summary: Steve thinks it's best keeping your relationship a secret, but what if you dont feel the same?
cw: hurt/comfort, fighting, happy ending, season 5 cannonish just a little change to make the story work! , fluff, fem!r, lmk if i missed anything <3
a/n: hi guys!!! here for my monthly post :P no but in all seriousness im gonna try really hard to get back to writing more frequently!!! I Swear!!!!!! enjoy this for now :)
The whole group already knew you two liked each other.
It was the way the two of you naturally gravitated towards each other. At first you came along with Robin, not originally being someone who was supposed to be part of the group. But over time Robin wasn't anywhere without Steve and you weren't anywhere without Robin. It also helped that you all got along really well.
Off the bat it was a friendship, something important to all those involved. For Robin it was nice to see her two friends get along but for you and Steve, it was something different. The way you were both a step towards a blurry line of friendship and something more. Starting by hanging out without Robin, then having sleepovers that consisted of the two of you sleeping in his bed. It was like a snowball effect, once it started it didn't stop.
That's how you ended up with Steve driving you home after your first date.
He had asked you out for dinner a few nights ago after your weekly movie night had ended. When you were both extremely tired and fighting to stay awake. Throughout the whole movie your head had rested on his shoulder and his hand on your knee that pressed against his. It was all he thought about, if he’s honest he probably couldn't even tell you what the plot was, his mind was focused on one thing. Asking you out, crossing the line, possibly messing up the best thing he’s ever had.
But luckily with sleepy eyes and zero awareness of how things will change in that moment– you said yes. Your half awake brain not giving you a second to think about how insane of a question that actually is. Steve Harrington asking you out after a year of dancing around each other. You‘d like to think if he asked you before the movie he would've gotten a more exciting response. But this is Steve, your Steve, the guy who knows everything about you already. Maybe that's why your brain is fine with powering off around him and saying yes to things you haven't even thought over fully.
After all, the reality of this sticking and working out was Steve's biggest worry. The sticking part. How long you two would be together and if this was lust or something more, something real. Because if it doesn't stick and Steve crashes and burns then you’re no longer going to want to see him, which means you won't see Robin. It’s all connected in a very serious way that means this can't be a fling, can't be a one time thing, it has to hold weight. So much so that both of you are held down by it, keeping you in place.
It was a real concern, so real it’s what kept you two away from the idea of dating this whole time. Although that’s what makes him asking you out that much more serious. Because if he’s asking it’s only because he simply can't hold onto it any longer, he can't pretend nothing is there, the feeling is just that intense. And in the morning when you woke up to a voicemail from Steve reminding you of said date is when you fully became aware of what had happened. You went from sleeping to screaming into your pillow and kicking your feet at how insane it was.
Throughout the whole date with Steve you felt the same way. Butterflies taking over your whole body, your legs feeling like they could take you a hundred miles an hour, and the burning sensation of his warm hand on the small of your back. It was all overwhelming and grounding at the same time. As if two things couldn't be true at the same time yet they were because it was Steve.
By the second date it felt a little bit more natural. It was at a cafe you two frequented, a familiar place that didn't have you feeling like you had to eat nicely in front of him. It’s silly how strong the need to be perfect in front of him is, like he hasn't seen you at your worst throughout this whole time he’s known you. Like you are going through meeting him all over again, trying to come off as one way despite him knowing you as another.
This cafe was nice, one of your favorite spots in Hawkins. It was never crazy busy, you two are always able to get the same spot each time. And just like any other time you put your leg over his thighs as he rubs little circles on your ankle. A routine that now in a new light felt very intense and more than him comforting you. How silly that your normal habits feel more significant now that you two aren't just friends. Habits that you would normally build up to in a relationship already sewn into your dynamic.
By the end of that date, right when you both reached your doorstep, he asked if he could kiss you. Within seconds you agreed and possibly even quicker than that he leaned in and did it. The first kiss was quick, like you two were testing the waters even though you both wanted it so badly. Although it didn't take long for him to lean back in for more, suddenly obsessed with the new found freedom. Finally reaching the point you have waited so long for.
The third date was already planned in Steve's mind. He’d ask you to come over for dinner and a movie. Impress you with his cooking skills– he can only make two things– and end the night cuddling, maybe sneaking a makeout session in here and there if he's lucky. It felt easy and yet a perfect date.
That was until the crawls started up.
Each week you two now had other things to do and other plans taking up your days. Instead of ending the night with front porch kisses you were lucky if he was able to drive you back home. Not only was what you started new but it didn't have boundaries or rules. There hadn't been time to ask if you wanted to share with the group you two were going out or if you wanted to be all coupley in public. So many unknowns that had no time to be answered, the stress of Vecna and the safety of everyone being more important.
In other words it felt like a big pause to your plans. Stopping something before it even had a real chance to begin. And with the lack of dates or one on one time with Steve it felt like you were back at square one. Possibly even worse than that because now you know what it’s like to be with him.
You know he loves splitting both of whatever you two are eating, loves having a hand on you– whether it's on the small of your back or in your jean loop, loves telling you when you're in his dream and how real it felt. Of course it wasn't like you two haven't been speaking at all during the crawls but it’s not like you can talk about the things that you need to talk about.
But then somehow someway for the first time this whole week you and Steve are actually alone together. Jonathan, Nancy, and Murray are outside. Will and Robin are currently at the hospital trying to nicely cancel on Vickie and making up an excuse so she doesn't break up with her mid explanation. And Mike, Lucas and Dustin are trying to get Erica to talk to the Turnbows. You and Steve are sitting on a couch down in the basement of the Squawk, you didn't even realise you were completely alone until Steve told you how nice the quiet was.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to get you alone since this whole thing started.” Steve says, it comes out in a slight whisper like it's a secret. His hand is on your thigh, a simple touch that he can pull away from if anyone were to come down.
“Oh you wanted me alone huh?” It’s hard not to tease him– especially when you've been around high schoolers, you swear it’s like their humor bleeds into your own.
Steve gives it to you and lets his head fall back on the couch with a laugh. The joke dies out pretty quickly though, and you let it. With a quick look around to really make sure no one is coming, you let yourself cuddle up next to him. Your head rests on his shoulder and your hand intertwines with his as it lays on his lap. He lets himself indulge as well, giving kisses to the top of your head and your temple.
“I wish we could have finished what we started before all of this.” He murmurs into the crown of your head, his voice softened and indistinct.
“Me too. I mean we barely got to talk about the group or anything.”
Steve thinks there might not be a good next time. That maybe the next time the two of you are alone it will be in another week or even more. He’ll have to keep all this in till then and waste time with unspoken words, letting the lack of communication ruin you both slowly.
“I think we keep this a secret from everyone.” He starts.
It’s enough to have you sit up, removing yourself from his hold. “A secret? For how long?” It sounds awful the way he says it.
“Just until we are sure about us, you know? I don't want the group pressuring us about anything and it all being too much.”
“What about us are you not sure about? And they already tease us about it already.”
It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s fucking this up. How easily you are using his words against him in a way he didn't mean for them to come out. Your brows are furrowed, creating two angry lines that tell him exactly how much his words are messing things up.
“No I- that didn't come out right. Of course I’m sure it’s just Robin and her questions and the kids being weird about it. I dunno, I just think we need to be more solid before we tell everyone.”
“We wouldn't even be acting that much different from how we normally do.” It’s all you can say because what you’re hearing is not something you want to verbalize. Words you don't want to go past your teeth and hear how they sound blunt and to the point.
“I know.” This is going so much worse than he thought. Nothing is being said right which can't happen because there isn't much time for it to be fixed.
A need to get up and move around separates you two. Your hand that was once in his is now picking anxiously at your other hand. “So what are you saying? Is this just some hook up for you? Are you with me just to fuck or something?”
Steve can see the wheels turning in your head as you pace around the room. “No, no, that's not what I'm saying. This is more than that. And I mean would it be better if it stayed between you and I for right now? Yeah I think so. But obviously not for long just-”
The loud sound of the metal storage unit upstairs rings through the whole room, cement walls allowing the sound to echo. Nancy comes down first, not even noticing how the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Then follows Jonthan and Murray, the two talk but it dies out once they reach you and Steve.
Unfortunately the guys see your stance, how far you separated yourself from Steve and how he is rubbing his temples. It’s obvious a conversation of some sort happened and Murray is the first to speak about it.
“Man what happened down here?Was Stevie late to pick up his girlfriend today?” He mocks playfully.
What he doesn't know is that is the last straw for you. Because while Steve wants to keep this hidden half the group already knows. They tease you about it everyday, so for him to be worried about it doubling is well.. Bullshit. It’s complete bullshit and a lame excuse.
The comment is the last thing you hear before you turn and b line towards Nance, wanting anyone or anything else to take up your time. And this is what does it for Steve. Because for some reason he simply can't do anything right. Between his issues with Dustin, and Jonthan on his back the last thing he needs is for you to go to everyone but him.
If you weren't so upset with him you’d probably realize this as well. Anything involving Steve is always at the forefront of your brain. Especially if it has to do with how much of a hard time he’s had lately. But unfortunately for him, you’re trying your very best to not think anything of him. Trying so hard to not spiral thinking about his words. Like what he might've meant to say but didn't get there exactly. Giving him the benefit of the doubt as always.
Despite that feeling, a bigger one radiates off of you– disappointment. Because to you Steve really can't do anything wrong. Sure he can be a little slow for certain things and too sassy about others but overall he's the only person who you can't get enough of. Well– really that was till you found out that he’d rather create space between you two rather than being upfront and honest about something the whole group already knows about.
It’s a sick type of feeling to not understand why he feels this way. Was he embarrassed to be with you like that? Is it that you’re such a close friend he couldn't simply imagine introducing you as something more to his friends? All these unknown questions loom around you like a big dark cloud, so dark you think other people might be able to see it too.
–
This is how the next week continues. Steve being stuck with Dustin despite both of their complaints and you going with anyone who isn't Steve. It slightly messes things up, just because almost everyone has a pair they stick to. Nancy has Jonathan, Lucas has Max, Mike has Will. It’s a well oiled system between the group. But now with Steve only having a few people in his corner the pairings are off.
That's what you expected to happen today. Also known as day 8 of barely speaking to Steve. Not glancing at him from across the room, not talking to him unless necessary, and definitely not driving around with him. You don't think your car has ever been used so much before.
Although when you get to the Squawk some things have changed and some people aren't there. Kinda sorta like the person you need for ignoring Steve. Dustin.
He hasn't shown up and it’s 30 minutes past the time he was supposed to show. Half of the group is off already doing their part while you, Steve, Nancy, and Jonthan are left behind. In reality it’s you getting there late because you don't have Steve keeping you on time, Steve waiting on the kid he hates the most right now, and Nancy being so much of a control freak that she has to keep her and Jonathan behind. It’s certainly a recipe for disaster in the basement of the radio store.
“Alright screw it, he’s not coming. You’re gonna have to go with Steve.” Nancy says, looking at you.
It’s weird how your brain was almost going to say the most pleasant ‘okay’. Like a second nature thing you almost let slip. But Steve's big round eyes going wide was enough to stop your mouth from letting any sound out.
“I can go alone, I’ll just park to the side if I hear something.” His plan won't work, obviously, he’s letting whatever come out of his mouth. Anything to not be near you, it stings as much as salt on an open wound.
“Forget that, I’ll just sit in the back. Let’s go.” You mutter as you stand up, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Are you sure I mean-”
“Yeah, is that an issue?” It’s passive aggressive, barbed politeness.
“Nope. Not an issue for me at all.” Unlike you Steve says his words with real care. You can feel the olive branch grow towards you already but it’s not like you were the one who made him upset.
The two of you split up with Nancy and Jonathan, trying to quickly catch up for lost time. While you sit in the back you have headphones covering one of your ears trying to listen for sound while the other is out for your walkie talkie. Just in case Dustin comes through and sets you free.
This might be the first time in your entire friendship that you feel awkward with Steve. Ever since you met him it’s been a flow of consistency, up until now. It’s a weird feeling to not be able to bring anything up. You almost wish he would just say something to get the awkwardness out of the way. With you in the back of the van and him looking at you every other minute through the rearview mirror you’re already regretting agreeing so quickly to this.
But in the peak of the deadly silence your headphones cut out. “Wait, stop for a sec. The sounds gone.”
If you were mean and bitter you’d get on him about how aggressively he stopped the van, making you launch forward a bit. However, you won't make it far tonight if you bring things like that up. Still he keeps his foot on the break waiting for your ok. Also making the first real eye contact of the night.
When Steve sees the relief come back to your face he knows the sounds back. He gives a quick thumbs up with raised brows and a small ask of ‘is it good?.’ You respond with your own thumbs up and a small smile. Maybe your own olive branch. The hour of silence must've made something click for you Steve thinks. But before it gets back to the awkward stage both of you speak up.
“Thanks for stopping.”
“Can we talk?”
Each sentence comes out at the same time. Layering on top of each other in a way that doesn't help the awkwardness.
“Wait what did you say?” Steve asks.
“I just said thanks, y’know for stopping and waiting.” Really you don't need to be thanking him, what else would he have done?
“Yeah, of course.” He responds with a quick nod, almost like if he nods quickly you'll get to his question.
“What did you say?”
Finally you look back at him. Your whole body is facing him and he can see how you're sitting closer to the seat, a result of his harsh stop, but still you didn't move away. The question stuns him for a second because he isn't sure how he had the balls to ask that in the first place and now he has to ask it again.
“I asked if we could talk.” The van is still not moving, you’ll have to remind him of the task at hand.
“Yeah, we can talk.”
The response is open ended. You don't want to ask what the topic of conversation will be. If you’re lucky enough he’ll just talk about where Dustin might be, because despite his anger with him the safety of his friend matters more.
“Nothing I said that day was said right. I wasn't telling you exactly how I felt and it just made everything worse. I should've been more upfront with what I meant because now you hate me and I’ve ruined everything.” His words almost come out in one breath. He’s lucky his brain was able to catch up to his lips.
“I don't hate you Steve.” You say with a sigh. “But I feel like you were pretty clear, you don't want anyone to know about us.” It feels like acid on your tongue coming out. Like reality is hitting you in the face all over again.
“No, see I wasn't clear. I do want people to know about us. If I could tell the world about us I would.” It’s bad how he puts the van in park and turns his body completely towards you. But you like what you’re hearing too much to tell him otherwise. “I was just scared. I-I like you so much I didn't want to ruin it and somehow I did by trying not to.”
You can't help but smile at his words, letting a laugh slip past. It’s the most Steve thing ever to try to do something good for you but somehow mess it up in the process. Unable to get it right on the first try, too busy in his head for anything to happen naturally.
“So you don't want to hide it from the group?" It comes out quietly, afraid you’ve gotten his word wrong for the second time.
“No. I don't want to hide it. I just want this to be perfect. I want us to work out so badly I’m so scared of what we have going away.”
Steve feels so far from you despite being a few feet away. Letting himself get on your level– sitting on the floor of the van, grabbing both your hands in his. And by some miracle you let him. Scooting just a tiny bit closer that your knees touch. To say you’ve missed this is the understatement of the year.
“I feel the same way, but we can't hold ourselves back just to keep things safe. We have to make mistakes together and learn from whatever comes up y’know?” The way you tilt your head makes Steve want to punch himself in the face for not talking to you sooner. Depriving himself of all of this is his biggest regret.
“Yeah, yeah I know.” His smile is so big he has to give your knuckles kisses just to do something with it. Even hearing your giggle makes him feel woozy.
The second he lets go of your hands you wrap your arms around his neck. Not being able to touch him like this has been the hardest thing. And you can tell Steve feels the same when he groans into your neck, arms so tightly wrapped around your torso as if he’s afraid you’re gonna run away any second.
You follow suit and lay your head on his shoulder, giving his neck small kisses. “Are we okay?” You ask, breaking only for a second.
“Yeah angel, we're okay.”
There's a beat of silence before you speak up again.
“I think if we don't get back to tracking the group might kill us both.”
Steve laughs, letting you go but still keeping a hand on your thigh. “Yeah I think you might be right.”
He gets up first, having to bend over a good amount to not hit his head on the roof. His hand is held out for you to grab onto, when you do you copy his hunched over posture. Both of you sit in the front but you grab the headphones to keep track. The signals won't change much till you're out of the neighborhood.
As you buckle the seatbelt and Steve starts putting the van back in drive you start to see something in the distance. The late night doesn't do you any favors but it’s enough to make you tap Steve's arm. You’ve seen too much to ignore something in the distance like this.
“Is that a person?” Call it unresolved trauma or worry over your fellow community Steve still takes you 100% seriously. Looking out the window with the same confused face you have on.
It wasn't till he turned on his brights on the van that you could make out the person.
Just a few feet ahead of you stands Dustin, shirt bloody and face bruised. His hand goes to cover his face, the lights momentarily blinding him. It makes it hard to see what's happened but you get out of the car before you get a second longer to think about it.
Steve– still as petty as ever– stays in the car. Worried but not enough since he’s walking around and now has you by him.
Happy Anniversary Again | Steve Harrington x Byers!reader
Summary: After finding out that Steve was hiding things from you and breaking up over it, you try to find out what exactly this secret was. You nearly end up losing your life in the process.
Warnings: canon-typical violence, not proof-read, some swearing here and there.
a/n: I'm very nervous about this part y'all so please let me know if you guys like it!
w.c: 7.4k
dividers by @uzmacchiato
Part 1
It has been two weeks since that night.
Since then, Steve has called your house multiple times a day to try to talk to you and make up for the first three days. You answered at first, listening to him apologize for not being there enough, for missing out on dates and calls, for missing your anniversary dinner, and promising to do better. But every time it would end in the same way: “Are you finally willing to tell me the truth?” you’d whisper. He’d sigh sadly. “You know, I can’t do that, doll. It's too dangerous,” and you’d hear the genuine sadness in his voice, as if not telling you was killing him, too. You’d come close to relenting so many times because hearing Steve Harrington sound sad was more than your mind, body, and heart could handle. The ache that already gripped your chest would tighten its hold at his tone, squeezing until it was difficult to keep your voice steady. But then the stubbornness would kick in, the reminder that you were hurting, too, and you had to think about yourself here first because you refused to be an afterthought in your relationship. So you’d say calmly, “Then this conversation is over,” and slam the receiver down before the tears came.
After you stopped taking his calls altogether, Steve resorted to climbing up to your window, hoping you’d be more willing to talk if you saw that being away from you was tearing him apart. You’d hear the familiar three taps on your window near midnight, and your eyes would snap open in the darkness; you’d stop breathing for a minute, waiting, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. They’d come again, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to let him in, no matter how much it killed you knowing he was outside, probably with a disappointed, heartbroken expression because his grapevine wasn’t long enough to cover the distance between you two. He lied to you, remember? He kept things from you. He hurt you. He doesn’t deserve to be let in; you’d tell yourself to stop yourself from giving in.
This went on for the first week.
While you were sad over the breakup, a bigger part of you was just angry. Whatever this secret was had cost you the best thing in your life. You deserved to know what it was. So for that first week, you focused all your energy on getting answers, obsessed over it, listening to Joyce’s calls sneakily, trying to figure out what she was talking about. When that failed to get you any answers, you resorted to cornering people.
Steve had said your brothers and your mom were in on it, so you resorted to questioning them. Your first target: Will.
You planned a movie night with him, as you two used to do when he was younger, before he went missing. Beetlejuice was both of your all-time favourite movie, and you used to watch it at least twice a month when he was younger. So, you asked him to watch it with you one night. He was super excited and had enthusiastically accepted your offer.
You made popcorn for the both of you, bought tons of candy: Twizzlers, Three Musketeers bars, chocolate-covered almonds, gummy bears, basically all the confectionery sold at Melvald’s. Also pizza in case you weren’t adequately nauseated by the end of the night. You two were going to go to bed feeling sick to your stomachs, for sure. You smiled at the thought. It would be just like the old days.
Will came in excitedly, plopped down on the couch, already snacking from the bowl of popcorn. You looked at him and realised that in the three years since the two of you had done this, Will hadn’t changed at all. Personality-wise, obviously. Physically, he looked like a different person. Older than a 15-year-old should be, you thought to yourself, as if he had faced some unimaginable trauma in his short life that had aged him at an accelerated pace.
Once again, you wondered what exactly had happened when Will went missing. What had happened that your baby brother looked and acted more mature than a boy his age should, that your mother had stopped being a mother to you, focusing almost all of her energy on Will and the remaining on Jonathan? However, he was still quiet and docile as ever, never wanting to be a bother, always polite and mannerly, so unlike the group of heathens he hung out with. You had always loved that about him.
You settled next to him with a smile, offering him the bowl of popcorn. The movie started in the background, but you weren’t really paying attention to it. Your mind was too preoccupied with ways to question him without having him run away.
You cleared your throat. “Steve and I broke up,” you started quietly.
He turned to look at you, an empathetic sadness on his face. He mumbled, looking down at his lap with his lips pressed together. “I’m sorry about that. It must suck.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really liked him.” You looked off distractedly, eyes slightly misting over as you let the pain of the breakup fully wash over you for the first time that week.
“...why did you break up?” He turned to look at you.
You shook your head, swallowing before answering. “Because he was keeping things from me. Things that he said I couldn’t know about because they’re dangerous and life-threatening,” you looked at his face for any reaction to that.
“Oh,” was all he muttered.
So you pushed further. “And he said that you and Jonathan and Mom are somehow part of it?”
