."
"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble.
"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon."
You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck.
"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity.
Your shoulders relax.
He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves.
You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure.
He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine.
He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room.
You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat.
"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?"
"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress."
"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."
"I thought you were a thief?"
Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention.
He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown.
"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself."
He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands.
He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another.
You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning.
"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand.
Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it.
He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends.
"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.
He turns around.
—
"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays.
You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue."
"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair."
"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?"
"We aren't going back down there."
"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself."
"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea."
"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns."
Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on.
He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door.
"Well?" he asks, holding it open.
You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you."
You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen.
"What is that?" you ask Steve.
He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?"
You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can.
Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room.
"You've never seen one of those?" he asks.
"Not in any of my books."
"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound."
You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem.
You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you.
"Turn to me."
"What if my hair catches?"
"You aren't close enough for that."
You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot.
"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties."
A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you."
"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry."
"I have–"
"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?"
"No."
He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season."
You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?"
"They keep it really, really hot, all day long."
You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further.
"And you've had it? What does it taste like?"
"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it."
He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close.
The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you.
Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left…
You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk.
You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–
"Are you okay?"
You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further.
"I'm okay," you say.
Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy.
"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.
"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis.
Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back.
He looks at your face until you're uneasy.
"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm.
You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges.
You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles?
Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while.
Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song.
Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough.
You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow."
"Good, huh?"
You try not to cough. "It's rich."
"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?"
"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you."
You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing.
You look up, puzzled.
"Come on."
Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand.
He leads you up the small platform to the piano.
You look to him inquisitively.
"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard."
"How do you adjust how loud it is?"
He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys."
"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys.
"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you."
He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe.
"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this."
You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.
You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings.
"Do you know anything?" Steve asks.
Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…
"No. Sorry," you say.
His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song."
"I only know the one."
He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are.
The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays.
"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears."
"Is that yours?" you ask him.
He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid."
"Only plays them."
His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching.
"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.
"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?"
He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning.
"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters.
"What?" you ask.
The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!"
Steve's smile is gone.
"Eddie," he says tiredly.
"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy."
Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head.
"Why's it matter?" Steve asks.
"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us."
"I don't owe you anything."
You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.
Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon.
Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor.
"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree."
˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗
eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3