Will sucked in a sharp breath. “I-I don't know why he would say that,” he turned his face away, eyes trained on the TV.
“So it's not true?” you questioned, eyebrows raised in curiosity. You could see him getting more and more nervous, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he scratched at his thumb absently in his lap. You were losing him. When he didn’t respond for a while, you called softly. “Will?”
He looked scared then, as if he had said something he shouldn’t have, calculating every word in his head before he uttered another. “I-I have to go,” he mumbled, getting up frantically from the couch before you could stop him and running out of the house.
You watched as the front door slammed shut, wanting to call out to him, to ask what had happened, but knew it was useless. He wasn’t going to tell you. He wasn’t allowed to tell you, you realized. You huffed in irritation. If Will wouldn’t give you any answers, your next best bet was Jonathan.
He was basically never at home, always either out with Nancy or clicking photos to build his portfolio. It was difficult to catch him, so when the opportunity presented itself, you didn’t waste time snatching it up. He was by the front door, tying his shoes, his usual cross-body camera bag hanging by his side as he was kneeling down.
“Where are you going?” you asked detachedly, approaching him from behind.
He yelped in surprise, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “Jesus, n/n,” he muttered before turning back. You repeated your question when he didn’t respond. “Just going to see Nance,” he responded nonchalantly without looking at you.
“Oh,” you hummed, walking closer slowly. “You two up to something you shouldn’t be?”
He had turned towards you then with a perplexed expression. “What?”
You shrugged. “You’ve been going to see her an awful lot lately.”
Jonathan stood up, adjusting his bag, and turned to face you. “Well, yeah, she’s my girlfriend.”
You nodded. “I know. Just making sure you two haven’t…I don’t know, gotten yourselves mixed up in something dangerous,” you tried to sound cool, but you watched his face closely for any reactions, any hint that he gets what you’re talking about.
He sighed. “Even if we did, it's none of your concern,” he rolled his eyes and walked out.
You stood there for a second, staring at the door that had just slammed shut. That hurt, honestly. Having him just dismiss you as that hurt, but you couldn’t say you didn’t see that coming. It had been your whole family’s attitude for a while now. You dragged your hands down your face, sighing tiredly. You were nowhere close to getting answers, and the fight was physically leaving you now. One last try, you decided to yourself, before you allowed yourself to fall apart. One other person who could maybe give you answers now was Robin.
You and Robin had been best friends since middle school, and now, as a bonus, she was working with Steve at Family Video. You knew they were close. Hell, Robin was how you and Steve met when they worked together at Scoops Ahoy. Surely she’d be able to tell you if he had been acting suspiciously there too, if there were sketchy people who were coming to see him, anything that would hint at whatever the mess was that your family and Steve had gotten themselves into.
On Friday, you dialed Robin’s home phone number. Her shift didn’t start until 12 PM, if you remembered correctly, so she should be available to speak. It was only 10 AM right now. After a few rings, she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Robin!” You grinned for the first time in ages.
“Y/n! I haven’t heard from you in so long! How are you doing? I heard about the breakup; I’m so sorry. Steve is a dingus! I told him not to mess it up with you; otherwise, I’d have him by the balls,” she rambled.
You only smiled harder the more she talked. You loved her capacity to ramble, but you especially appreciated it today. After feeling so alone and lonely for the past few days, it was a major relief to hear a voice that wasn’t shunning you. Moreover, Robin had always had that effect. Her hyperactivity seemed like a ray of sunshine in your darkest hours. After all, you called her your best friend for a reason.
“Yeah,” you chuckled softly. “He is an idiot.”
“Totally, babe! Don’t you blame yourself for a second!”
You smiled to yourself. “Hey, listen, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
You paused for a second, considering how best to phrase it. “H-has Steve been acting suspicious lately?”
“What do you mean?” she asked confusedly.
“I mean-” you shrugged. “I don’t know, like are there any sketchy people coming in to see him or he’s been acting shady or keeping things from you?”
Robin stayed silent for a moment as if mulling it over. “No, nothing of the sort. Why?”
You sighed, leaning against the wall while you twirled the wire anxiously between your fingers. “Well, he said there were just some things he couldn’t tell me because they were dangerous and life-threatening and he wanted to keep me safe. I said that it wasn’t his decision to make and then he said he promised my mom something. I asked him what he meant by that, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“...oh.”
That wasn’t how the normal Robin would respond. She’d be cussing him out normally, telling him he was an idiot and didn’t know his place if he was colluding with your mom.
Your eyes narrowed at her tone. “Robin?” you asked suspiciously.
“Yes?” she answered too quickly, sounding nervous.
“You wouldn’t happen to know what he was talking about, would you?”
She sputtered. “What? No, of course not. It's probably some popular people stuff.”
“Robin, don’t lie to me,” your voice took a warning tone. “If you know something, as my best friend, you’re obligated to tell me.”
“Uh, have to get to work; talk to you later!” she said quickly and ended the call.
“ROBIN!” you shouted once, but the line was already dead.
You slammed the receiver down in pure anger. Your best friend, the one person who was supposed to be on your side, was also hiding things from you. Was there anyone left on your side anymore? You don’t know if the cracking sound had come from how hard you had slammed the phone down or from your chest, because your heart definitely felt like it was breaking all over again.
A fresh wave of helplessness washed over you as you realised you truly had no one left whom you could trust to tell you the truth. It was all making you feel crazy. You knew that you weren’t chasing after nothing given all their sketchy, avoidant behaviour, but it was driving you crazy wondering why they wouldn’t just tell you. Did they not trust you to keep it quiet? Were you too stupid to be involved in it? Maybe it was all bullshit anyway. Why were you trying so hard to figure out whatever this secret was? If they all wanted to hide from you, fine. They could all fuck off.
All you wanted to do was to crawl into bed and wallow in self-pity. There was nobody left you could ask. You weren’t in favour of asking your mother. The woman who had successfully avoided parenting for the past three years would surely avoid a conversation effortlessly. It was evident from the conversation with Will that they were clearly told not to spill anything to you, so why bother trying?
A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over you and you stumbled a little, catching yourself on the wall at the last second. Your head was spinning. How long had it been since you’d eaten? Did it matter? You decided to just head into your room and climb under the covers. Trivial matters like eating could wait until after you took a nap or something.
You fell asleep in a blink, and the next morning, you were too tired to get out of bed. In the afternoon, you debated getting up to eat but the kitchen was too far away. At dinner time, you just were’t hungry enough to get out of bed.
You had tried to be okay after the breakup, pretending everything was fine, and focusing all of your energy on figuring out what everyone was hiding from you. But it was like your body sensed something was amiss. So even when you forced your mind to focus elsehwere, your body had protested by quashing your appetite, being constantly fidgety, subconsciously reaching out to the empty space next to you on the bed, heart skipping a beat every time the phone rang or there was a knock on the door hoping for Steve to walk through. Eventually, you gave up forcing yourself to be okay. You’d have to deal with this breakup the normal way: locking yourself in your room, playing sad music, and crying till you physically couldn’t produce more tears.
At least there was ice cream in the process somewhere.
You noticed Joyce acting differently towards you. She seemed more caring than usual, greeting you a good morning if you decided to come out of your room, informing you before leaving for work. She hadn’t shown such consideration for you in at least three years. But you were heartbroken and hurting, so the care wasn’t unwelcome. Once, you had even broken down in front of her, crying about how much you loved Steve and missed him. “Why don’t you get back together with him?” she had asked, and you had cried in response, “Because he lied to me. He keeps lying to me and hiding things from me.” She had simply responded with, “It’s probably for the best,” and you had known then that she knew why you two separated.
Of course she did. She and Steve were, after all, in this bullshit secret society together. Her care was not for you. It was for Steve. It was confirmed when she said, “You made a mistake breaking up with him. He’s a good kid,” the next day, to which you had rolled your eyes while walking away and grumbled a quiet, “Everyone but me is a good kid to you,” under your breath. It all suddenly made sense to you: why she had been saying good morning and interacting more than normal. She was baiting you into a conversation with her so she could steer it towards Steve, so she could somehow get you to get back together with him. You appreciated the sentiment. You only wished it had come out of love for you, not your ex-boyfriend.
The entire week went by with you holed up in your room, barely eating, barely sleeping, abundantly crying, definitely wallowing. You decided something had to change after a week of that. Nobody else could be held responsible for your happiness; you’d simply have to do it yourself.
Friday night, the house was empty once again. Everyone was out, and you hadn’t bothered asking them where they were going. Ever since your argument with Steve, none of them could meet your eyes, always talking to you with their gazes elsewhere and giving vague, halfhearted responses to your inquiries. They all obviously saw how much you were hurting, why you two had broken up, and still none of them had the guts to just spill it. You didn’t have enough fight left in you to pressure any of them for answers anymore. If they wanted to exclude you, so be it. They could fuck off. Steve could fuck off. Robin could fuck off.
You didn’t give two shits where they were going or if they were coming back.
You took this opportunity to have a movie night for yourself. You turned off all the lights in the house except for the one in the kitchen, then settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. You played Beetlejuice since it was still queued up from the night you questioned Will. However, you were too distracted to actually pay attention to the movie. Having it on in the background did a decent job of keeping you from sinking too far deep into the pain, though. You couldn’t help but keep recalling the conversation from that night, the weeks leading up to it, wondering what exactly your brothers, mom, Steve, and Nancy had in common, what quality they all had that you seemingly lacked that kept you out of the loop.
You brought your knees to your chest as you recounted everything while snacking from the bowl sitting next to you. Your eyes, which were trained on the TV, snapped up when you noticed the kitchen light flickering to your right, plunging the living room into and out of darkness. You groaned to yourself. The bulb was probably about to go out. You sighed, turning your attention back to the movie.
But the light kept flickering, a faint, constant buzzing coming from the kitchen. Finally, it got on your nerves.
You got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen to turn the light off, carrying the popcorn bowl with you absentmindedly. Just then, the front door burst open, blasted off its hinges. You turned with wide eyes just in time to see the giant, grey, slimy creature walking towards you. It had no eyes and freakishly long limbs. Its mouth opened up like a disturbing flower showing rows upon rows of teeth covering every single spot in the disturbing, gaping chasm. You stood rooted in the spot, frozen in fear as you struggled to process the sight before you. It slowly stalked towards you and you trembled in fear, not breathing. It wasn’t until the popcorn bowl slipped from your grip and smashed to the ground tha you broke out of your stupor. It let out the most animalistic sound you had ever heard. You screamed at the top of your lungs when it started charging towards you. You sprinted in the opposite direction, towards your room, heart beating out of your chest, tearing up from the fear and adrenaline coursing through you.
I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, was all that played in your head as you ran into your room and slammed the door shut, locking it. You frantically looked around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon and landed on the mirror propped against the wall. You pushed the mirror to the floor and watched it get smashed to bits, then picked up one of the big shards, gripping it so tight it was cutting into your hand. You raised it over your head, standing a bit back from the door, bracing for that thing to barge in.
Your heart pounded in your chest, trying to free itself somehow from the prison of your chest and escape the fate that awaited it. That was all you could hear. It was ironic, you realised, that your death would come to collect you while you were alone, nobody around to care or help or try to save you. For the longest time, you had imagined it would be that way. Made peace with it. And then Steve had happened, and you had thought maybe not. Maybe there’d be someone to hold your hand, after all.
You were wrong.
You gasped as something heavy threw itself against your door, over and over. It was right outside your door. You readied your stance and took a deep breath. You refused to go down without a fight. The door to your room blasted open, splinters flying everywhere, and there the creature stood.
“Stay back,” you shouted, backing up slowly. It roared before charging towards you. You ran towards it, stabbing it with the shard over and over and over with all the energy and strength your body could muster, screaming as you did. Its blood squirted all over you the more you stabbed it, splashing all over your clothes and your face. The creature stumbled as you kept barraging it with the shard. You didn’t notice when your own blood had started to drip down your arm from how hard you were gripping it, until you winced from how deeply it cut into your palm.
The creature roared in pain before it raised one of its hands. Sharp claws dug into your side, and you gasped as pain, hot and blinding, shot through your side. Its other arm raised, and its claws found your neck, slashing across it. You choked as the breath was snatched from your throat, hands automatically flying up to your neck. You pulled your hand back to see it dripping with blood. The shard slipped from your grip, and you stumbled to the ground. The room was spinning violently, the ground was pulled from under your feet, and there was a loud ringing in your ears. Black dots started dancing in your vision, and you started hallucinating.
You started hallucinating Steve. He was there. He looked ridiculously good. He also looked angry, and he was swinging at the creature with what looked like a baseball bat with nails hammered into it. You heard the creature's ugly shrieks of pain, and you smiled to yourself quietly. Goodbye, Stevie, you thought to yourself.
And then everything went black.
You woke up slowly, a white ceiling slowly coming into your view as you roused. The first thing you noticed was that there was pain…everywhere. You couldn’t pin it down to one place. Next thing you noticed was that there was something on your face. A something clear covering your nose and mouth. There was a beeping to your left. A constant, steady, annoying, and persistent sound that was making your pounding headache worse. You were in a hospital, you realised. You had lived somehow. Had that not been a hallucination? You thought to yourself. Was Steve really there? And that's when you noticed that there was something in your hand. You squeezed it once, trying to determine what it was.
A hand. Warm and big and calloused and familiar. And it squeezed back.
“Hey, baby,” you heard that familiar, soft voice from beside you.
Steve.
You turned your head slowly to see him, eyes squinting to adjust to the bright lights of the room. He was leaning forward in a small, wooden chair, hair looking annoyingly good still. His face, however, looked exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, cuts on his eyebrow, lip, and cheek, and he looked pale like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in days.
“S-” you tried to say but started coughing immediately. Your throat was too dry.
“Easy there,” he whispered soothingly, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Water?”
When you nodded, Steve immediately stood up. He gently slid the oxygen mask off your face, then put his hand under your head to help you drink as he held the glass to your lips while you slowly drank from it. Afterwards, you squeezed his hand in gratitude.
You cleared your throat and tried again. “What happened?” you croaked.
“You passed out,” he whispered, stroking your hair back from your forehead. His hand rested on your head, his thumb gently stroking back and forth on your forehead. It helped more than you’d like to admit because, as much as it sucked, you were scared. Some scary, too-many-toothed, pitcher plant looking creature had attacked you, and the last thing you remembered was being slashed on your abdomen and neck, and now you were waking up in a hospital hooked to wires.
You looked at his face for a second, tears welling in your eyes as you recalled the fear from seeing that thing. “What was that?” you whispered, voice cracking. “W-why did it come after me?” the tears were threatening to spill over. The beeping from the heart monitor quickened its pace as you recalled the horrifying event.
“Hey, hey, it's okay, you’re safe now,” he murmured reassuringly. “I’ve got you. It can’t hurt you anymore. I killed it,” he assured you. He kept stroking your hair and murmuring soft assurances to you until your heart rate went back to normal.
You sniffled quietly, looking to him expectantly. Steve sighed, looking away for a second as if debating whether to tell you or not. In the end, he relented. “It's called a demogorgon.”
You furrowed your brows. “Like the thing from Dungeons & Dragons?”
Steve chuckled humourlessly. “Exactly like that.”
“But how’s that possible? It's a game,” you protested weakly.
Steve moved his hand from your forehead to your shoulder, rubbing soothingly. “Look, there’s a lot you don’t know. We thought not telling you would keep you safe, but you ended up getting hurt anyway. So, I promise you, once you get out of here, I’m going to tell you everything and answer all of your questions. But for now, just focus on getting better, okay?”
“Why did it come after me?” you asked.
Steve shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “We don’t know.” He paused for a minute, simply taking you in. “You were so brave though, fighting it off with just a shard of glass like that.”
He caressed your cheek lovingly, and you smiled imperceptibly. “Thanks,” you whispered.
You wanted to ask more questions, but you were too tired, your head spinning and pounding too much at the moment to voice all your queries. One stayed, however.
“I-is my mom here?” you asked quietly.
Steve nodded. “They went to the cafeteria to get some food. We’ve all been here a while.”
“How long?” you asked.
Steve inhaled deeply. “You’ve been out for about 4 days,” he responded quietly.
Your head started spinning even more. Four whole days? You looked at Steve again, taking in his haggard appearance, and asked, “Have you been here this entire time?”
“Of course,” Steve looked at you as if you were crazy for even asking the question. “Where else would I be?”
“We broke up,” you whispered as if that explained it.
Steve swallowed, looking away. “Doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”
You were discharged the next day. You could barely walk due to the immense pain in your side and neck, despite the painkillers, and the doctors had recommended you not speak a lot due to the damage to your vocal cords in the attack. If you must, though, they said you should try to only whisper to avoid risking permanent damage to your vocal cords. They said you should be able to talk properly in about a month, but until then, the less you talked, the better.
Steve helped you into your mother's car, more bandage than skin on your body. There were bandages wrapped around the entirety of your torso, around your neck, and around your hand where the shard of glass had dug into your palm. You’d ended up getting stitches everywhere, so movement was also pretty restricted for the next little bit. Yet you weren’t going home. You were going straight to the Wheelers’ house to get the answers you wanted. Your mom had not been in favour of putting all that strain on you just today, but you had argued that after almost losing your life, you deserved to know what exactly that thing was, where it came from, and why it wanted you. And so, she had relented.
You sat in the backseat with Will, sitting stiffly and awkwardly to avoid putting pressure on your wounds. Joyce drove, and Jonathan sat in the passenger seat quietly. The air was thick with guilt as if they were all silently blaming themselves for this incident, and a part of you wanted to blame them as well. Tell them that maybe, if they had just told you whenever this shit started that you wouldn’t have been in the house alone that night. That maybe, you could have gone with them, that you wouldn’t be Gauze-Girl right now. But you knew, deep down, that this wasn’t their fault. They were as shocked by this as you were; you could tell from their lack of sleep and fear-stricken faces when you had woken up. All three of them looked every bit as wrecked as Steve had, with the eye bags and dark circles and the pale skin.
“Are you feeling alright, honey?” Joyce kept asking every couple of minutes.
You only mutely nodded in response.
Will kept glancing at you every few seconds. You could tell he felt guilty for not telling you when you had asked about it. You gave him a small, tight-lipped smile when he looked at you to let him know you weren’t mad at him. He leaned his head against your shoulder in a silent display of support, and your heart squeezed in your chest. You couldn’t remember the last time you even had a proper conversation with him, and you felt like a shitty sister for not being there for him. After all, going missing for a week had to have left some scars that maybe you could have helped with. Which you now knew was connected to this. This fucked up world where such monsters existed, and your baby brother had gone missing in such a place at 12 years old.
You put your arm around his shoulders slowly, careful of your injuries, squeezing his arm gently. “I’m going to be fine,” you whispered to him.
He nodded. “Yeah, you will be.”
When you got there, Steve, who had been trailing in his beamer behind your mom's car, and Jonathan together helped you get out of the car carefully and inside the house.
At the Wheelers’ house, everyone was there, waiting for you: Nancy and Mike, of course, all of Will’s friends, so Lucas, Dustin, and Max. Lucas’ little sister, Erica, Robin, Hopper (“God, is there anyone who isn’t in this shit?” you thought), and a girl whom you didn’t recognize. Her head was shaved, and she dressed as if still learning how clothes work.
“Eleven,” she had introduced herself.
You averted your gaze from everyone else's. You didn’t want to see the looks of pity they kept sending you.
“Come sit,” Nancy said with a kind smile while gesturing to the sofa.
Steve sat next to you, keeping your hand in his for support while everyone else settled in front of you.
“We’re going to explain everything to you. From the beginning,” Nancy stated.
And so the next couple of hours were spent with them explaining everything. Starting with Will’s disappearance and how he technically wasn’t in Hawkins at all but an Upside Down version of it (you had looked to Will in horror, tears welling in your eyes, and he had nodded in confirmation), how Eleven was telekinetic and connected to the Upside Down (you noted how she stuck close to Mike), how there were these monsters that they’d dubbed Demogorgons who were like the soldiers of the Upside Down and the ring master was something called the Mind Flayer and they were battling his army general named Vecna at the moment, who was actually 001 and was raised in the same facility as Eleven.
It all sounded like the most psychedelic story you’d ever heard, and you briefly considered asking if their dealer was supplying them authentic shit because what the hell were they talking about? But then the image of the creature – the Demogorgon – flashed in front of your eyes once again and you stayed quiet. You believed every word they said. And if there was any doubt left in your mind, it vanished the second Eleven made a pen hover midair with just her mind.
Consider yourself converted to worship the Lord and Saviour of this cult: Eleven.
“So,” Robin started. “Any questions?”
Steve’s still held onto your hand, his thumb tenderly gliding over your knuckles. You were obviously struggling to process everything. This was a lot to take in, so you were grateful for his support, regardless of how upset you were with him for keeping all of this from you. That was a later problem, though.
“I think I might need a lorazepam,” you mumbled, earning a quiet snort from Steve, who was the only one who could hear you.
Joyce leaned forward. “Look, honey, I know this is a lot to take in, but please, know that just because you all of this now doesn’t mean you have to help us or be a part of fighting these monsters. I have been trying to keep you safe from all of this because it’s incredibly dangerous and I didn’t want your life to be ruined because of this.”
“Of course I want to help,” you whispered.
Steve said it louder for you.
“I’m just disappointed that I was kept out of it for so long. I mean, Will is my brother, too. I was scared of losing him, too. Hell, my boyfriend-” you cut yourself off. “Ex-boyfriend,” you corrected and felt Steve’s body freeze up. “Is a part of it. My best friend,” you looked at Robin, “is a part of it. My mother is a part of it; both my brothers are a part of it,” you spoke in exasperation, still keeping your voice quiet.
Steve obediently relayed every word, eyes downcast as he felt the meaning and horror of your words wash over him.
“How did you guys expect me to live after you all died risking your lives to save Hawkins?” you questioned, voice growing louder. “How did you expect me to continue after having quite literally no one left?” You felt yourself growing emotional, your throat closing up. You cleared your throat, collecting yourself before continuing. “I understand that this is very hard for all of you considering you’ve been doing all the fighting so far, but did none of you ever think about me? About how your deaths would be justified to me?” you sniffled. “And-and I would have to live with the knowledge that maybe I could have done something to help. At the very least I could have fucking been there when you died!”
“I could tell you one last time that I love you, but no! You were all okay with taking that chance away from me because who cares about me, right? All the people you love are around you already.” Your voice was rising now, and Steve quieted down.
“Baby, please, keep your voice down,” your mom tried, but you ignored her.
Your hand slipped from his as you stood up on shaky legs. “Because what do you care, Mom, when the two kids you actually want would be there when you died? Because you don’t care enough to say goodbye to me.”
She looked so utterly hurt at that, tears freely running down her cheeks as she brought her hands up to her mouth to muffle the sounds.
You knew, to some degree, that you were sounding selfish. That you were making this about yourself, even when it wasn’t necessarily. But how could it not be when you were quite literally the only person in your group who didn’t know?
Steve, Robin, Jonathan, and Will were crying now too, as well as you, but you wiped your tears angrily.
“You were okay with leaving me,” you stated as your face crumpled and you started sobbing. “You left me 3 years ago. You left me all alone.”
These words were directed at your family, and they knew. Joyce sprang up at once, wrapping her arms around you tightly. You didn’t care about your injuries as you let yourself be held by your mom in three whole years.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry,” she cried. “I was only trying to protect you,” she kept whispering while stroking your hair.
You shook your head, burying your face in her shoulder. “You left me alone. I thought you just didn’t want to be my mother anymore. That I’d done something wrong and you decided I wasn’t your daughter anymore.”
She kept hugging you and crying with you. The hug was soon joined by both of your brothers, who were also crying and profusely apologizing, and the three of you were so wrapped up in this that you didn’t realise when the others quietly exited the living room to give you more privacy.
Afterwards, you three stayed in the living room and talked some more about how you have been feeling like an afterthought to your family, how you weren’t their sister anymore, just a roommate, and they apologized, explained themselves, and promised to do better. After some more conversations about the Upside Down and clarifications, the three of you had headed home.
It seemed that in the time you had been passed out in the hospital, someone had come home and cleaned up the mess in your room. There were no signs of any struggle here, no broken mirror shards on the floor, no blood. Only the strong scent of bleach and the space left on your wall to remind you of the worst experience of your life. You were beyond happy to lie down in your bed after a long day of craziness and emotional taxing.
You didn’t realise when you fell asleep, but you woke up a few hours later. It was completely dark outside now, the house silent, meaning everyone had gone to bed. You got out of the room, heading to the kitchen to grab some water. Your steps were wobbly, and you had to keep your uninjured hand on the wall so you wouldn’t fall. Afterwards, you came back to your room and just sat on the bed, breathing deeply to abate the pain.
The familiar three taps on the window came again. You knew who it was, of course, and this time, opening the window didn’t feel like such a difficult decision. Knowing everything you did now, you understood, on Steve’s part, why he had chosen to keep all the information from you. You got up from the bed, movements incredibly slow.
Steve climbed inside your room, not as tightly wound as the last time he climbed through your window, but way more hesitant to touch you. Whether that was because of your wounds or earlier today, you didn’t know.
“Ex-boyfriend,” you had called him earlier today, and it had hurt enough to nearly bring him to tears.
“Hi, doll,” he whispered. “Just-uh, just wanted to see how you were doing.” He kept his hands in fists by his sides as if he had to physically hold himself back from reaching out to you. Your heart hurt at that realisation. Your body desperately craved his touch, especially in its weakened state.
“I’m horrible,” you responded equally quietly, and he immediately got worried.
“What can I do? Did you have your meds? Lie down, why are you standing?” he started frantically, moving closer, guiding you to the bed.
“I’m fine, Stevie, don’t worry,” you assured him, chuckling softly. “I only meant that my head is spinning from everything I learned today,” and he took a breath of relief.
You sat back down on the edge of your bed, right back where you two started. A silence fell over the room, thick with both of you having a million and one things to say but not nearly enough words in your dictionary to articulate them.
Finally, you broke the silence. “I see why you kept all that from me.”
“You do?” he whispered.
You nodded, looking down and fidgeting with your fingers. “I mean, my issues still made it hurt a lot, and I’m not happy that you kept it from me. But I get that you wanted to protect me. I would have done the same thing if I were in your place.”
Steve breathed a massive sigh of relief. He knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his.
“I am so, so sorry for keeping things from you, doll. I just couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to you. I’d never forgive myself. I wouldn’t be able to live,” he pleaded.
“Well, that didn’t work out too well,” you joked.
Steve snorted softly, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, tell me about it.” You smiled slightly in response at your predicament. It was funny how they all went through so much to keep you safe. They hadn’t meant to hurt you; you knew that now. But you had ended up getting hurt anyway, both from their metaphorical and literal monsters.
“Please give me another chance,” he whispered.
You looked at him for a moment, considering it. “Promise to never keep things from me?”
He nodded immediately. “I promise, baby. Never keeping things from you. It only ever got me close to losing you, and I can’t have that.”
You swallowed, nodding finally.
His eyes widened at that. “So we can try again?”
You nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, we can.”
Steve grinned widely, sitting next to you on the bed and pulling you into a kiss. You happily kissed back, letting your entire body sink into it. Finally, all that accumulated pain in your chest from a Steve Harrington deficiency was dissipating, and you were more than happy to let it go.
“No more secrets,” he mumbled against your lips. “None at all.” He kissed you again.
When you two finally pulled away, Steve mumbled, “By the way, in the spirit of not keeping secrets, I’m wearing SpongeBob underwear.”
You burst into laughter immediately, swatting his chest. “You are an idiot, Steve Harrington.”
Steve grinned proudly, bringing the hand that swatted his chest up to his lips. “And you’re beautiful, Y/n Byers.”
You looked at him with a smitten smile for a second, and then he broke the silence again. “So, in the spirit of not keeping secrets, what about you?” he asked cheesily.
“Ew, Steve,” you shoved him away, laughing.
He pressed one last kiss to your forehead before going all mom mode on you, changing your bandages, giving you more painkillers, and adjusting blankets and pillows around you to make sure the pain was minimised as much as possible. At the end of the night, he lay down next to you, pulling you into his chest.
“I love you, doll,” he mumbled against your forehead.
“I love you, too, Stevie,” you responded. “Oh, by the way,” you pulled back a bit and reached onto your nightstand to grab the scrapbook. “Happy Anniversary.”
Steve Harrington will hook up with you. So why won’t he kiss you?
This is something quick and silly I wrote in an attempt to drag myself out of the writing slump I’ve been in, so be warned that this is barely proofread. 2.1k
18+ minors dni: semi public sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), a little bit of angst and insecurity, premature ejaculation whoops
Steve Harrington is a great kisser.
Everyone knows it’s true.
He’s been making girls swoon since the 10th grade.
Becky Lewinsky was the first. A game of spin the bottle in her parents basement, the damp, dark space crowded with twenty odd teenagers sat in a lopsided circle. As if by some divine magic, the bottle of Jack snuck from the liquor cabinet upstairs stopped pointing at the birthday girl. Becky crawled gleefully across the threadbare carpet and planted one on Steve in front of everyone.
She spoke about that moment near constantly for two weeks, all starry eyes and flushed cheeks.
That is until Steve Harrington had his second kiss.
A study session with Noelle Chambers cut short when the school librarian caught them making out in the Historical section.
Then it was Noelle’s turn to brag. About how soft Steve’s lips were, how he tasted like spearmint and strawberry chapstick, how butterflies fluttered wildly in her stomach when his large hand cupped her jaw.
Then it was Laurie. Then Amy. Back to Becky. Followed by a seemingly never ending list of girls, each one with a story of how Steve Harrington blew their minds with just a few kisses.
Even Nancy Wheeler, always so prim and proper, turned giggly and foolish when Steve’s lips touched hers.
You wouldn’t know what it was like.
It’s not like you weren’t privy to his other talents.
As you all grew older the rumour mill turned more suggestive, then downright sordid.
Steve Harrington eats pussy like it’s his last meal.
Steve Harrington always makes sure his girl comes first.
Steve Harrington was packing, enough to have you walking awkwardly for hours when it was over.
Those things were all true. You could vouch for them.
But you didn’t know for sure that Steve Harrington was a good kisser. Because he would never kiss you.
In fairness, during your first encounter you hadn’t even noticed.
It had been a blur of hurried movements, bodies tumbling out the front door of some house party of some vague acquaintance. Quick footsteps crunching over gravel and the heat of Steve’s body pushed flush to your back as he wrenched open the back door to his beemer. Only the necessary clothes were removed, both of you too eager to bother undressing properly. Your jeans were tugged down to your ankles, sweater pushed up around your neck, and Steve Harrington sunk to his knees in the tiny awkward space behind the passenger seat.
You saw stars with your thighs wrapped around his head. Too drunk on bliss to even care that anyone else leaving the party would be able to instantly see the steam shrouded windows and the rocking of the otherwise stationary vehicle when he finally clambered over you and fit his body so perfectly with your own.
When it was over, Steve helped you tug denim back in place over your hips, chuckled softly as he wiped sweat from his brow.
Steve Harrington is a gentleman.
So it was no surprise that he drove you home. Even waited until the front door was closed behind you to pull away from the curb.
Only as the low rumble of the engine faded into the distance did you realise, he hadn’t kissed you once.
Despite his gentlemanly tendencies, you hadn’t expected Steve to call. In fact, you didn’t remember giving him your number, so the first time you heard the low timbre of his voice over the cracking phone line was a total surprise.
It was obvious what he was after. It wasn’t a date. But still, he was sweet with his suggestion, offering to pick you up for a ride back to his place. A dip in the pool in his backyard to wash away the cloying summer heat.
It was all too easy to accept.
Even easier to let Steve pull loose the ties that held your bikini in place, the soaked garment tossed carelessly onto tiles still warm from sun that had set hours before. Your head fell back, face to the stars as Steve pressed you firmly against the pools edge. You could still see the sparkling constellations with your eyes closed as he thrust in long, deep strokes, the cool turquoise water rippling as your bodies met.
When it was over Steve held you close to his chest. He panted against the shell of your ear, chest quivering beneath your exploring fingertips while he regained his composure. He’d placed a gentle kiss to your temple. You turned your head, hope blooming behind your ribs that you might be able to chase his lips with your own.
But he was up and out of the pool in seconds. Stepping into his trunks and collecting your swimwear.
It was hard not to feel disappointed. You pondered it that night as you lay alone in your bed, the space between your thighs still aching from the stretch.
Had you done something? Was there something in your teeth? Oh god, did your breath smell bad?
That must be it, right? What other reason could there be for Steve Harrington gifting you the most delicious orgasms you’d ever experienced, but still refusing something as simple as a kiss?
You wouldn’t let it happen again.
When Steve called the following week, and you coyly mentioned that your parents were out of town, you set to action as soon as you’d hung up the phone. Brushing and flossing until your gums were sore, swirling mouthwash three times just in case. As your doorbell rang, you applied one final swipe of blueberry gloss, pouting at yourself in the mirror. You looked thoroughly kissable. Steve would have no excuse this time.
Except he did. Not that he voiced it of course. But the usual routine ensued. Steve kissed your neck, sucked deep marks into your chest, mouth hungrily over your cunt. But when he was finally over you and in you, fucking you hard into your mattress, each time you tilted your head towards his and pouted he pulled away. It was subtle, the way he’d bury his face against your shoulder, pepper soft kisses over your collar bones. But by the time he left your gloss was still disappointingly unsmudged.
It hurt. You liked Steve. Not just for the way he made your body tremble with pleasure. In the moments before and after he was so sweet, so funny, a little hint of bitchiness in his humour that you adored. He took the time to ask about your interests. He told you about his own. He cared.
You’d had enough. Your heart and your mind couldn’t take much more of the mixed messages. You needed answers, but you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to simply ask for them. It was too humiliating, too needy. So you hatched a plan.
The drive to Steve’s house was short, which was lucky really. If you’d had too long to think you might have started to question if your plan was such a good idea. You might have talked yourself out of it, convinced yourself that Steve didn’t really like you, maybe he already had another girl over, taking your place in his bed.
But you had no time to ruminate on such thoughts, pulling onto the Harrington driveway just minutes after leaving your own. The BMW sat alone, the house dark save for the light in Steve’s bedroom. You took a deep breath as you knocked on the door.
A moment later you could hear footsteps in the hallway. The porch light flicked on, bathing you in warm amber light.
When Steve opens the door his mouth falls open in surprise. His white t-shirt is tight across his chest, grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. As your eyes trail downwards Steve shuffles, adjusting the all too obvious tent in the fabric.
“H-hey. Uhh- hey.” He says, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
“Hi.” You reply sweetly.
Was Steve Harrington blushing?
“I wasn’t - I wasn’t expecting you.” Steve says. He runs a broad palm over the back of his neck.
“Sorry, I probably should’ve called. Just wanted to see you.” You purr, giving him your best bedroom eyes.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh. You weren’t - I mean, you didn’t. I w-wasn’t up to anything.” Steve stammers. His cheeks are almost maroon.
“Really? You weren’t doing anything at all?”
You’re teasing him. And it’s wonderful to see his reaction. The way he audibly gulps, his blown pupils darting from your face to the floor and back again.
“Can I come in?” You ask softly.
“Sure! Of course.” Steve says, stepping aside to let you through.
Steve seems to have given himself a mental pep talk as you follow him up to his room. Once the door closes behind you he’s back to his usual confident self.
Clothes are shed much like always. Steve spends what feels like an eternity working you open with his fingers, pulling one orgasm from you as you writhe on his expensive cotton sheets. When he steps away from the bed, retrieving a condom from his dresser, you prepare yourself to put your plan into action. You watch with rapt attention as Steve rolls the latex over his length, thrusting into a loose fist as he leans back over you. His lips find that familiar spot just below your ear as your legs spread wider, giving him space to slot between them. When he pushes into you, bringing that familiar burn that you’ve come to crave, he raises his head. His eyes roll back, lids fluttering closed as a groan spills past his pretty lips.
It’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
Grabbing Steve’s cheeks you pull his face down to you, tilting your own up to meet him halfway. It’s a messy semblance of a kiss, lips clumsily crashing and teeth clinking painfully together.
Steve lets out a small surprised squeak, but you don’t allow yourself the time to question whether the sound is of pleasure or annoyance. You’re too busy swiping your tongue against Steve’s bottom lip. Realising that those old rumours still held some truth. Spearmint and strawberry chapstick.
Through the messy meeting of mouths Steve’s hips have begun to falter, losing a rhythm before he’s even had time to set it. When the tip of your tongue touches his, tentative and unsure, he makes a pained sound, a deep groan that vibrates from his chest. His hips stall, and you feel the warmth inside as he spills into the condom.
Steve Harrington has never been known as a two pump chump before.
You’re so shocked, for a moment your plan disappears entirely from your mind. Your lips leave Steve’s, a gasp escaping you. But you’ve unleashed something now, a wall that’s broken down, and this time it’s Steve that chases you. Whining desperately as he shakes from his orgasm, he kisses you deeper, his tongue thrusting past your lips to tangle with your own.
“Mmm. Steve -what-“ you try to question between his kisses.
“M’sorry.” He whimpers.
You don’t want to stop kissing him. After waiting all this time you’d quite happily let him continue to steal the breath from your lungs. But you need an explanation. Reluctantly, you pull lightly on Steve’s hair, tugging his face back.
“What the hell was that?” You whisper.
He’s blushing again, cheeks a furious red that spreads up to the tips of his ears and down his neck.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.” He whines.
“Well then why haven’t you?”
“Didn’t think - I didn’t think you liked me like that. I thought you just wanted to mess around with me. And I thought if I kissed you, I’d get too attached. So I didn’t. But you - you just… fuck. I’m sorry, I’ve just been thinking about it for forever.”
Of all the possible reasons for Steve to avoid kissing you, this one never crossed your mind. But it was the best possible outcome. He’d been scared to kiss you because he liked you. He really liked you. So much so, that one simple kiss resulted in him coming within seconds.
Steve moves to pull out, humiliation clear as day on his face.
“No, don’t!” You say quickly. You use your hand in his hair to pull him back down to you.
This kiss is softer. Sweet and slow. You nip at Steve’s bottom lip, and feel the stirring between your thighs. He’s half hard again already.
Steve rocks his hips experimentally, hissing through his teeth at the sensitivity.
three christmas wishes | steve harrington x fem! reader
summary: every christmas your worst costumer grants you a wish, and every christmas it surprisingly comes true.
enemies to friends to lovers | no use of y/n | no mentions of specific race, hair type or body type.
word count: 8k
warnings: NO SMUT. right amounts of angst and fluff. some daddy issues, general swearing, smoking cigarettes & a creepy coworker.
author’s note: hello loves!!! i’m so so happy to be back this december. here’s the first of my christmas one shots for the christmas collection. ♡ let me know what you think !! x
[dividers: @cafekitsune & @issysh3ll]
December, 1983.
There’s so much one can learn about a person by the kind of gifts they buy. This was a truth you learned on your first week working at the gift wrapping pop-up at Starcourt.
It had been your dad’s idea, to teach you a lesson about character and discipline after being found drunk and making out with a boy on Halloween night.
He had considered many kinds of punishments for your behaviour: sending you to Florida to live with your grandparents for a while, enrolling you on a private school, taking your car until the summer. They all sounded much better than finding you a job where you had to wear this ridiculous elf costume and learn the monotonous task of wrapping presents.
Hawkins was a small town, everyone knew each other, and you were almost certain that people were enjoying your father’s punishment a bit too much. That, or maybe you were just surprisingly good at the job.
‘Hey.’ Said your boss, Mike, who was dressed as Santa Claus. ‘They’re calling for you again.’
You were standing in the stockroom with your arms crossed, the back door open so the smell of the cigarettes you shared wouldn’t reach the costumers.
‘Again?’ You complained as you were about to take the first inhale.
‘Seems like you’ve found your vocation.’ He said taking the cigarette from your hand and putting it on his lips. ‘Go. I don’t pay you to smoke.’
‘Uh, you don’t pay me.’ You scoffed, walking backwards towards the shop with a smile of satisfaction on your face. ‘Starcourt does.’
The enjoyment didn’t last too long anyways, since your smile fell off your face as soon as you saw your least favourite costumer waiting at the counter.
‘You again?’
‘Hey, Jinglebells.’ Said Steve Harrington with a sided smile.
Your eyes lingered on the little cigarette behind his ear as he placed his shopping bags on the counter, before you shot him a look full of despise.
‘I expected a bit more of joy coming from Santa’s little helper.’ He joked, pointing at the bags with his chin. ‘Get to work.’
‘Why don’t you get fucked.’ You said under your breath as you started to take the presents out of the bags. A pink mug, probably for his mother, a box of handkerchiefs for Mr Harrington…
‘What’s that, Jinglebells?’ He said as you took out the pink box from Smith’s jewellers. Your eyes lingered on the expensive packaging for a few seconds, stroking the padded surface of the box.
‘I said, why don’t you take a free candy cane while I work.’ You said, distracted.
‘M fine, thanks.’ A few seconds of silence passed between you before you felt a peppermint scent surrounding you, your eyes finding him leaning on the counter. The heat inevitably rushed to your cheeks as you saw the way he looked from your absurd work uniform to the box. ‘You like it? Open it.’
And you did, out of curiosity, lifting the thin lid to reveal a beautiful silver necklace with a heart-shaped lock. On its surface, in the most elegant cursive font, the initials NW were engraved.
Oh.
‘So?’ He was smiling widely when you looked up at him. The most idiotic, sweet smile you had even seen on his jerk face. ‘Do you think she’ll like it?’
‘I didn’t know you and Nancy were back together.’ You closed the box carefully.
‘Yep.’ He simply said before tapping the counter with his index fingers. You took another look at him while you started to unroll some wrapping paper, he was trying so hard to hide his smile, to repress the excitement overflowing his eyes as he placed his arms on the counter again. ‘About two weeks ago.’
‘Huh.’ You simply said before you started cutting the paper. Engrossed in the task, you couldn’t get rid of a certain image off your head: Jonathan Byer’s car parked outside the Wheeler’s house last night, and a couple of nights before that.
‘Can you use the silver paper for the necklace?’ Steve asked, bringing you back to reality. ‘The one with the snowflakes, and I’d like some pink ribbon ‘round it too.’
You stood behind the counter for a second with a perfectly cut piece of green wrapping paper on your hands, before you grabbed the box of handkerchiefs and started wrapping it.
‘Sure.’ You simply said.
You worked in silence for a few minutes, wrapping the other presents first as your mind was still filled with memories from two weeks ago, when you saw Jonathan inside your pretty neighbour’s room through your window while you dried your hair.
It wasn’t a big deal at all, Nancy had seen you make out with guys in your room before too, embarrassment falling on her curious eyes when you moved from someone’s lap to close the blinds behind you. She had seen you sneak out on Halloween, the night that had cost you your Christmas break, when you were supposed to stay home studying. Your eyes had found hers from where you hid in the backyard, and you feared for a second that she might tell someone, until you saw her zip her lips in a promise.
‘I’m gonna go get a coffee.’ Mike’s voice made you jump. ‘Do you want anything?’
‘Uh, no. ‘I’m f— Shit.’ You had to take your finger to your mouth at the sight of blood, another papercut to add to your collection of work incidents.
‘Again?’ Mike said lifting his eyebrows before lowering his voice. ‘You know, sometimes I think you just like to suck your fingers in front of me.’
His insinuation made you take a step aside instinctively, feeling your cheeks getting hot by the unexpected comment.
‘Well, I don’t.’ You said cleaning your finger on your skirt.
He laughed softly as you went back to work, your eyes avoided Steve’s face, who observed the awkward interaction from the other side of the counter.
‘You’re cute sometimes, you know?’ Mike said then. ‘Do you have any more cigs?’
You shook your head.
‘You took my last one.’
‘Well, I get more for both of us.’ He winked at you then. ‘See you later.’
You kept working without acknowledging the incident as the bell rang once Mike crossed the door, only the sound of the scissors cutting the paper and the Christmas music that came from the speakers filling the awkward silence.
‘That guy’s a creep.’ Steve voice made you even angrier somehow. Something about him standing there like an idiot boiled your blood. Worse, it made you feel even more powerless.
‘He just has a little crush on me.’ You shrugged as you finished with the box of handkerchiefs.
‘Isn’t he like thirty?’ He asked. You couldn’t help but clench your jaw when he leaned on the counter again, and his stupid peppermint cologne surrounded you. ‘That’s creepy.’
‘I guess it is.’ You said moving to the pink mug.
‘Shouldn’t you do something about it?’
‘Shouldn’t you get your mom a proper gift?’ You said cutting some tape. ‘Like a silk scarf or something?’
‘A mug is a very appropriate gift.’ He shrugged.
‘Yeah, for a first-grade teacher.’ You said cutting some ribbon. ‘She got you something cool, you know? I wrapped it for her. Why can’t you get her something nice?’
‘Wow, jinglebells, relax.’ He said putting his hands in the air, somehow that made you flushed and nervous, like you were making a complete fool of yourself. ‘Just because your boss likes you all bitchy doesn’t mean you need to act the same with costumers.’
‘Excuse me?’ You said as you put the wrapped mug aside before grabbing the scissors.
‘Put those scissors down.’ He pointed a finger at you.
You took the necklace box and the guilt you felt before had suddenly turned into anger. He was amused, looking at you while you measured the stupid silver paper and cut the ugly pink ribbon with your clenched jaw and your cheeks on fire.
‘You know Nancy and I are neighbours.’ You said casually as you finished tying the bow.
‘I’m aware.’ He said in the same tone. ‘Why is this relevant?’
‘No reason.’ You shrugged as you arranged the freshly wrapped presents on the counter. ‘She just likes to watch me sometimes, you know? Through the window. It’s kinda creepy, actually.’
You licked your lips before pushing the presents towards him.
‘Tell your little girlfriend I’ve been watching her too.’
Steve stood silently on the other side of the counter, looking at you with sudden seriousness overflowing eyes. You stood straight, looking back at him, and for a moment you thought maybe he knew what you were talking about. Maybe there was a part of him that already suspected something, but you would never know.
‘W-What does that mean?’ He asked carefully.
You looked down to your hands for a second, the thin papercut still there but not bleeding anymore. Somehow your anger had been replaced by some deep sense of pity towards Steve Harrington.
‘I wish you a Christmas full of revelations, Steve.’
He hesitated for a second, maybe thinking about saying something, before nodding and taking the wrapped presents. You stood on your place as he walked out of the shop, the sound of the bell ringing behind him echoed through your mind until your shift ended.
December, 1984.
Starcourt had its charm. Or maybe you had just gotten fond of it after your first Christmas working there. The smell of pine that came from the giant decorated tree, the old ladies that met every day in the food court to have lunch together, the kids and their colourful knitted sweaters…
It all filled you with tenderness and nostalgia as you silently wrapped presents and longed for a childhood that would never come back. You needed to find happiness somewhere, anywhere these days, because everything seemed so melancholic and fleeting that sometimes it was unbearable.
‘There you go.’ You said giving the little girl behind the counter the freshly wrapped present. ‘All pink and red, just how you asked.’
‘Thank you!’ She hugged the big box as she took quick small jumps. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! My mom’s going to love it!’
‘I’m sure she will.’ You said with a soft laugh, placing your chin on your hands as you heard the sound of the door’s bell. ‘Just be careful with it, you don’t want to break the pretty picture, do you?’
‘Oh.’ She stopped jumping. ‘Right. Thank you, Miss Elf.’
You let out a snorty laugh before you started cutting new pieces of tape for the next costumer. A tall brunette, dressed in a sailor uniform with shorts that looked like they belonged to a seven-year-old.
‘You’re welcome.’ You said before your eyes fell on Steve.
‘What’s up, Jinglebells?’ He stood in front of you when the little girl left, placing a couple of bags on the counter. You stood silent, with your hands on either side of the counter as you looked back at him. ‘What?’
You still kept silent, a funny smile forming on your face as he stood there with his hands on his hips, you could see he was getting a bit flushed and frustrated and that amused you even more.
‘Are you really gonna make me say it?’ He said rolling his eyes. ‘C’mon. Get to work.’
You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall behind the counter as your eyes still didn’t leave his. Steve took his hand to the bridge of his nose, before taking a deep breath and licking his lips.
‘Ahoy, sailor.’ He said shaking his hands in the air before placing them on the counter. ‘Better?’
‘How many times have you said that today?’ You tried to repress a laugh as you stood in the same position behind the counter.
He sighed. ‘About sixty-two. Happy?’
‘Very happy.’ You said standing straight as you had a look at the bags. ‘What do we have here… Let’s see.’
You smiled to yourself as you had a look at the new set of walkie-talkies that you assumed were for Dustin Henderson. You’d never admit it out loud, but it was kind of sweet how much the kid looked up to Steve, it was nice to know the affection was mutual. Then you bit your lip at the sight of a silk scarf, very pretty and with wonderful flower patterns. It could’ve been for anyone, really, but something inside you hoped it was for his mother. And finally, you took out a paperback book with a golden bookmark inside.
‘The price of salt.’ You smiled to yourself. ‘I didn’t know you were a Highsmith enthusiast.’
‘Uh, I’m not— I just— I don’t know.’ He seemed nervous out of sudden, hiding his eyes from you for a second before looking back at you. ‘Is it good?’
‘Yeah, it’s good.’ You said smiling to yourself as you cut some more pieces of tape to wrap all the presents. ‘Silver snowflakes and pink ribbon?’
‘Uh, if you want to.’ He said, placing his hands on the counter while he watched you work.
‘You know she was here before.’ You said as you started to wrap the book delicately.
‘Huh?’
You looked up at him, with his stupid sailor uniform and his frostbitten cheeks and you almost smiled at him kindlier that you would’ve done a year ago. Steve had fallen from grace, but now he was much pleasant that he had ever been, so were yourself. Sometimes life breaks you in irreparable ways just so the light can find a way out, and some people managed to illuminate others despite the fractures, despite the wounds. Maybe one day that’d be you.
‘Your girlfriend.’ You said cutting some of that pink ribbon he had liked the year before. ‘She came here to beg me to tell her if her gift was as good as yours.’
His lips opened partly at your words, and you smiled shyly as you secured the bow on top of the present, putting it aside before you took the walkie-talkies’ box.
‘Jesus, Steve. Relax.’ You laughed at his blank expression as you started wrapping the box. ‘I told her you had bought her something just as good. But that means maybe you need to get something extra. Her present’s really good.’
‘R-Robin’s not my girlfriend.’ He stuttered before swallowing hard. He seemed to recover his confidence then, leaning over the counter with a smile on his face. ‘Like, everyone thinks she is, but she’s honestly not.’
You were not surprised by his flirty tone as you put Dustin’s wrapped present aside.
‘I see. It’s none of my business, anyways.’ You said leaning in before you lowered your voice. ‘But she has this pretty cute charm bracelet, and I heard Smith’s doing a surprise sale tomorrow at five forty-five just for half an hour. Don’t tell anyone I told you, though.’
Steve was about to open his mouth to clarify the situation once again when Mike’s red and white figure appeared at the sound of the door’s bell.
‘Do I pay you to flirt or to work?’ He said walking behind you. Steve’s eyes lingered on the way you discreetly pushed yourself against the counter to avoid even brushing his stupid Santa Claus costume, but Mike didn’t even look back at you as he walked towards the stockroom.
‘You don’t pay me.’ You said under your breath as you took another sheet of wrapping paper. ‘Starcourt does.’
But your boss didn’t say anything as the door closed behind him.
‘What the fuck is up with him?’ Steve whispered as you started to wrap the silk scarf. ‘Why’s he speaking to you like that?’
You looked towards the stockroom before leaning in subtly to keep your voice low.
‘He’s mad at me because I refuse to go out with him.’
‘What?’ He exclaimed a bit too loud.
‘Shhh.’ You whispered, pulling his stupid little red sailor tie. ‘Shut the fuck up. Jesus, he can hear you.’
‘This is fucked up.’ He whispered, his chocolate mint ice cream breath stroked your face as you looked back at him. How funny you had never noticed how pretty the brown in his eyes was.
‘It is fucked up.’ You said in the same tone.
‘You need to quit, Jinglebells.’ He said very seriously before his eyes filled with flirty mischievousness. ‘D’you have any sailor costumes at home?’
But you couldn’t laugh at his joke, looking down before your hands fell from his tie and resumed the work of wrapping the scarf.
‘I can’t quit.’ You admitted softly as you cut some more paper.
‘M sure if you tell your dad what this creep’s been trying to do, he’ll understand.’ He insisted. ‘I can help you find a job, if you want to, it doesn't have to be—’
‘Steve.’ Your irritation was palpable as you stuck the ribbon over the wrapped present a bit too harshly. ‘Don’t press it. My dad has more important things to think about right now.’
‘I doubt it.’ He scoffed. ‘C’mon, what’s more important than the only daughter he has?’
‘Apparently another family, if you must know.’ You snapped.
He stood there for a few seconds, thinking about what to say while you looked away. But the more he waited, the more desperate you felt. For once, Mike did something smart, something remotely good, and walked back to the front of the shop.
‘Break time. C’mon, get lost.’ He said to you before looking back at Steve. ‘Are you paying card or cash?’
You took the opportunity to sneak out of the awful situation and walk back to the stockroom, feeling the tears pooling on your eyelids and you thought about some place where you could find peace. Somewhere you could escape from this sense of defeat that was slowly eating you alive, but more than anything, somewhere where Steve Harrington’s pity couldn’t reach you.
All wrapped in your coat and scarf, you walked out through the back door to sit down against the wall that faced the desertic employee parking lot. You took a deep breath, fighting the need to leave without finishing your shift, or to leave Hawkins and never come back. It had been months since you had stopped smoking, but ever since your dad gave you the news you had fought the feeling of coming back to the awful habit to deal with your unbearable anxiety.
It shouldn’t have taken you by surprise when you saw the Harrington’s maroon car stop in front of you through your tears. Once upon a time, Steve used to drive through your street almost every day, trying to get Nancy Wheeler back in that so pathetic way only a teenager in love can. It was strange to see his car somewhere else that wasn’t outside that doomed house.
‘Get in, Jinglebells.’ His face appeared through the open window. A sad smile on his lips, and kindness overflowing from his brown eyes. ‘We’re going for a drive.’
You bit your lip as you tapped your foot on the pavement ground, unsure about what to do.
‘C’mon.’ He insisted. ‘I’ve got milk and cookies.’
You let out a scoff-like laugh as you looked back at him with your arms still crossed. You were about to tell him you didn’t find his joke funny, but when he moved to open the passenger door for you, you realised he wasn’t lying. Over the console, there were two humming take-away cups and a pack of chocolate-chip cookies. Rolling your eyes, and feeling your stomach growl, you had no other option than to get in and secure your seatbelt.
This part of the plan had sounded so much better inside Steve’s head, it had sounded so much better coming from Robin’s mouth, who insisted he needed to do something to fix this, and quickly, before it was too late, whatever that meant. Now you two were driving around Hawkins, wearing those stupid uniforms and trying to fight the unbearable awkwardness between you two.
‘I’m sorry, by the way.’ He said when he drove past the school, the sight of snow and naked trees making the atmosphere in the car much sadder.
‘I don’t want to talk about it, by the way.’ You said in the same tone, taking the humming cup of warm milk from the console.
‘Jinglebells.’ He said seriously as the landscape turned whiter and more desertic as you left the town behind. You laughed sarcastically at the absurd and overly corny nickname, used in such a serious and sad context. ‘I’m sorry, really. And I’m pretty sure things with your dad will get better eventually.’
A few seconds of silence passed between you as he kept driving and you felt more anger in your chest, bitter tears at the back of your throat, the feeling that you might lose your voice because of how much you wished to say. Instead, you took a long sip of your warm milk.
‘Tell me about your dad.’ You said after a while.
‘Huh?’ He asked as his eyes kept focused on the road in front of him.
‘Tell me about your father.’ You insisted, moving to your side so you could have a better look at him. A petty smile adorned your lips, but his eyes didn’t linger on it, instead he just observed the way you had crossed your legs on the seat. ‘Why didn’t you get him a Christmas present this year?’
Steve took a deep breath, looking at the side mirror as he kept driving and his knuckles turned slightly whiter as he held on to the wheel. Your eyes stayed on him even when he started to go a bit faster than before, as if you had touched a sensitive subject, as if he wanted to leave Hawkins behind too.
‘That’s what I thought.’ You said before sitting back on your seat, your eyes focused on the snowy image on the window before you couldn’t stand looking at him anymore.
‘S complicated.’ He said after a while.
‘Well, it always is, isn’t it?’ You said to yourself as your eyes took in on the gorgeous picture of Lover’s Lake in the winter. All impersonal, and cold, and yet still beautiful.
‘He’s just ashamed of me.’ He said. You looked back at him while he still looked at the road, taking his hand to his mouth as if he was thinking to himself. ‘I mean, no father dreams of a son who spends his senior year embarrassing himself by chasing the same girl over and over again in front of an obnoxious town. Like what kind of idiot chooses heartbreak over a college scholarship, you know?’
You looked back at him as he took a deep breath, parking in front of the snowy shore before he turned the engine off.
‘You had a scholarship?’ You asked softly as you undid your seatbelt to sit closer to him.
He still didn’t look at you as he stretched his arm to turn up the heating. Your eyes lingered on his face as he shrugged, looking so young and yet so old and beaten at the same time.
‘I could’ve.’ He admitted to himself. ‘I know I could’ve. That’s kind of the hardest part to accept.’
You bit your lip before hugging yourself over your coat. A few snowflakes were falling and melting on the windscreen, the sight of the lake so still and peaceful.
‘He’ll forgive you.’ You finally said, but he started shaking his head and you leaned in to search for his eyes, but his pretty brown pupils seemed to too full of shame and disappointment.
‘I doubt it.’ He admitted with a sad smile. He took a deep breath before looking back at you. ‘He doesn’t even look at me during dinner, you know.’
You smiled sadly too, the atmosphere turning a bit awkward between you two as you took one of the cookies and broke it in two halves. He took the half you offered him absentmindedly, and you bit yours as you looked through the window lost in your thoughts.
‘They always forgive, you know.’ You said after a while, thinking about last year, when you father had sent you to Starcourt. That seemed so far now, as if it was a different life. ‘Why do you think I’m insisting on throwing a tantrum right now? He deserves to suffer a little bit, but he’ll get over it. And so will I, I guess.’
‘S different.’ He shook his head before taking a sip from his warm milk, his eyes hard turned shy again. Or maybe there was something else behind that serious frown that was adorning his face now. ‘He’s got no right to abandon you.’
‘Neither does your dad.’ You said softly. The warmth in the car and between you filled you with a sense of safety your mind had probably forgotten, but your body had not. When he looked back at you, something childlike took over you as you moved closer to him, something pure, maybe protective.
‘I had never thought about it that way.’ He murmured. You gave him a soft, kind smile full of compassion, and he seemed to understand too, laughing softly before his eyes lingered on your face. ‘Thank you, Jinglebells.’
You shrugged, satisfied. Unable to move, but not really sure if you had the right to touch him, to give him the comfort you two so obviously needed that sad afternoon of December.
‘There’ll be better Christmases.’ You said to him, your eyes falling on the space between you before you thought to yourself. ‘I hope. I wish. And… I don’t know. One day the world’ll be kinder. Maybe.’
You saw him nod from the side of your eye before you looked back at him. His eyes had turned softer, a bit hooded and his cheeks seemed a bit pinker than usual. You offered him another shy smile, with maybe some pity behind, and he swallowed hard before his head fell against the headrest.
‘There will be, Jinglebells.’ He assured you with a sad smile. ‘M sure there’ll be.’
December, 1985.
‘Steve’s here to see you.’ Said Max from the stockroom’s door while you searched for more rolls of tape in the closet. You had heard her before she walked in though, the adorable sound of her elf’s costume announced her arrival every time she moved.
‘Oh, nice. I’m starving.’ You said with a smile as you gave her the rolls of tape. ‘Would you mind moving these to that basket over there? We got a big paper delivery coming this evening and I’m trying to get some space.’
‘Sure.’ She said walking towards the back of the stockroom. The bells shaking softly when she turned back quickly. ‘Wait, you’re coming tonight, right?’
‘Of course.’ You said softly, looking at the way she seemed suddenly worried. ‘I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Cool.’ She said visibly more relaxed before she walked away. ‘Cool.’
You laughed to yourself as you took a roll of red wrapping paper and walked back to the front of the shop.
He was standing on the other side of the counter with his hands resting on it, a soft burgundy sweater underneath his Family Video vest. He smiled as soon as his eyes fell on you, and you couldn’t help but return the gesture.
‘Hi, Jinglebells.’
‘It’s Mrs Claus now.’ You corrected before putting your hands on either side of your red and white dress and posing briefly. ‘You better get used to it.’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head, leaning subtly over the counter. ‘Doesn’t seem right.’
You rolled your eyes, ‘Where’s my lunch?’
‘Ouch. What am I, your employee?’ He scoffed before placing a little box on top of the counter. ‘I actually brought this so you can wrap it for me.’
This time you were the one who scoffed in disbelief. ‘Wow, talk about exploitation.’
He smiled at the way you mocked him, taking the box of guitar accessories before you started to cut some red paper.
‘You didn’t tell me you got Eddie as your Secret Santa.’
‘Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I forgot.’ He shook his head. ‘S been stressful.’
You stopped the wrapping for a second, looking at the purple shade under his eyes and pushing Eddie’s present aside for a second.
‘You seem tired.’ You said tenderly, your hand found his over the counter for a second and you leaned in subtly to have a better look at his face. He had blushed subtly, but you could see the way his shoulders relaxed at the physical touch, wondering when was the last time you’d given him a hug. ‘Do you wanna talk? I can leave Max alone for a few minutes.’
‘No.’ He shook his head, his finger brushing your hand on the counter as you nodded. ‘S just, you know, this whole internship thing got me a bit nervous lately. I haven’t been sleeping very well.’
‘M sure you’ll do great.’ You reminded him from the thousandth time. ‘Enjoy your last few days working with Robs. And remember to get me that Rear Window tape? Please?’
‘As if you’d let me forget.’ He lifted his eyebrows. You let out an offended laugh, resuming your wrapping, and feeling Steve’s sweet stare still on you. You could see him entwining his hands over the counter as you kept working, comfortable silence falling between you. ‘Who did you get?’
‘Hmm?’ You felt the blood rush to your cheeks quickly.
‘Who did you get? For Secret Santa.’
‘Uh, Nancy.’ You said, taking a step back to look for some green ribbon under the counter. You flexed your knees a little bit as you kept searching, hoping that Steve wasn’t reading too much into your weird behaviour. You weren’t a good liar. Not when it came to him, at least. ‘I got her a Cocteau Twins album.’
‘Oh.’ He said before nodding. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yep.’ You said cutting some ribbon, a kind of awkwardness taking over the moment as you kept working.
‘It isn’t weird, is it?’ He suddenly said.
‘What?’ You jumped at his accusation, wondering if he had figured you out.
‘I mean, my ex-girlfriend, his boyfriend there, I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ You felt your shoulders relaxing. ‘I mean, I don’t think so. Unless…’
He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for your words, but you didn’t feel so confident anymore. Looking down at the present once again, you tied the ribbon over it with excessive concentration.
‘Unless you still feel there’s still… something—’
‘Oh god, no.’ He stood straight. ‘No, no, I meant for you.’
‘Me?’ You asked instantly, swallowing hard before you took a step back. ‘What about me?’
‘Well, you knew about Jonathan, when Nancy and I were still together.’ He brushed his hair with his fingers as you stood in your place, looking back at him expectantly. ‘And now you’re my best friend, and like, things can get awkward. ‘Cause you also kind of hold grudges, you know. So, I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’
You scoffed.
‘I don’t hold grudges. Especially not for you. Jesus.’
‘Bells.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Bells.’ He repeated your nickname patiently. ‘You still refuse to say hello to my dad.’
You shrugged.
‘Dads and I usually don’t get along. Like, look at my relationship with mine.’ You tried to joke, but apparently it wasn’t funny at all for him. ‘Besides, that’s not true. We made peace when he offered to fix my car.’
‘I fixed your car, dummie, you know that don’t you?’
‘I do.’ You recognised, thankful that you were able to put the subject aside. ‘But he made you do it, so we’re even now. Mr Harrington and I? Besties for life, if you ask me. Same with Nancy.’
You pushed Eddie’s freshly wrapped present towards him. A satisfied smile adorned your pretty lips as Steve looked down at you with the same scepticism from before.
Something inside you told you that he could see through you and that he had noticed the way you still exchanged one-word sentences with Nancy no matter how much efforts she’d put into building a friendship with you. She had tried it all: inviting you to her Halloween party, to movie nights at the Wheeler’s with the rest of the group, going Christmas shopping with you and Robin. And yet you still couldn’t do it. You couldn’t forgive her for what she’d done to Steve.
He observed you for a few seconds, as if he wanted to say something, and you waited. The warmth from before seemed to have disappeared, but you didn’t know when or why.
‘Okay.’ Was all he said before lifting a Wendy’s bag from the floor and placing it on the counter. ‘There you go, Bells.’
He took a step back, and you felt helpless, somehow. A bit embarrassed too, without knowing why, as if he knew you were lying the whole time. It had been feeling like that for a while lately. Like everything you did around Steve was a lie. It was ruining your friendship. It was eating you alive.
It was sickening.
‘Thanks.’ You said softly, with an attempt of a smile on your face. He barely returned the gesture, hesitating for a second before you spoke again, trying to go back to the usual fun atmosphere between you two. ‘We wish you the happiest of Christmas.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Company policy.’ You joked, but inside you were starting to hate yourself a little for your pettiness. You felt a bit annoying, too, your scalp suddenly turning warm and itchy.
‘See?’ He took a step towards the counter again. ‘You do hold grudges. I said something, you didn’t like it, now you’re annoyed at me.’
‘Okay, wait.’ You put a hand in the air between you as you laughed sarcastically. ‘How did this turn into an argument?’
‘It turned into an argument the moment you started lying to me.’ He placed a finger on the counter as he accused you. ‘You’re just— You’re making this weird.’
You scoffed, a bit annoyed at the way things had seemed to have escalated so quickly.
‘Making what weird? What are you talking abou—’
‘Us!’ He exclaimed. You swallowed hard at the way he said it, as if it was a bad word. And you didn’t know why it hurt so much, feeling so small under his stare out of sudden.
You took a step back, trying to search for his eyes, but he looked away from you before he shook his head.
‘Don’t be late tonight.’
‘Steve—’ You called as he started to leave, but he didn’t let you finish.
‘Oh. Right.’ He said sarcastically as he walked towards the door. ‘Merry Christmas.’
The sound of the bell behind him made it all feel so final, and so strange. You weren’t still sure what had you done wrong, or why he hated you all of sudden.
The noise of Max’s uniform made you look to your side, her eyes changing from happy to worried as they fell on your face.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ She said. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘Uhm,’ You took your hands to your face before you realised there were tears on your cheeks. ‘Nothing, just a bad costumer. The worst kind, actually.’
The worst kind of Christmas too, you thought as you sat in silence on the couch of the Wheeler’s living room. Now, you had never been too anxious around Steve’s friends, but somehow this fight with him had left you wondering if you really fit in the group at all.
He had made you this insecure earlier, with all his talk about Nancy and Jonathan making you uncomfortable. You felt that you’d annoy Max by joining her conversation with Eleven and Lucas, given she had already spent the whole day with you. Eddie was funny, but he seemed to be too engrossed talking to Dustin, Mike and Will for you to spoil the conversation with your presence. You were too proud to try to talk to Nancy and Jonathan, and Robin had spent the last half an hour rambling to Steve while you avoided his eyes on the other side of the room.
At some point it was too much, and you excused yourself to go to the toilet, feeling your hands sweaty and your heart beating fast against your chest. In the bathroom, you washed your hands with cold water for what it felt an eternity, before you could gain the courage to go back there. You only had to face Steve once more and then you could get lost until the New Year’s at least, and then… then what? Was this all then? Was it over?
‘Hey!’ Nancy’s voice on the door made you jump before she knocked twice. ‘Are you okay there? We’re about to start exchanging presents!’
‘I’m fine.’ You said drying your hands on the towel. You opened the door to find her with an unusually wide smile on her face. ‘I’m fine, sorry.’
You followed Nancy back into the living room, feeling suddenly self-aware as you sat on your place between Max and Eddie. Your eyes lifted to find Steve’s already on you, the possibility of an apology was written all over his soft semblance and worried eyes, but you were too proud to entertain the tension. So, you looked away, feeling your heart breaking a little bit more every passing second that you didn’t know what was going on between you two.
‘Robin!’ Said Nancy then. ‘Do you wanna start?’
‘Of course.’ Said Robin standing up from her place next to Steve.
It all felt painfully slow, and the more you had to fake-laugh and smile, the worst you felt inside. It was merry and bright, and so achingly beautiful, how Robin laughed when Jonathan opened the box of reindeer-shaped sleepers that Mike got for him, and when Max jumped at the sight of a new set of tapes for her mixes that Eleven gave her. And yet you still felt so miserable inside, so exhausted.
You snapped out of your sadness when Nancy stood up to give Eddie his present, frowning at the image of the curly haired boy ripping the paper of the box you had wrapped earlier that day. You blinked a couple of times when Eddie took out the lilac-wrapped square of the Cocteau Twins album that you had also wrapped, your eyes lost on the pattern of the rug as you felt Steve’s accusing stare on you.
‘My, my, my.’ Said Robin looking from you to Steve. ‘Look what we got here.’
‘Seems like you two are the last ones.’ Said Nancy in the same playful tone.
‘Who would’ve thought.’ Giggled Max.
The heat rushed to your cheeks as soon as you realised you had been completely set up by his friends, who were more aware of your feelings than you thought, but absolutely clueless about the current situation between you and Steve.
‘Uhm,’ You stood up, feeling Steve’s stare still on you. His worried eyes, his arched eyebrows, and partly opened lips softened you in the most foolish manner. Everything felt so right and at the same time so wrong. ‘I’m just gonna get some air.’
You walked out of the living room feeling more ashamed than you ever had, the heat on your cheeks so unbearable you thought you’d might have a fever.
You’d never be able to show up your face in the Wheeler’s house again, you thought as you walked through the fence that separated the houses, not after this little spectacle, not after never being able to be friends with Nancy, but mostly not after leaving Steve just like that.
The coldness was starting to burn your cheeks as you sat on the little step that separated your house’s door from the garden, feeling embarrassed, and immature, and so incredibly confused about all of this.
The noise of the gate reopening made you look away, cleaning your cheek quickly and trying to repress the need of rolling your eyes at the way Steve was sighing.
‘You can be really proud sometimes, you know.’ He said, sitting down next to you.
‘If you came to my house just to insult me you can leave now.’ You said looking at the snowy backyard, at the navy sky, at the dark pine trees in the distance, anywhere that wasn’t him.
He scoffed, and then you saw him shake his head from the corner of your eye.
‘What’s going on, Bells?’ He finally asked.
You frowned, looking back at him wondering if he was being serious.
‘I could ask you the same question.’ You said irritated.
‘You’ve been so strange lately.’ His piercing brown eyes intimidated you, but you didn’t want to let him know that. ‘You barely call, you don’t hang out with me. You don’t tell me anything anymore.’
‘I could say the same thing!’ You lifted your voice as you sat straight. ‘I found out about your internship through Robin.’
Steve licked his lips then, shaking his head softly.
‘She wasn’t supposed to tell you.’ He murmured before rubbing his hands against each other to warm them.
‘Because you didn’t want me to know.’ You scoffed. ‘Wow.’
‘Because I didn’t want to disappoint you if I didn’t get it.’ He raised his voice, brushing his hair with his fingers. You couldn’t do nothing else than look away once again, feeling guilty out of sudden.
‘Hey.’ Your dad’s voice coming from the door behind you made you jump, you stood then, cleaning your cheeks quickly before looking back at him.
‘Shit, dad.’ You looked down as Steve stood up next to you. ‘You scared the shit out me.’
‘I thought you’d be at the Wheeler’s.’ He said before looking from Steve to you. ‘How are you, Steve? Is everything okay here?’
Steve’s eyes lingered on the apron your father was wearing before looking back at you.
‘I’m good, sir.’ He said with the plain tone he always used the odd few times he had spoken to your father. ‘How are you?’
‘Dad, can you just… leave?’ You said taking your hand to the bridge of your nose, feeling sweaty under all your layers out of sudden. ‘Please.’
‘Hmm.’ He said before looking from Steve to you once again. ‘Sure. Call me if you need anything, sweetie.’
‘Sure.’ You said in a sarcastic tone that Steve caught instantly, but your dad didn’t seem to. Not by the way he subtly smiled at you before closing the door.
‘…So, he’s living here.’ Steve said after a while.
You bit your lip.
‘He and mom are… trying again.’ You admitted softly. ‘Or something like that. I don’t fucking know. My sister’s coming for Christmas too.’
‘Wow.’ He nodded once. ‘Right. So, I guess you were on planning telling me this… when, exactly?’
‘Oh my god.’ You said with a shocking laugh. ‘Are you really making this about you? Do you know how terrified I am right now?’
‘No.’ He said taking a step towards you. ‘No, I don’t know, because you won’t simply talk to me, Bells.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t want to, Steve!’ You screamed, shaking your hands in the air, feeling yourself being carried away by how badly the wound on your chest hurt. ‘Maybe it’s too painful to know it’s not going to work!’
He stood silent in front of you, his eyes studying your face as realisation fell on his eyes. An inquisitive frown took over his face as he blinked a couple of times.
‘Are you still talking about your parents?’
You were shivering now, looking away from him and trying to blink away your tears, when a pair of warm hands cupped your face. Peppermint cologne all over you, washing you in warmth and terror as you felt Steve’s shaky breath brushing your cheeks.
‘Bells.’ He begged gently but firmly as you shook your head. ‘Bells, don’t push me away like this.’
You keep shaking your head, trying to walk backwards, but he still held you softly and delicately, knowing exactly which corners of you had already been broken too many times before.
‘You know it, don’t you?’ He whispered as his thumbs stroked your cheeks. ‘You know that I like you. I mean you must, because I’m terrible at hiding it and everyone knows.’
‘Steve.’ Your hands held his wrists as you looked up at him with fear overflowing your glossy deer eyes. ‘It’s just not a good time right now for this to ha—’
His lips hushed you, needy but soft as your body melted against his, fitting perfectly against his chest, pulling his shirt clumsily because God, did you want him. His hands pulled your waist against him when your own found his cold cheeks. It was overwhelming, a soft pathetic noise leaving your mouth when his tongue ventured inside your mouth, and suddenly it wasn’t just tender, it was hot. It was daydreams repressed last summer when you shared a tent, it was thoughts you pushed away when your knees were too close from his, it was thinking about him in the warmth of your shower and having to remind yourself not to think too much of him because this would never happen to you.
You took a step back, feeling flushed and unable to think straight. You looked up at him, his challenging eyes waiting for your answer as he cleaned his puffy pink lips with the back of his hand. The silence was killing you, but you were trying to catch your breath, and you couldn’t find the words to say what you wanted to say, to express how scared you really were of fucking things up.
You stood expectantly as he searched for something inside his jacket, taking out a silver box with a pink ribbon. Your eyes turned glossy just at the sight of it. He held it in front of you with an expressionless face, but his brown eyes were hiding for you, and you tried to shake your head just when he started talking.
‘It’s a bracelet.’ He offered to you once again. ‘A chain bell bracelet. ‘Cause I missed…’ He cleared his throat before proceeding and you took a step towards him, wondering if he’d let you touch him again. ‘I missed hearing when you walked into a room.’
You let out a choky breath. Your heart was beating hard as you took the box slowly.
‘Uhm,’ you said after a while, feeling like an idiot as you stood there. ‘I got you cufflinks, ‘cause you know, you’re going to start working in an office and stuff. With your initials engraved. I thought you liked that.’
He nodded softly, looking away as he put his hands inside his pockets. And you wondered if what you were seeing behind his avoiding eyes was a spark of hope.
‘In cursive?’
‘Of course.’ You said under your breath, and then you laughed. Like an idiot. And he smiled too. ‘I know you like that corny shit way too much.’
He couldn’t help but laugh shyly, looking down at his shoes as he kicked the snowy ground. It was adorable, really, how he had gone from being so confident to this timid mess in a matter of seconds.
‘You really know me, don’t you?’ He looked up at you.
You nodded, feeling a knot on your throat and your heart beating hard against your chest.
‘I guess I do.’ You swallowed hard. ‘That’s why you’re not allowed to leave me.’
Your eyes turned glossy again before he moved to touch you, this time less desperate as his hands wrapped around your waist and you slowly let him embrace you in a hug.
‘Then you gonna have to let me stay.’ He said as his hand cupped your cheek once again. ‘Okay?’
You nodded, stroking his nose with yours and waiting for his warm kiss in the middle of all that coldness.
‘Okay.’ You whispered. He kissed your smile then, or a least he tried. His own idiotic smile wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t really easy because after all, it the happiest of Christmas.
thank you for reading. ❤️ if you’re still in the holiday mood you can find more one shots to read from my christmas collection here.
🏷️: @keerysfolklore @starrgurl46
I do no consent for people to plagiarise, translate, copy or repost any of my written works anywhere. I do not consent people to use any of my written work for AI purposes.
Friends. Steve's her friend. She'd heard it a thousand times over but now the sentence was unravelling. It had been weeks since he'd taken that stupid sweater off, pulling his shirt up to expose his bare skin to her. She'd felt some kind of twist in her stomach, and then she saw his hair. All fluffed up by his moments, he even looked a little flushed.
Now she was still stuck thinking about it. Thinking about him. Avoiding him, while not the mature choice, seemed like the most sensible one but it never worked. He would just call to ask why she hadn't swung by the video store or why she had missed movie nights. Feigning sickness could only last so long.
It was also summer which meant late nights swimming in Steve's pool to fight off the heat. She couldn't keep saying no and in truth none of it was Steve's fault, he hadn't changed or done anything differently, she'd just found that part of herself that had a schoolgirl crush on him again.
Steve stared her down like she was a figment of his imagination when she came through his back gate, it felt longer then it had been but all her friends looked taller, older. Maybe it was because she went from seeing them everyday to just talking on the phone.
"You okay?" Steve shouted to her, leaving his spot next to Robin to come face to face with her. All she found in his eyes was genuine concern that made her feel more guilty then she'd ever had in her whole life.
He'd hate her if he knew she'd been lying about being sick, about suddenly being so busy she couldn't even be bothered to see her friends. There was something about Steve not thinking she was a good person that seemed to physically hurt her, like if he thought badly of her everyone else would too.
"I'm okay. I'm feeling much, much better." She was a terrible liar and everyone, including Steve knew it.
"Good. Everyone's been pretty worried about you. Nanc said she thought something might be wrong but you'd tell us right?" Oh thank god for Steve Harrington. His voice was softer like she was so delicate the question alone would break her.
"I'm just stressing about stuff lately but it's really nothing and I didn't want anyone to worry. " That was hardly a lie, she'd spent every night stressing over her recurring feelings. It was harder now because she actually knew him, knew how good he was, through and through.
"Shouldn't have done a disappearing act if you didn't want me too worry." He kicked her muddy shoe with his own clean trainers, and she tried not to linger her eyes right where his shorts stopped on his thighs. "You know I've been stuck with the kids all week."
She rolled her eyes without ill intent, pushing her tongue down to stop herself from smiling. "I'm sorry."
"They have no idea how nice I am to them but they still complain when I'm late picking them up from whatever shit there doing." Steve ran his hand through his hair, it was damp, not wet but still darker then usual. He always did that when he was frustrated or at least pretending to be.
She loved the little game he played where he pretended he didn't adore how much the kids needed him. She walked past him, letting him follow close behind. There wasn't much more time she could spend stood directly in the sun, or stood that close to him.
She turned around at the edge of the pool. It had completely slipped her mind that the rest of her friends where here.
"You complain every time they ask you to do something." She poked Steve in the middle of his chest and regretted it instantly. The most friendly innocent touch made her head spin and her body back away from him.
Steve glanced behind him, a taunting smile on his lips. "Not every time." His hand came forward like he was going to push her in the pool. Her hands grabbed his shoulders as she tried to push him back.
"Steve don't." She begged she sounded serious but she was laughing through her words so she doubted Steve was even listening.
A hand grabbed her ankle pulling her backwards. The first thing she did once above water was question why Robin felt it necessary to help him.
Steve was impossibly proud of himself but he did fetch her a towel and let her push him in later, even if he could've easily turned it around so she was the one getting thrown in again.
He was kind like that. His kindness while endearing made everything much harder for her, before, when they were still in school, Steve wasn't kind. In fact she'd describe him as cruel but the Steve laying across his deck chair was anything but cruel.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been looking at him, watching the water dry from his hair, but it had gotten darker.
Steve turned his head to the side, spotting her he mouthed silently, 'you okay?'. She nodded but Steve continued to stare at her, he wasn't lying about being worried she could see it in his eyes. Those soft brown eyes that seemed to trip her up at every turn.
He could see something was off. It had been for weeks and since Steve knew her like the back of his hand, he knew she was avoiding something. Something had happened that made her pull away. He just begged it wasn't because of something he had done.
"Hey." He joined her on the grass, crossing his legs to mirror her. If he really wanted her to talk he needed to do it now before whatever it was got any worse. The thought of losing her made him feel sick. "What's wrong."
She snapped a blade of grass like a child would and Steve could hear his dad yelling at her for ruining the perfect garden. Steve wouldn't yell, he'd let her dig up the whole back garden if she wanted to.
"Please tell me what's going on with you. I know you think you're bothering everyone but you're not." She looked so sad right now, suddenly Steve realised how much he missed her smile. "I want you to talk to me."
She hesitated. He could see her thinking, thinking about her words and his.
"You know in school how everyone had a crush on you because you were you." She titled her head at him, letting the last of the sunrise touch her face I'm a way that made his heart calm.
"Yeah. My name was in a lot of notebooks." She laughed with him for a moment. "Not so much anymore though because, well the family video vest doesn't really do it for girls these days." He laughed at himself alone this time.
"Before we were friends, you threw a pen lid at me which was annoying but I was too shy to say anything and you came and picked it up." Steve honestly couldn't remember and he hated that he couldn't because now he would never forget anything when it came to her. "You smiled and mouthed that you were sorry and I was like every other fifteen-year-old."
Steve felt his face burn, he knew he was starting to blush and he was confident she was a little flustered too.
"You had a crush on me?" Her eyes flickered back to the grass. "But you're smart. I mean you were, are more sensible than that."
"I was still a girl."
Steve was mentally kicking himself, wanting desperately to be sixteen again and to actually notice the girl he was now so lost in.
"Oh." Her face was overwhelmed with regret. He didn't want her to regret confiding in him, ever. "You know I like being your friend. You're kind and sweet and never make fun of me." That was the first thing he ever noticed about her. "But these past few weeks have been like a cruel punishment. If I did something wrong-"
"No. Steve, no." She interrupted him, shaking her head like the idea that he did something wrong couldn't be less true and his body finally relaxed. "I think my stupid childish crush came back and I wanted it to go away because at least before you weren't like this. It would be far to easy for me to fall in love with you and I think unrequited love would be really painful."
She said to much to fast. She was normally so quiet, even with him. The word love stuck out and Steve was ready to pinch himself.
"I've never heard you talk so much."
She shouldn't have told him, it was foolish to even mention it. She desperately wanted to take it back and laugh it off like it was some kind of joke but he'd know she was lying.
"Just pretend I didn't say anything. I'm sure it won't matter by tomorrow." She felt pitiful, possibly pathetic but she didn't want him to feel bad about it. She never wanted Steve to feel bad even for a second, he was too good for that.
"You matter to me." His words made her look at him. "I- fuck." Steve ran his hands over his face like he was frustrated, messing up his hair in the process. "You think this wouldn't matter. I've gone over this with Robin a thousand times, I never get it right and I end up making no sense. I end up looking like an idiot."
She hated when he did that, when he was mean to himself. "Don't say that you know I hate when you call yourself that."
Steve smiled, warmed by her words. "You do don't you."
She went to throw some grass at his face, hoping to make everything a little less serious but he grabbed her wrist. Not harsh or even enough to stop her moments, his touch alone did that perfectly fine. "Steve."
He repeated her name back in the same warning tone she did. She was ready to beg for him to forget about everything she said, to let it be forgotten and pled for him not to tease her about it. But she could see that he wasn't going to. His hand softly grazed her leg, following all the way up her thigh. "You must know I like you. Right?"
His eyes were softer, his lips too.
"Fuck." Steve laughed to himself, never letting his hand leave her thigh. "Should've been more obvious."
"Definitely should've." They both laughed together like they were stupid kids, stupid kids that had overwhelming feelings for each other, that maybe even loved each other.
summary: working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.
word count: 9.5k
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for r, some grumpy steve (he’s still a softie underneath it, i can’t help it!), some family issues (a phone call from steve’s mom), a rude customer, christmas activities/themes, fluff, and a first kiss!
a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays from me to you!!! i hope u guys enjoy this one, i had a lot of fun writing it!! big big thank you to @bcyhoods for sending the request that inspired me to write this fic and to @bruisedboys who helped me out when i was unsure about things <333 ily guys i hope u all have the happiest of holidays!
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Starcourt Mall is decorated to the brim. Fake snow and garlands, giant ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree that stays lit all day long.
And, in the middle of it all, Santa’s Workshop.
That’s where you are, where you’ve been for a couple of Decembers now. Every other month of the year, you work at the movie theater, scooping popcorn and scanning tickets. But, for December, you trade in your cinema t-shirt for an elf outfit, striped tights and all.
“It’s really not so bad once you get past the itching,” you tell Steve.
“Great,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his tone.
“Great,” you repeat, cheery enough for the both of you.
He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse than the sailor uniform. That is, until he saw what he had to wear for this gig.
It’s Steve Harrington’s first year at Santa’s Workshop, and you’ve been tasked with training him, though the job is mostly self-explanatory.
But unlike you, Steve didn’t volunteer for this.
“I can’t believe they picked me to do this,” he sighs. “Don’t even like elves.”
“Well they had to pick someone, Steve.” You shrug, “who knows, you might end up having fun!”
“Not likely.”
“At the very least, you’re getting paid, right?” You nudge him once with your elbow, “plus, if you’re extra nice, some moms give pretty good tips.”
You and Steve went to school together, but he never really spoke to you then. It was only after graduation that you had any sort of conversation with him. They mostly consisted of him bribing you with free ice cream to let Dustin and the gang into the movies for free.
That was after you caught him letting them into the back rooms to sneak in.
Now, Steve’s wearing a pair of slippers that jingle with every step just like yours, and in the only two shifts you’ve had together so far, you’ve spoken more than ever. Even if it’s mostly been instructions from you and an unenthusiastic comment in response from Steve.
“Do I really have to wear these fucking shoes?” He asks, following you out of the staff room.
“Yes. It’s part of the uniform.” You turn around to face him, walking backwards while he walks forwards. “Don’t worry, you’ll tune out the jingling soon enough.”
“I’ll hear these jingles in my nightmares.”
“At least you look cute!”
You spin back around, and Steve only rolls his eyes as he trudges on behind you.
Steve’s not quite sure how he feels about you, whether he finds you a little annoying or endearing. At the moment, with an elf hat squishing his hair, he’s leaning a little more towards the first.
He didn’t know you during school. Admittedly, he was an asshole for most of his time at Hawkins High, so that explains that. Even still, he doesn’t know much about you, only that you’re kind enough not to snitch on him for sneaking the kids into the movies and that you seem to seep sunshine all the fucking time.
And your sunshine seems to be dialed up during the holidays. Like you really believe in ‘holiday cheer.’
Steve knows, deep down and buried somewhere he’s not quite ready to face yet, that he’s mostly just jealous. Because if you like the holidays so much, if you’re smiling the way you do so often, you must have it pretty good at home.
To him, nothing else makes sense. Not when Christmas at the Harrington household has been absolute shit for years. First, it was the gifts he never wanted, things his parents didn’t care enough to know he didn’t like. Then, they dwindled until, eventually, Christmas did, too.
There’s a travel discount during the holidays, sweetie. We’re visiting dad’s boss’ cabin. Next year, we promise. Excuse, excuse, excuse.
So yeah, Steve’s never really understood the appeal. Walking behind you in a pair of jingling shoes and a scratchy outfit, he’s not sure he ever will.
You lead him towards the area where Santa’s Workshop has been set up, right by the fountain. There’s bright red carpet rolled out over the usual tiled floors, an area set up for the cue of families, and of course, a bench where some guy playing Santa will sit.
“Since we’re opening today I’ll show you the whole set-up routine.” You step over the rope with the sign that says ‘Gone to feed the reindeer!’ with Steve in tow. “Easy peasy.”
Steve steps over the rope behind you, shaking his head at the sound his shoes make when he lands. He chooses to listen to your voice instead.
“First, we count the props,” you nod over at the bin that’s tucked away behind a small tree, “there should be four sets of antlers, two santa hats, a red nose, and some extra elf hats.”
He stares at you—because why on earth would you have that memorized—and raises his eyebrows. For a moment, as he watches you grab the clipboard that sits atop the prob bin and start counting, Steve wonders if maybe he should be more like you. The kind of person who seems to see the good in everything.
Then, he remembers what the outfit he’s got on looks like and shakes the thought away.
“Why would anyone want to be a clown in these pictures?” He says.
“The red nose is for Rudolph, dummy.”
You say dummy with a smile, like it’s something to admire. Steve huffs.
“Rudolph’s a loser.”
“Aw, come on, he’s got his own song and everything! I’d say that makes him the opposite of a loser.”
“Of course you would,” he mutters, cursing the tiniest twitch of a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’s next?”
“Right,” you grab the bag that you brought from the staff room and set it on the ground by the tripod that’s already set up. “Next is the camera. Here, I’ll show you.”
The only knowledge Steve’s got of cameras comes from whatever Jonathan has told him, which hasn’t been very much, considering the pair’s history on the topic despite them being friends now.
So, he steps closer to you, watches as you pull the camera out of the bag.
“You just have to switch it on and make sure the battery’s full, right there,” you say, pointing at the small symbol that lets you know if the camera’s charged or not. “And don’t forget to take the lens cap off. I did it once and this dad yelled at me, so...”
You pop the lens cap off, putting it in the bag. Steve’s standing close to you, right behind you, his chin hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest just shy of brushing against your back.
“Finally,” you continue, ignoring the little skip in your heartbeat, the way you breathe just a tiny bit quicker. “Set it up on the tripod, and you’re good to go.”
He watches your fingertips move easily, securing the camera to the tripod. When you’re done, you turn around to face him, and it’s only then that Steve realizes how close he’s gotten.
Close enough that you stumble and land against his chest, his hands on your upper arms to steady you as you pull back quickly, like you’d been burned. Steve, however, doesn’t let go just yet and he’s got no idea why.
He doesn’t let go until the music in the mall is switched on, the opening notes of some Christmas song startling you both. Steve steps back and releases you, dropping his hands by his sides and ignoring the twitch of his fingers.
“Alright,” you say, trying to brush the moment off. “That sound means we’re open. You ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope!”
-
Your lunch breaks at Santa’s Workshop feel like a luxury, because no matter how much you enjoy the job, it’s nice to get away from the rowdy children it forces you to deal with.
Unlike your job at the theater, where your breaks are staggered, the workshop closes for an hour every day, meaning that even during lunch, Steve’s stuck with you.
The sign by the line for Santa is flipped, and parents groan whenever they see the festive font saying you’ll be back in an hour.
You take the hour spent in the staff room as a time to ask him questions, what his hobbies are (“does driving a pack of 13-year-olds around count?”), if he likes his job at Scoops (“I’m starting to appreciate it more. The lesser of two evils, or something”), if he’d introduce you to Robin someday (“I’m afraid of what that might do to my sanity.”)
Today, you’re trying to tackle the subject of his Grinch-like tendencies.
“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?” You ask.
Steve doesn’t know why he continues to answer your questions whenever you throw them at him—which is often—but he does. He thinks it might be like being mean to a puppy, ignoring you. Unnecessarily cruel.
“Don’t have one.”
“Ugh. Come on, Steve! Everyone has a favorite.” You slump in your seat across from him at the small table in the break room. Steve stares at you blankly as he takes another bite of his lunch. “You can tell me.”
“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your foot with his when it comes close. “They’re cheesy.”
“Aren’t you secretly a rom-com fan?”
“How did you-”
“So, you actually enjoy cheesy movies!”
“Okay, well you don’t have to say it to the entire mall. Gosh.”
Steve wonders how you know that about him, how you’ve been able to guess a lot of things without him telling you. Briefly, just for a second, he wonders if that might mean something.
Like, if maybe you’re in his life now for a reason.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Steve.” You smile what you hope is an honest, reassuring smile. “So, the cheesiness isn’t the root of the issue.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m gonna take a guess here,” you start, “and say that you’re not a fan of Christmas.”
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Steve, I’ve never heard someone complain about jingle bells so much in my life.”
“We can’t all behave like we’ve been injected with sunshine.”
You don’t think he means it as a compliment, but you decide to take it as one nonetheless. But you suppose he’s right, there’s always gotta be a balance. Dark and light, happy and sad.
“Thank you,” you give him a quick grin. “And you’re avoiding the question.”
He’s silent for a moment, twisting his fork around between his fingers. “My parents never really did Christmas.”
Your heart squeezes a little in your chest at his words, at the way his tone goes quieter, at the way he looks at the table to avoid catching your eye.
Immediately, you feel guilty for prying, because the last thing you’d ever wanted to do was force him to tell you something he didn’t want to. It’s not your place, no matter how curious you are, no matter how much you’d like to give him a hug or something right about now.
It’s not your place, but you find yourself wishing it could be.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.” You reach for his hand that sits on the table and give it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have bugged you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to accept it.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t affect him. But from the scrunch in his brows, you can tell it does, at least a little bit. “The Harringtons have better things to do than sit around cleaning up wrapping paper.”
Steve feels embarrassed, his cheeks warm and his head bent. He doesn’t like scraping this wound open, doesn’t like to think about what he was missing out on while everyone thought his life was perfect.
He especially doesn’t want you looking at him like he’s injured or something after this.
Surprisingly to Steve, you don’t. You actually do quite the opposite. You smile brightly at him, like you’ve just had an excellent idea, like you can inject a bit of your sunshine into him with it.
“How about this: I’ll teach you how great Christmas can be.”
“I think it might be a little late for that.” Steve tries to shake his admission away, to clear the room. He points at the elf hat on his head, “this outfit has ruined any last shred of hope I had.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you make a cute elf? You pull it off better than I do.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Steve raises his eyebrows at you. You ignore that look. “Whatever. I cannot in good conscience, let you keep disliking Christmas. Think of how fun it could be. Plus, you owe me for all of those movies I let your children into.”
Steve already finds it difficult to say no to you, because of how kind you remain even when he’s snarky with you, because of the same kindness you seem to offer to everyone you meet.
So, even though he’s not sure what your plan entails, he sighs and says: “okay. Fine.”
“Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
You cheer, clapping a little in your seat. “Oh my gosh, we can go skating, and go to one of those Christmas light festivals, and make cookies-”
“What did I get myself into?” Steve mutters, while you’re still rambling off ideas.
“-I’m gonna need to make a list.”
Even after your break ends, you seem to have an extra pep in your step, if that’s even possible. Your smile is a bit wider, your eyes brighter, and Steve can’t help but feel a little special for being somewhat responsible for that.
Really, what did I get myself into, he wonders.
-
In the time between him agreeing to your Christmas plans a couple of days ago and now, at yet another shift, Steve has realized that he actually likes you quite a bit. Even though your seemingly constant optimism drives him a little bit crazy.
You treat everyone with an attitude that’s so rare, he finds that his previous annoyance for you is slowly becoming overtaken by the endearment.
He won’t admit it, not when bantering with you seems to be the highlight of his days lately, but Steve is starting to be sort of grateful that he got selected for this job.
And that has absolutely nothing to do with the outfit he wears. He still fucking hates that.
“It’s alright, cutie,” he hears your voice say, all soft and understanding. He finds you, crouched down to talk to a little girl who seems to be wary of Santa. “I bet Santa will give you something extra from your list if you smile for the picture.”
The girl nods, like she’s determined. But, when you stand back up, she grabs onto your hand by your side.
“What is it?” You ask her.
“Can you do it with me?”
You look over to the girl’s mother where she stands to the side, and she nods, eager to get the picture done. So, with that, you say, “okay, then.”
Steve’s standing behind the camera as he watches you help the girl onto the bench beside Santa. Then you’re sitting beside her and telling her to look at the nice boy behind the camera.
It takes him a second to realize you’re talking about him, but when he does, he forces himself into action, bending to look through the viewfinder.
“Say cheese,” he says.
The click of the camera sounds, and then it’s done. You help the girl down, who goes over to her mom quickly and they head over to grab their picture.
Once they’re gone, the line dies down, giving you and Steve a rare pause from the pictures and overenthusiastic welcomes to ‘the North Pole.’
“I hope that family’s okay with my face in their picture,” you say, coming to stand beside Steve by the camera. “I mean, I know the mom nodded, but maybe they’ll cut me out of it.”
You’ve become more comfortable with Steve the more you’ve worked with him, getting to know him in how his grumpiness is more related to the holidays and early mornings than anything else, in how he turns the same grumpiness down when he talks to the kids.
You think he’s grown more comfortable with you, too, because he’s started bringing you a coffee in a festive cup in the morning, leaving it in your cubby without a word.
From Steve, you think that says a lot. His actions have always spoken louder than his words, you think. Like the free ice cream he gives you from Scoops, or the small nod he’d give you whenever he’d pick up the kids from a movie.
And now, there’s the small tug of his lips, the hint of a smile that has you saying, “Steve Harrington are you smiling right now?”
“Shut up,” he shakes his head at you. “That was sweet. What you did for that girl.”
Steve lets himself say what he thinks for once, because there’s nobody else around, because he wants you to hear it.
You hide your shy smile by looking down at your feet. You know that underneath everything, Steve is probably one of the best boys you’ve ever met, because even with his attitude, he’ll never say anything to truly hurt you, and with how little you know about his family, you also know that it’s rare for someone in his situation to remain so good.
Any resemblance of a compliment from Steve feels extra special, like its own gift in itself.
“Ruining her picture, you mean?” You ask, trying to cover up how you feel about him calling you sweet.
“You didn’t ruin that picture, sunshine.”
Sunshine. That’s new.
“Well I’m glad someone thinks so.”
Before Steve has the chance to respond, the line picks up again, and it’s back to business as usual. The routine click of the camera, the sound of parents telling their kids to smile nice and big.
You and Steve catching each other’s eye when a particularly entertaining family rolls around, laughing at the way he does an impression of a mom after she leaves. With work being sort of like this every day, you wish it could be Christmas all year round. You much prefer this to the theater, you think.
Steve can't say that he likes this job more than Scoops—Robin might call him traitorous—but he finds that you’d been at least a little right when you said that it would get better when he got used to things, when he hears the sound of your laugh rather than those stupid bells on his shoes.
He finds that he sometimes has to remind himself that he doesn’t like the holidays, that they aren’t like this all the time.
At the end of your shift, as you and Steve grab your stuff from the staff room, you turn to him, leaning against the wall as he shrugs on his coat.
“So, I made a list,” you say. “We are going to have the best Christmas ever, Harrington.”
“My standards are very low, so it wouldn’t take much.”
“Don’t care. I have plans. We can make gingerbread houses and get Christmas pajamas-”
“Absolutely not.”
While Steve already agreed to letting you show him Christmas your way, he thinks he can only take so much at a time. Small doses of your jolly spirit are plenty.
“Steeeve.”
“I am drawing the line. No Christmas pajamas. Not happening.”
“But the gingerbread houses are a yes?” You ask, hopeful and smiling like it’ll persuade him.
“I’ll get back to you on that one.”
That’s what Steve decides to say, instead of simply agreeing because he finds that he’d like to spend time with you outside of work, to see if you’re really so bright all the time, to see if he can soak it up a little better when he’s not dressed as a damn elf.
That’s what he decides to say because it’s easier than spilling the rest of it out there. Much, much easier.
“But you already agreed!” You pout at him a little, exaggerated dramatics on your part. “You can’t just tell me I can teach you Christmas and then back out, I mean, I made an actual bucket list. With glitter and shit.”
“Oh no, not the glitter,” Steve places a hand on his chest, sarcastically scandalized. “That makes it serious.”
You blink at him, giving him a blank look. “Don’t diss the list. By the end of it, you’re gonna be jolly as fuck, trust me.”
“Jolly as fuck,” he repeats, shaking his head on a laugh. “You’ve got a way with words, sunshine.”
“Thank you.” You push your tote bag onto your shoulder, fishing out your keys, they clink in your palm when you find them. “I’m not letting you back out of this, by the way. The list is binding.”
“Well in that case…”
You give Steve a little smile, the flash of a sunbeam, before heading out, and he’s left standing in the break room wondering what you’ve got on that list, why you seem to care so much about it.
Huffing, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.
-
Steve definitely should not have told you that he’d never been ice skating before.
It all started when you’d been talking about that damn list at your most recent shift, a couple of days after he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t back out of it (did he really want to?).
“Hey, you have a change of clothes in your bag, right?” You’d asked him in between families.
“Um… yeah. Why?”
“Because, Steve, our festivities begin today after work!” You clapped your hands together softly, excited and encouraging, yet delicate. “I haven’t quite decided what we’re starting with yet.”
“I thought you had a list.”
“I do! But it’s not in order,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a mood-based decision maker, anyways.”
“Of course you are,” he’d said, his usual sarcasm lighter, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.
“So I’m thinking we go skating-”
“Nope.”
“You can't say no to every idea I have. Then how will you get the Christmas experience?”
“I won’t say no to everything.” You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, so, quietly, he added, “it’s just, I’ve never been skating before.”
“Steve, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you reassured him easily, your voice honest in a sort of natural way, like you couldn't lie even if you tried. “All the more reason to give it a try. The point is to have fun, not to be good at it. I’m really not that great, myself.”
“If I hate it, we’re leaving.”
“Deal.”
And that’s how he’d ended up here, standing next to you at the rental counter at the ice rink, telling some teenager his shoe size so he could get a pair of skates.
Steve looks at you as you talk to the teenager, paying before he even gets the chance. He looks at the hat you’ve got on your head, the way your jeans are cuffed just enough to let your snowman patterned socks peek out of your boots.
He realizes that he’s only ever really seen you in uniform, at the theater and as an elf, and he thinks, quickly, like a car driving by, that you look really pretty like this. With snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes and all.
Though he’s never said it, barely let himself think it, he’s always found you pretty in a sort of undeniable way, like it was just a fact. Now, he finds you pretty in a way that makes him feel it.
His heart beats like it feels it, too. The traitor.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing both your and Steve’s pairs of skates. You turn to him, smiling like always, Christmas lights reflected in your eyes, “ready to go?”
“As I'll ever be,” he says, letting you lead the way to the benches by the rink.
He watches the way you tie your skates, copying your movements on his own pair, double knotting the bow at the end. When you stand, he stays seated for a moment, suddenly more nervous than before, because the last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself in front of you, in front of everyone around.
Like you can read his mind, you say, “it’s okay, the first step is only standing. It looks harder than it is, promise.”
“I feel like you’re lying to make me feel better.”
“Why don’t you just stand up and find out, then?”
He rolls his eyes, more at himself than you, and pushes himself up from the bench. It takes him a second to get used to the feeling of the skates, of balancing on them, but eventually, he nods at you, eager to get it over with.
“‘Kay, so it’s gonna feel weird when you step on the ice, but you can just hold onto the side until you get the hang of it.” You start walking ahead of him, turning back to say, “I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”
“Sure you do,” he mutters, shaking his head.
The rink is outdoors, the walls surrounded with string lights of all kinds, twinkling and colorful. In the middle, there’s a big tree, a shining gold star sat on top. There’s a hot chocolate stand to the side, the smell mingling with the freshness of the cold.
There are Christmas songs playing over the speakers (of course), and Steve thinks that if he hears one more rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” he’ll have to invest in a pair of ear plugs. On top of that, there’s the sound of laughter, kids with their parents, friends, couples, everyone seems to be having fun.
Everyone seems to be at ease except for him.
You step onto the rink first, skating a couple of steps forward to give Steve room to get on. He holds onto the side like you told him to, lifting a foot and stepping forward slowly, his foot slipping a little when it hits the ice.
You don’t say anything, don’t pressure him, only stand there with a kindness in your eyes that tells him you won’t be anything but patient.
Still, he doesn’t take too long to get the other foot on the ice, too, his feet carrying him forward a little bit, his hand gripping the side tighter.
“See? It’s not so bad,” you skate to his side, leaving space between you as Steve holds out his arm for balance. “Now all you gotta do is push yourself forward.”
“You make it sound like it’s easy.”
“It’s called being encouraging, Steve. Let me be encouraging!”
“Fine,” he stares down at his feet, his hair falling over his forehead. “So what do I do?”
“Use one foot to push, and then let yourself glide, switch feet, and repeat. You can do it.”
He gives it a go, and finds that it isn’t awful, but he moves slowly, and looking around at the other people skating, he’s not an impressive skater at all.
Steve has always felt the urge to be good at everything he does, basketball, driving, even fucking babysitting. He’s always tried so hard to do things well, like maybe, if he was talented enough, his parents would care more, would finally be proud of him for something.
He swallows that thought down and pushes forward again.
You follow his speed, gliding easily beside him, “look at you go!”
“I look like an idiot,” he says, his arm outstretched beside him, the other gripping the side, his knees bent.
When you look at him, though, all you see is the pink of his cheeks and nose from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his forehead, the focus in his eyes, the determination. No, you don’t think he looks like an idiot at all.
“You look like you’re trying, and that’s a great look on you, Steve.”
This time, it isn’t only the cold that pinkens his cheeks.
He doesn’t have time to muster up a reply, because the next time Steve skates ahead, he stumbles, his balance wavering until he feels your hand grabbing onto his arm to help steady him.
Then, your hand moves to hold his, and even through the layers of both of your gloves, he feels the warmth in his fingertips, some sort of tingling.
“This way, if you fall, so do I,” you say, squeezing his hand once, winking at him like the thought of falling doesn’t scare you one bit.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Super sure.”
You hadn’t been lying on that one, because eventually Steve does fall, and you fall right along with him, landing on the ice with a little, “oop!”
On his back, Steve turns his head to look at you, your hair a mess around you, some on your cheeks. He reaches out and brushes it away.
“You okay, sunshine?”
The response he gets is the sound of your laughter, a single loud cackle that has your eyes widening and a hand smacking over your mouth.
Your laughter fades into a fit of giggles, one so infectious that Steve—surrounded by all kinds of Christmas-themed things he swore he hated—laughs along with you.
And for the first time, maybe in his entire life, Steve thinks that the holidays might not be the worst thing ever.
-
Steve’s in a bad mood today, that scrunch in his brows you'd thought had been easing away back in full force.
It’s your first shift back together since you’d been skating only a couple of days ago, and you can’t help but worry that maybe it was too much, that you’d pushed him too far.
Even though, at the time, he’d been smiling more than you’ve seen him smile maybe ever, and you really thought that you had a shot at making Christmas better for him. You worry that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed, that he was pretending to have fun for your sake.
Steve, on the other hand, is actually glad to be at work for once, glad for the distraction it gives him. He’s unaware that his emotions are so visible on his face, that you think an ounce of his annoyance and anger is aimed at you.
All he knows is that after the morning he had, he needs this distraction.
This morning, it wasn’t the beep of his alarm that had woken him up, but the shrill ring of the phone on his bedside table. Groggy, with his eyes still half shut, Steve picked up the phone.
He wishes he didn’t.
“Hello?” His voice was almost a groan, scratchy from sleep, irritated at being woken up earlier than his alarm.
“Steve, sweetie!” His mother’s voice made him squint his eyes shut further. “Why do you sound so tired?”
“‘Cause it’s six in the morning, mom.”
“Oh, silly me. I forgot about time zones,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. She didn’t even care enough to know what time it was for her son. “Anyways, I’m calling to let you know your father and I won’t make it home for Christmas this year. There’s this banquet we just can’t miss. You understand, don’t you?”
Steve doesn’t know why he’d been surprised, doesn’t know why her words, completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the situation, made his stomach hurt.
“Yeah, okay,” he’d said, because it was no use to do anything but agree.
This was his normal: an almost monthly phone call from one of his parents from wherever they are in the world, no matter the time, always telling him that they’re missing this holiday, his birthday (which, at this point, he was shocked they even remembered), anything.
“That’s my boy,” she’d said, as if she knew him at all. She didn’t. Hasn’t known him—or cared to—for a long time. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Right.”
“Oh, there’s your father. Gotta go.”
And just like that, she hung up.
Steve almost wishes that they’d never call at all, because maybe then it would be easier to swallow their neglect. If they’d just forget him completely, he could get rid of that stupid, tiny sprout of hope he feels whenever they call, hoping things will be different.
At least it was his mother this time, he thinks. His father is a hundred times worse, only ever disappointed in Steve, asking about his job or when he plans on ‘getting a real life,’ never about him.
So yeah, Steve’s in a bad mood today.
The two of you don’t talk for the majority of your shift, you, afraid that Steve’s angry with you, opting to give him space, and Steve, stewing in every negative emotion that comes along with a phone call from his parents.
You don’t talk until one of the last families in line for the day comes up.
Once the kids are in place, you lean down to look through the viewfinder, counting them down and snapping the picture when they say ‘cheese.’ To the side, the children’s mom looks at you with so much judgment, Steve, even brewing in his thoughts, notices.
With the picture taken, you take the camera over to the mom, letting her see the picture the way you do with all the parents, making sure they approve.
Instead of approval, what you get is, “what the hell is that?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of rude customers, at every job you’ve had, but this woman all but screams at you, and that’s rare. “Sorry,” you say, “I can take a new one, no problem.”
“I better be getting the new one for free with how these pictures are looking,” she practically hisses at you.
Usually, you can handle stuff like this, can smack on a smile and politely agree to get things taken care of, but today, the mixture of all your self-doubt and worrying about messing things up with Steve and this mother shouting at you, things pile up, and you feel your happy mask slipping.
“Um,” you start, voice small.
“You elves get worse every year,” she says to you. “I can’t believe people this incompetent even exist.”
Steve, hearing the whole thing, is quick to step in front of you, any thoughts about his shitty parents quickly fading in favor of helping you.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but she already offered to take another picture, and if that isn’t good for you, you’re free to leave,” Steve’s voice doesn’t slip one bit, standing his ground with every word.
You’re overwhelmed with everything going on, and when Steve turns around to look at you, nodding his head towards the staff room, you take the escape he offers you quickly, eyes blurry with tears you won’t let fall until you’re alone.
“You can’t speak to me like that!” The woman stomps her foot.
“I can, actually. She,” he points in the direction you’d gone, “is the kindest person I know, and you shouldn’t speak to her that way. I understand the holidays are a stressful time for everyone, but we spend all day helping people like you take these pictures, and the least you could do is say ‘thank you.’”
Rather than respond, the woman takes her children’s hands and stomps off.
Steve turns to find that the few families that had been in line before have decided to leave, and he takes the emptiness of Santa’s Workshop as an opportunity to follow after you.
He finds you sitting on the bench beneath your cubby in the break room, head buried in your hands, sniffling a little like you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Steve can’t think about anything other than how much he hates seeing you upset, like a cloud covering the sun.
“Hey,” he says gently, sitting beside you on the bench. “Don’t listen to any of that. She was a bitch.”
You’re both grateful and unhappy that Steve came after you. Grateful because he’s kind, because he’s showing you that he cares. Unhappy because you’re embarrassed of him seeing you like this, because he calls you sunshine and you don’t feel like that right now.
It takes a second before you move your hands, wiping at your cheeks before turning to look at Steve, his brown eyes already on your face, unbelievably soft.
“It’s not,” he assures you. “She was awful to you after a long enough day. You have every right to be upset.”
“You’re being really nice,” your voice breaks a little bit, fighting any more tears that threaten to spill.
“I can be nice. I should be nicer to you.” He knows he should, but with Christmas and everything, it’s easy for him to be grouchy. “You sound surprised.”
“It’s just,” you shrug, almost defeated. “I thought you were mad at me today.”
Steve’s heart fucking aches at the sound of your voice, all small and lacking of the light he’s somehow come to like so much. And when another tear slips down your cheek, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding your face in his hands, thumbing the tear away lightly.
“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, sunshine.”
“Oh.”
His hands are warm where they hold your cheeks, a thumb still tracing back and forth over your skin. Not mad, then.
“I, uh,” Steve looks at where his thumb brushes against you, like he can’t believe it’s there, like he doesn’t want to look into your eyes for the next part. “I got a call from my mom this morning. They’re not coming home this year. Again. I shouldn’t be surprised but… anyways. That’s why I’ve been so quiet and shit today. Not because of you.”
One of your hands comes up to lay over his where it sits on your cheek, tangling your fingers with his and moving your hands down to your lap.
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t take this stuff out on you just because you like Christmas and I don’t.”
You smile a little bit, a twitch of your lips, but Steve takes it as a win all the same.
“I’m gonna change that,” you say.
“Sure you will,” he replies, the sarcasm in his voice still there the way it usually is when he teases you, but this time, he’s smiling, too.
-
Steve told you to go home after that, assuring you that he’d take care of the few families left, and when you’d opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, you could stay, he’d pinned you with a look and told you again to let him do it.
So, you did.
You’d thought it would be a day at least until you’d see Steve again, but it’s only a couple of hours after your shift ends.
There’s a knock at your door, your apartment one of the ones built above a shop on Main Street, and even though you have no idea who it could be, you get up, sock-covered feet padding against the floor as you go over to answer it.
You’re surprised to find Steve on the other side—one, because you don’t think you’ve ever told him where you live, and two, because you didn’t think he’d want to see you more today than he already had—a bag in his hand and a shy sort of question on his face.
“Steve? What are you doing here?”
He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before responding, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. “I thought that maybe, after the day you’ve had, you could use some cheering up. I could, too.”
You remember him telling you about the phone call from his parents, and something in your stomach flutters a little when you realize that his plans to cheer up involve you of all people.
“Okay.” You smile, you can’t really help it, “come in, then.”
He does, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes before stepping inside any further. Steve spots your kitchen table easily, and moves to set the bag he’s holding down.
“I thought we could do another thing that might be on your list,” he says. Steve tugs things out of the bag, gingerbread house kits, to be exact. “Gingerbread houses are Christmas bucket list worthy, right?”
“Absolutely,” you search his face, a little confused because last you heard, Steve was not into your whole bucket list thing, but here he is. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”
“I have the receipt. I can return them, if you prefer.”
“No! Don’t do that. I just mean- I thought you didn’t like Christmas or my list and that you were just playing along to be nice.”
“I might not be the biggest fan of Christmas, but,” he shrugs, opening one of the boxes of gingerbread, “you’re a good teacher, sunshine.”
You resist the urge to pinch yourself, like you might be dreaming because Steve, who you’ve grown to like an embarrassing amount, is here, offering to do this with you and giving you a compliment like it’s nothing.
When you respond, you hope your voice doesn’t give away how you really feel. Excited, happy, your heart jumping. “Can I get that in writing?”
“Shut up.” He shakes his head, pointing to the unopened box, “now will you come build this gingerbread house or what?”
“Mine’s gonna be way prettier than yours.”
Steve simply rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile there, too. He’s happy to see that your light is back, that you didn’t let what happened at work get to you too much.
You sit down beside each other at your table, gingerbread kits laid out in front of you. Icing and sprinkles, a cookie roof and chimney. You’re sure it’ll leave a mess, but right now you don’t mind.
There’s a sort of lightness in the air, the knowledge that this thing—friendship, more, whatever it is—between the two of you is something that you’re both happy to bask in. It’s unspoken, and that doesn’t bother you.
You and Steve start by unpacking all of the pieces, yours laid out neatly, his in a leaning pile that makes you bite back a laugh.
“The fucking roof won’t stay on,” Steve says once you’ve both started to put the houses together, and he sounds genuinely annoyed about it.
“Just put some more icing on it,” you say, “there’s no such thing as too much.”
“I don’t think icing will save me now, sunshine.”
You look away from your own gingerbread house over to Steve’s. His hands are holding the roof up, pushing them together so they meet at the top, and he’s staring at the thing with so much determination that you can’t help but giggle.
“You laughing at me?” Steve quirks a brow at you, but there’s a shine in his eyes. They smile even when his mouth doesn’t.
“I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously,” you laugh, and that smile of his spreads slowly on Steve’s face, blooming like a flower. “It’s alright to admit defeat, Steve. My house is already better than yours.”
“Woah, this isn’t over yet, alright? Mine just needs time, don’t you worry.”
“Whatever you say, Steve.”
“Someone’s feeling brave tonight,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow without letting go of the roof of his house. “Don’t speak too soon, sunshine. I could be the underdog here.”
You lean over with your icing bag in hand, piping some more into the gap in Steve’s roof. “Here, let me help.”
Steve—always reluctant to accept help of any kind, even the smallest things—lets you. While he watches your face as you pipe the icing, the focus, the way your tongue pokes out from between your lips, you take his distraction as an opportunity to move, letting your icing fall onto his hand instead of the house.
“Oops,” you shrug, your tone suggesting that it wasn’t a mistake at all.
Steve gasps overdramatically, then leans closer to you, “Oh, looks like you’ve got something right there.” His hand reaches for your face, and he spreads the icing from it onto your cheek.
“You’re done for, Harrington.”
He only laughs, bright and quick.
Before you know it, you’re having some sort of food fight, putting a dot of icing on Steve’s nose, him tossing sprinkles at you. It’s a mess, but all you can hear is Steve’s laughter, all you can see is his smile. Unguarded for once, free and genuine.
By the time it dies down, there’s stripes of icing on your cheeks, red and green sprinkles scattered about the floor and on the table, and Steve’s got his own patches of icing to deal with.
“You better help me clean this, Harrington,” you say, your giggles still spilling, fizzling out softly. “What are we gonna decorate these houses with now?”
“Mine’s a lost cause,” he admits, the pieces now in a pile the way they’d started.
“So I won, is what I’m hearing.”
Steve looks at you, at the sparkle in your eyes that had been dimmed earlier at work, at the smile that spreads across your face when his eyes meet yours. Fuck. He thinks you’re completely beautiful, icing across your face and all.
His gaze snags on a piece of green in your hair, and before he can think about it, he reaches up and tugs it out for you.
“Sprinkle,” he says.
You look at his hands, messy from the gingerbread houses but never any less strong, and you remember how they felt in yours when you’d been skating. And when you flick your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you, gaze dipping to your mouth quickly, like he can’t help it.
And shit, you think. You really, really like this boy.
Before either of you can say anything more, you’re leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle and you’re not sure if you kiss him or he kisses you, but you end up with your mouths pressed together.
It’s featherlight at first, testing the waters. Then, Steve’s hands cup your jaw gently and pull you back to him, and you wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow.
He kisses you again, still soft somehow, but more certain, his lips dancing with yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
You reach up and grasp his wrists in your hands, feeling his pulse under your thumbs. His heart is racing just as much as yours, you notice. Like your heartbeats have synced to a twin pattern, like this kiss was enough to do that.
And while you’re not sure what will happen after this, you know that something has shifted, that both of you are saying things you’re too afraid to say out loud.
When he pulls back, Steve presses one, two more pecks to your mouth, his thumbs tracing over your skin so lightly you might’ve dreamt it.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever think about kissing the same way after you. Steve feels warm the way he does when the sun beams on him in summer, and quickly, he thinks, I could get used to this feeling.
Then, he gets up and finds a small towel in one of the drawers by your sink, wetting it with warm water before coming back to sit with you.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, using a finger to tilt your chin up, swiping the towel over your cheeks to get rid of the icing there as lightly as he can.
And that’s that.
-
December twenty-fourth is your last day at Santa’s Workshop. Christmas Eve snuck up quick, and tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, the mall will be closed.
You’ve always enjoyed the job, but this year’s been your favorite by far. Usually, you and your coworkers would get along just fine, talking during shifts and laughing but never expanding outside of work, but it’s completely different with Steve.
He knocked on your door with gingerbread houses in hand and kissed you like it meant something. You like him so much that it’s in your bones, this feeling he brings out of you, how special you feel when you think about the trust he’s shown you.
But looking back, you think you were screwed from the start. From his scrunched brows asking you if the bells on the elf shoes were really necessary, to confiding in you about his parents, that list you made that seemed to be the beginning of what things have grown into now.
Green elf hat lopsided on his head, Steve smiles at you from where he stands by the camera. You smile back without thinking, like it’s natural, an instinct.
“Alright,” he says, talking to the kids sitting on the bench with Santa. “Everyone say ‘cheese’ on three. One, two-”
“Cheese!”
The camera clicks, and then it’s onto the next, the system you and Steve have created moving along smoothly, family after family.
If someone told Steve when he’d started this job, grouchy and prepared to pout about it every day, that he’d grow to like it, that he’s realized he’ll miss it when it’s gone, he would’ve laughed in their faces.
Never in a million years did Steve think he’d come remotely close to enjoying being an elf, but he has (he still fucking hates the outfit, though). You have everything to do with his surprising not-so-hatred of the job, of his careful fondness growing towards the holidays.
It’s all because of you.
Christmas Eve is a busy day at Starcourt mall, parents rushing about for last minute presents, teenagers taking advantage of holiday sales, and families lined up for their Santa pictures they’d forgotten about until now.
You don’t get breaks between families often today, but once you do, you and Steve are next to each other, making imaginary backstories for random people that pass by, dramatically reading lips of conversations.
The next time there’s an opening, you walk over to Steve, holding up your fist as if there’s a microphone in it. “So, Steve, tell me, how does it feel to have survived December as a Christmas elf?”
“I feel like I should get an award, maybe,” he says into your fake microphone. “I’ve gotten two rashes from this scratchy outfit. Two! And I’ll never hear jingle bells the same again.”
You laugh before clearing your throat and getting back into your news anchor character, “wow. You heard it here folks, North Pole outfits are not luxurious.”
“No, they are not.”
Steve can’t help but grin as he looks at you, as he jokes around with you so easily it feels like he’s known you for years instead of a month. He supposes he has known you longer, but never the way he does now.
“Now, will you be returning to Santa’s Workshop in future Decembers, mister Harrington?”
“Well, that depends,” he says. “I think I’ll require a certain presence to be with me if I come back. Can’t survive it without my doses of sunshine.”
My doses of sunshine.
You’ve never reacted to words the way you do with Steve, but when he says things like that, how can you not react? He compliments you in these indirect ways that only you could understand, and this secret language of yours has your heart skipping, your world tinted-pink.
That one makes you break character, “really?”
“Really.”
Looking up at him, at those soft, melting brown eyes that have always told you more than anything else about him, at the fondness in them, you think about that kiss.
You haven’t spoken about it, but you haven’t felt the need to. It meant something, you know that much, and by the way Steve sneaks touches—a squeeze of your hand, a palm on your back—he does, too.
“You make Christmas better,” he tells you.
He leaves you with that as the next family walks up for their picture, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you, his gaze spreading sparkles over your skin.
It’s hard to focus when all you can think about is him calling you sunshine in that soft voice of his he’s only used when you’re alone, but you have to, so it’s back to work you go.
You don’t get to speak much again until your shift is over, the Christmas Eve evening rush swooping in and keeping you both busy.
It’s bittersweet, walking to the back room for the last time from Santa’s Workshop. You’re excited for tomorrow, because it’s Christmas and it’s one of your favorite days of the year, but it’s hitting you now how much you’ll miss seeing Steve nearly every day.
You’ll still see him, of course you will. Whether it’s him getting you to help sneak kids into a movie or maybe something more, something for just the two of you. Either way, you’re at least sure of one thing: Steve Harrington is one of the best people you know.
He’s the first to speak as you step into the staff room. “I have something for you,” he says.
Steve scratches the back of his neck, the smallest hint of pink on his cheeks. He’s nervous, and it’s the sweetest thing. He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small box, a white ribbon tied in a bow around it, a little lopsided, like he’d tied it himself.
You take it from him, smiling down at the box, because no matter what’s in it, he cared enough to get you a gift and that’s what matters, that’s what you’ll hold onto.
“Really?”
“Open it, please.”
You listen, tugging the ribbon loose and opening up the small box. Inside, you find a delicate chain, the pendant in the shape of the sun.
“Steve.” It comes out in a breath, your eyes welling the tiniest bit because this is the best gift you’ve ever received. He’s a gift himself, looking at you shyly, searching your face for a reaction.
“Do you like it?” He asks, his voice soft. “If it’s too much I can-”
“It’s perfect,” you say, and you mean it. “Put it on for me?”
He flashes you a grin, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he nods and takes the necklace from you, undoing the clasp as you turn around and move your hair out of the way.
You can feel his warmth against your back as he drapes the necklace over your collar, his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp.
“There you go,” he says, taking a small step back to give you room to spin back around to face him.
You look down at the sun pendant sitting against your skin, touching it lightly. Steve’s actions speak volumes, and this one makes you feel so many things. But above it all, you feel like his.
He watches your face as you look at the necklace, the slope of your nose and the softness of your cheeks. The flutter of your lashes and the smile you don’t even try to hide. He’s been resisting the urge to kiss you since he’d done it the first time, but it’s stronger than ever now, with his present around your neck.
Your eyes meet when you look back up at him, his brown ones never failing to show how he feels, and your heart skips with how he looks at you. Like he cares, like he doesn’t intend on stopping.
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, fingertips gentle as ever when they brush against the side of your neck.
“I love it, Steve, really. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect-”
“Hey,” he cuts you off, his hand shifting to hold yours, fingers lacing with yours easily, “you’ve given me so much.”
Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to get paired with you for this job, how he got lucky enough to have someone look past his slight grumpiness and really see him. You’ve given him Christmas as a whole, erasing bad memories, replacing them with new ones, and he doesn’t think any present could repay you for that.
“Oh wait!” You squeeze his hand before letting go and heading towards your bag, digging until you find what you’d been looking for. You hand Steve a folded piece of paper, “you should have this.”
As he unfolds it, he realizes it’s the bucket list you’d made for him what feels like forever ago, glitter and all. There are activities with check marks beside them, the ones you’d completed, and he shakes his head with the smile he seems to only wear when you’re around.
Very last on the list, your handwriting spells out words that make his chest feel light, his heart full.
‘Make next Christmas just as good.’
Steve finally stops holding himself back and kisses you for the second time, and you’re both certain it won’t be the last.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please please consider leaving a reblog or comment and let me know what you think! it would mean a bunch <3
hey girl!! so i was rewatching season 3 and saw the part where max and eleven are playing the spin the bottle and spying on people and had an idea! what if the reader is babysitting them and the girls drag her in to play and they spin in on steve, so she’s like “alright that’s enough” bc she doesn’t want to invade on her friends privacy but she sits through it anyway, and she hears him talking to robin about how much he likes her and wants to ask her out. IDK i thought that was cute :))
don’t hate the game
A/N: UR SO RIGHT THIS IS SO CUTE. I’m so glad i FINALLYYY found motivation to tackle it <3 (gif creds: @buckysbarnes)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
Summary: The girls convince you to play an embarrassing party game from your past. It’s nothing like you remember. 2.4k words
It's a Friday night in the middle of summer, and you're wondering how you got here. Well, actually you're in your living room, so it's not that great of a mystery, but more confusing than that, you're letting two adolescent girls teach you how to play spin the bottle. If someone had told you at graduation that this is where you'd end up, you'd laugh right in their face.
Who's laughing now.
"But!" Max says, "if you hadn't noticed, none of these people are in the room, so how would we kiss them?"
You fight the urge to sink into your seat, blithely nodding and avoiding anything that might alienate you from your younger counterparts. You're almost sorry you surrendered your night to babysit two capable teens, but you promised El's dad who promised to pay you handsomely. Plus, they seem to like you enough to find you cool. Enough to tell you teenage secrets and complain about their boyfriends.
As they're explaining the rules, a memory creeps in of the first time you ever played this godforsaken party game. On Steve Harrington's floor in eighth grade. The cheers dying off as the mouth of the bottle slowed to a stop in your direction. No one expected him to actually lean over and kiss you. Or that you'd stay good friends despite his high school career soaring into stardom while yours sort of... didn't.
"We don't kiss them!" El chirps with an excited glint in her eye. The girls lean in like it's the first time they're hearing the rules but you're almost certain they made them up.
"Right. Instead, El here becomes our spy. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but she can see into their conversations or something. It's wicked." Max looks to El with something like admiration.
Intrigued, you glance down at the post-it notes arranged in a circle, scribbled with assorted names from yearbooks and yellow pages. A few you recognize: Mike and Lucas, one of the Hawkins Middle math teachers, even Will’s mom wasn’t safe from their antics.
But among the many names, you're most drawn to Steve. The way the letters loop and curl into his name, you go a little dizzy imagining that you really were playing the game. That he was seated across from you now. That he might lean over like he did the first time while your mind raced with a thousand possibilities. It's a prank or a dare or his wholehearted commitment to the game, anything other than his own free will.
You blink out of your silly, nostalgia-fueled trance when Max presses the cold glass bottle to your palm.
"You first."
They giggle and fall into each other when you half-twist the bottle. You're still in disbelief that you agreed to this as you watch the bottle spin, ticking off names as it loses momentum.
"Who is that?" you ask, leaning closer as if you'd read the yellow post-it wrong.
"Oh," El says. She cringes away from the board and crosses her arms over her chest in defiance.
"That bitch from P.E.," Max grumbles, and you have half a mind to scold her if you hand’t found universal bitch-aversion endlessly amusing. "You can spin again, she's not worth the trouble anyway."
You imagine your dream game once again. The bottle flies in the other direction at your fingertips, haywire and picking up a new gravity. It draws a wild, fiery line beneath your stare as you consider the possibility of Steve. It slows and slows until it's spinning almost at the same pace as Earth from a distance. Listening to the roaring sound of the universe as the bottle turns. Turns and turns and turns. Your eyes light up.
The girls giggle.
"No," you say sternly, regretting all your daydreams and fantasies in the face of cold, hard reality. "No, not Steve."
"Please!" they whine.
"Ladies, that's enough. He's a good friend, we're not spying on him."
They act like kicked puppies, though you know they're tricking you as they pout and bat their eyes. You know they know more than they should. About you. You and your feelings towards Steve Harrington. Something they discovered through a quiz in some teeny bopper magazine or other. Those magazines that somehow hold the secrets of the universe and the answers to every haircare question.
“Come on, I’ll make us popcorn and we can start a movie. A horror, if you really want.”
They seem satisfied enough, springing to the couch and settling into the cushions there.
The stove heats slowly. You fish through your cabinet for the last pan of Jiffy Pop, peeling back the thin cardboard cover when you hear snickering from the other room.
“What’s he saying?” Max whispers. You strain to hear her with your back pressed to the wall, just out of sight.
You shouldn’t be eavesdropping. You know better. You’re not a prepubescent girl anymore, you’re the babysitter with responsibilities. Like a job. Yet, you can’t seem to pull yourself away from the doorway. Every time you hear his name, your heart soars with what-ifs. You feel your eyes slip closed as El speaks.
“Steve is speaking to someone. I see her”—Your heart sinks—“Robin!”
You selfishly let out a breath. You’re mostly thankful he’s not spending his evening alone, but you also knew his friendship with Robin was strictly platonic. Robin had sworn by it without you even having to raise the question. You didn’t have to, she said, she could see it in your face. You wondered if Steve found you that transparent.
“He’s talking about… A girl. Her eyes. A smile. And he’s smiling, too. Oh, wait, now he’s frowning because Robin flicked him,” she says with a playful lilt.
She gasps.
“What?” Max yelps, shifting closer on the squeaky couch.
“Steve wants to confess his feelings. Big feelings, he says. Like-like.”
You not sure if that’s El’s paraphrase of Steve’s so-called big feelings or if the term like-like came from his own mouth. Neither option would surprise you. What does surprise you is that you’d never heard any of this from Steve before. You liked to think you were friends, even one of his best friends. He was surely one of yours. You told each other almost everything because you can’t exactly discuss complex relationships and sex with middle schoolers.
But you’d never heard of Steve’s seemingly new, mystery like-liker lover.
“He’s thinking of asking her out. Robin told him he might as well, it’s obvious that the girl he’s talking about likes him back. He doesn’t agree,” El says, her brows furrowed beneath the thick black blindfold, “Robin’s shouting. Steve looks sad.”
“What’s she saying?” Max whispers.
“Shh! ‘You like her so much, you might as well tell her and let her react. But I’ll say this, she’s going to say yes. That girl has been in love with you since the eighth grade’. He’s thinking.”
“Think faster, hair-brain!”
El giggles, her face suddenly falling serious. “‘Really?’” You stifle a laugh at the deeper voice she affects.
“‘She’s never said anything to me about it’. Robin looks angry. ‘Obviously, dingus! Do you go around telling people you’re in love with them?’”
“She has a point,” Max says. “Who’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know—Oh! Here we go,” El huffs, fists clenched eagerly, “He’s making a plan to ask her out, he’s going to call her. He’s getting up—”
Just then, the popcorn bursts from its aluminum confines with a bang. You let out a strangled noise between a yelp and a grumble, annoyed at the rude and very loud interruption. As you set the burner knob in place, you consider the fact that Steve has very real feelings for someone else. Someone who’s just not you. And as you shake the popcorn into a ceramic bowl, the landline rings.
“Will someone get that?” you call, grabbing a few small packages of sweets stashed in the cabinet. You hear the girls spring from the couch, and you shuffle into the living room to a giddy scene huddled around the receiver.
“Yes, she’s here!” El squeals. There’s a muffled response from the other line, and they share a conspiratorial glance.
“It’s for you,” Max says, handing you the phone with a smirk.
“Thank you. Go pick a movie while the popcorn’s hot.” You clear your throat, preparing yourself for the worst. Maybe your boss firing you or a repo man taking your TV. “Hello?”
“Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to interrupt girl’s night, I can call back later,” Steve’s gentle voice filters clear through the speaker. In the silence, static hums, and you press the phone closer to your ear.
Trying to listen for what he might be thinking. He sounds like rain. Like Sunday and a lack of pressure. He sounds inviting and warm like that big green sweater he’s always wearing. If only you knew he wears it because you adore it. You tell him every time; why would he ever stop.
“No!” you chirp, “no, perfect timing actually, we were just about to start a movie.”
“Oh! That sounds fun,” he says. You fidget with the springy cord, facing away from the living room and from the attention of the two flittering girls.
“Yeah,” you say, hoping he doesn’t recognize the disappointment coloring your tone. “So, how’d it go?”
He chokes a little. “How’d… what? Go?” There’s a soft snicker from the other line at his incidental voice crack.
“Your… I mean, did you have something you wanted to tell me?”
The line dips, but you hadn’t heard the telltale plastic clatter of a hang up. Just soft shuffling and a curse from under his breath. You curdle at the near silence.
“What did Robin tell you?” he grumbles.
“What? Nothing. Was she supposed to?”
“Well, no! I just called to tell you—”
He goes silent, and this time you’re actually convinced he hung up. There’s no sound at all, and you double check your receiver to make sure the problem’s not on your end.
“Stevie?”
“Yep, sorry. Just… feel silly.”
“Okay, you’re starting to scare me a little,” you hum, clutching onto the handheld.
“No! Sorry, not trying to scare you, honey, I just need to get something off my chest. But it’s not scary. Or, well, I guess it could be taken that way, and that would be okay. A little sad, but yeah, no hard feelings—”
At this point, you’re sure he’s talking about his prospective date. He knows you have a stupid, obvious crush on him, and he’s trying to soften the blow of new romantic conquest. Of course, introducing his new girlfriend to you would be terrifying, but you’d always put on a brave face for Steve. He knows that. He’d do the same for you.
“Steve?”
“Yeah.”
“Just get it over with,” you sigh, leaning your head against the wall and bracing for heartache.
“Right. Not trying to waste your time. Here goes.”
I’ve got a new, smoking hot girlfriend who just agreed to go on a date with me. And she’s got beautiful eyes and a gorgeous smile, and I’ve been in love with her since I can remember, and we’re gonna run away together forever and get married and have perfect babies.
“I like you,” he huffs.
“Well, duh, I like you, too, you’re only my closest friend,” you say. You’re tense, waiting for the other shoe to come hurling through the skylight. “Now, tell me.”
“No, sweetheart, I like-like you. Have since I was nine. Miss Boyd’s class, if I’m not mistaken.” There’s a soft thud like his forehead colliding with the wall beside his phone.
You inhale a shaky breath. He’s kidding, and it’s a prank. Your heart races, and you want to curse him out for picking on you. He should know better. Right?
“Steve,” you warble, “please tell me you’re joking.”
There’s more shuffling, muffled voices, and you think you’ve just exposed one long drawn out joke. You’re about to hang up with what’s left of your dignity when he says:
“Are you rejecting me?”
He sounds almost mad. Hair ruffled, skin on edge. How you imagine his father might sound just before one of his awful fits. But there’s something much softer to Steve, more understanding. Hurt like a child.
Still, you can’t help you suspicion.
“Quit it. I know it’s a joke, don’t drag it out.”
“Hey, wait a second,” he urges, “It’s not a joke. I like you. A lot.” He says it so softly, your heart just might believe him. As if all the stars have aligned, and he’s actually confessing his feelings for you. You didn’t think the stars did that. Not really, anyway.
There’s a new tune to his voice you’d almost name teasing, “c’mon, don’t leave me hangin’.”
And just like that, he’s back in school again, fawning over you from a distance, finding an excuse to tag you during recess only to avoid you in class so you wouldn’t see him blush. He’s back to whispered secrets through the phone at midnight so he’s parents wouldn’t catch him. He only ever told you what wouldn’t give him away. He’s back to not letting you pay for your ice cream and shrugging it off with a smile. He’s back, and he might just be yours.
“I—Sorry, you like me? Like like-like, like enough to ask me on a real date?” you huff. He chuckles.
“Well, that last part kinda depends on whether or not you like me back. But yes, I like-like like like-like you.”
You spin to face the living room only to be confronted by an empty popcorn bowl and two fidgety, blushing, wide-eyed teens. They urge you for answers, gesturing wildly and wiggling towards you across the floor.
“Of course, I like you. I thought you knew.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. I guess I was too distracted,” he admits.
“I guess we both were,” you say, unable to keep a grin from your face, succumbing to joy as your fingers dance along the telephone cord.
“So, how about that date?” It escapes him barely above a whisper. He can’t believe he’s actually saying it after all this time. The only thing that convinces him it even came out is your soft laughter.
“Sounds wonderful!”
“Good!” he coos.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Great, yeah. That’s… I can’t wait.” He’s earnest until his cheeks hurt, and Robin teases him for it.
“Tomorrow, it is,” you purr, nearly in tune with the low hum of the receiver, “I’ll call you later.”
“Bye, sweetheart. Don’t forget: I like-like you.”
You smile, slotting the phone back into its place. A chorus of giggles erupts at your feet. Spin the bottle had been a good idea, after all.
I love your ones with shy x king steve could you write more with lots of angst lolll
ty for requesting !! — the trials and tribulations of dating hawkins' golden boy (shy!reader, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, king!steve universe | 1.6k)
Gravel crunches under your feet, digging into the bottoms of your shoes with every step. You storm through the empty alleyway between the gymnasium and the chemistry lab despite that. Despite the whipping wind that threatens to pull you back. Despite the calls of your name from an achingly familiar voice.
“Hey! Hey, wait up!” Steve shouts at the back of you, laughing like it’s funny.
You hear his footsteps kicking up gravel as he rushes to catch up with you. It takes little effort on his part — legs long and mostly bare in his Hawkins Tigers basketball shorts. He towers over you accordingly, when he slides ahead of you to stop you suddenly in your tracks.
“Hey. What’s going on?” the boy pants with a crooked smile. His cheeks, freshly shaven, are now flushed from a merciless practice. The shirt clinging just perfectly to his torso, too, is damp at the neckline with sweat. “Why are you avoiding me, huh?”
He’s met with an emotionless scowl from you, which is strange, ‘cause you’re usually all smiles around him. But you keep your arms crossed over tight your chest, adamant in revealing nothing to him.
Steve’s smile wavers at the edges as he forces a breathy, unsure laugh. “Oh, you’re not— you’re not talking to me? Shit, I must have some serious groveling to do, don’t I?”
His wide hands settle warm on the outsides of your elbows, just before he ducks down to kiss you. You catch a smirk pulling at his pink mouth when the tip of his nose traces the bridge of yours — like it’s still so funny to him.
He frowns when you flinch back from him, boyish features twisting like a puppy’s might. “You okay?” he wonders, suddenly solemn.
“No, Steve,” you snap. “I’m not.”
He stammers hopelessly. “Well, what— What happened? Did I… Did I do something, or…?”
“No. You didn’t do anything,” you bite. “Because you never do anything.”
You try to walk past him, but Steve sidesteps to block you, his hands spread awkwardly before him in surrender. “Okay, well, now I’m confused,” he murmurs, face swirled with uncertainty. “‘Cause you’re saying I didn’t do anything, but… it kinda sounds like I did do something…”
His disregard sets you aflame from the inside.
“Tommy made fun of me in front of all your friends. In front of you—” You dig your finger into the center of his chest. “—And what did you do? Nothing, Steve… Nothing.”
Your voice breaks. You clear your throat when emotion starts to strangle you.
The memory of earlier that day pangs your chest like it just happened — like it’s still happening. And it’s not so much what Tommy said to you, but what Steve didn’t have the courage to say.
The boy sighs, swiping a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “He’s a dick, babe. You know that. Don’t let him get to you—”
“That’s really easy for you to say, isn’t it?”
He flinches at your foreignly sharp tone. “Well, what was I supposed to do?”
Now, you can’t tell if he’s oblivious or just a coward. Neither is particularly attractive.
“Anything,” you spit. “Literally anything.”
“I just didn’t want them to find out about us, alright?” Steve argues, harsher now. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it? That we stay a secret—”
“‘Cause you’re ashamed of me,” you choke, eyes going glassy.
“‘Cause I didn’t want this shit to get any worse for you!”
“It can’t get any worse, Steve! I’m fucking— I’m fish bait!”
“What?!”
“Every day, I’m terrified of what your friends are gonna say to me,” you confess, despite the cracks in your voice and the tears blurring your vision. “I’m self-conscious, all the time, ‘cause they always have something to say. About my hair, my clothes, my makeup—”
Steve’s chest burns with a palpable ache. Every inch of your heartbreak is his own. His arms cross over his chest in a feeble attempt to quell the flame. “Really?”
You scoff a bitter laugh. “God, you’re so oblivious…”
“I didn’t know it was that bad, babe, I swear,” Steve says, voice suddenly fragile as he takes a step closer to you. His sneaker scuffs the gravel with hesitancy. “I thought Tommy was just being a prick, you know? He’s like that with everyone. I had no idea it was like that, okay?”
Your tight chest deflates with a sigh. “The point is, Steve… That Tommy shouldn’t be doing anything to be at all. You should be protecting me— Not even as my boyfriend, but as a decent fucking human being.”
“I’ll talk to him,” the boy says with a firm nod.
“Steve—”
“I will. I-I’ll sort it out, okay? I promise.”
Even though the look of hurt twisting his features makes your eyes sting, you smack your lips indifferently against your teeth. “No. Don’t worry about it. I’d hate for him to find out about us—”
“Babe—”
“Or, god forbid, you lose any shot of being prom king,” you laugh cynically. “Wouldn’t that be a bite?”
Steve huffs, though it’s hard with the leaden weight on his chest. “Okay. Now you’re just being mean.”
You know you are. You wanted to be — wanted to hurt him like he hurt you. But you’re questioning if he deserves it now, so you shrink into yourself all over again. “I have to go. Me and Robin are going to the library.” When you walk past him this time, he makes no effort to stop you.
It hurts only slightly.
“Let me drive you,” he calls to you, anyway.
“So you can be seen with a bunch of dweebs at the library?” you scoff, not looking back at him. “I’d hate to see what that would do to your reputation.”
“Please, don’t,” Steve sighs, with his hands on his hips and his head tossed back like he’s talking to the sky. “Don’t leave when you’re mad at me. Please.”
His words are carried to you on an early fall breeze, which stills suddenly when you spin around to face him. The sight of you takes his breath in a similar way — eyes teary, chin quivering, face twisted with the hurt he caused.
“Do you know how humiliating it is?” you ask him, voice trembling. “To watch your boyfriend stay silent when all of his friends are making fun of you?”
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s fucking humiliating.”
His jaw clenches. So hard his temples shift. “I thought I was helping,” Steve explains, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I thought if I said something, then everyone would find out, and you said you didn’t want that—”
“Because you’re King Steve,” you retort, agonizing the point he seems to be forgetting. Your voice breaks like splintered glass. “And I’m— I’m nothing—”
“That’s not true—”
“—And I thought the only way I’d get to be with you was if no one else knew. So you could keep being Hawkins Royalty while dating the… the local fucking prude.”
An emotionless laugh sputters from your lips. It cuts through Steve like a knife.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know you felt that way,” the boy confesses, closing the short distance between you. The snapping gravel under his sneakers fills the silence. You duck your gaze when he towers over you again.
“Well… now you do,” you murmur.
“I’ll make it better, okay? I’ll fix it,” Steve assures. Unsure of what to do with his hands when they’re not holding you, he sticks the trembling limbs in the pockets of his short shorts. He shifts on his feet and kicks a rock with his sneaker. “You just… You just have to let me.”
He flashes you a look then, a pleading sort of glance from beneath his lashes, glimmering with a darkened honey. It makes your chest sparkle in a similar way. But still slightly hurt, you only shrug in response.
“Can I have a kiss, at least?”
You shrug again with eyes wide and pleading, shining now with a surer answer you hope he can hear in your silence.
Steve leans in slowly, testing the waters. His gaze darts from your eyes, to your mouth, and to your eyes again. When you don’t flinch away by the time his nose grazes yours, he finally kisses you — a chaste peck that makes your tense shoulders slowly relax. You fight the urge to chase him when he pulls back from you.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really,” Steve says in a pained murmur. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “‘Cause you mean— You mean a lot to me, you know?”
It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to telling you he loves you, which is saying something, ‘cause he thinks he almost tells you every day.
“You mean a lot to me, too,” you mutter shyly in response.
Steve tries and fails to bite back a grin. He ducks down for another kiss –– the long and languid one he’s been dreaming about all day. The kind that tastes like strawberry chapstick and nicotine and yearning. The kind that pains you to pull away from.
Your kissed mouths smack apart in protest. You try hard to conceal a lovesick smile. “I really do have to meet Robin, though…” you confess in a mousy voice.
His rosy mouth falls softly agape. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, uh,” he clears his throat. “Call me later?”
You step back from him and shrug, still smiling. “We’ll see,” you lilt beneath the gravel crunching under your feet. Only when you’re at the edge of the alleyway do you glance at him over your shoulder. The puppy-like hurt on his face returns.
“You’re breakin’ my heart!” he calls to you, only partly serious.
“Just like seeing you grovel,” you joke. “That’s all.”
❛ i’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new to me. i love you. ❜ with our boy Steve Harrington please?
i wrote this after watching little women, so this is like that one laurie and amy scene but stranger things coded <3 hope you like it!! (this is 5k words btw and barely proofread 🫣)
The R.V. smells like coopery blood, alternate dimension muck, and nine teenagers who haven’t showered in three days. But despite all that, Steve Harrington is next to you, smiling.
As if there’s anything worth being happy about now.
He tells you about a dream with a hopeful gleam in his honey eyes, like he believes it’ll all come true — like death is staring him in the face. “I know it’s silly, but I… I always dreamed I’d have this really, really big family. I’m talking like, uh— a full brood of Harrington’s. I don’t know, five… Maybe six kids?”
“Six?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh. You turn your body in the passenger seat to face him more, shoulder pressing into the worn pleather. You’ve got your brows raised to your hairline in shock at his admission and a beam on your face you don’t realize is there.
“Uh-huh. Six little nuggets. Three girls, three boys,” he says with an assured nod. There’s a distant smile hinting at the edges of his lips, and he looks at you with it for a moment before turning back to the road again.
“And every summer, I figured all of us Harrington’s, we’d pack into something like this, and… just see the country. You know, the Rockies, the Grand Canyon, maybe Yellowstone. We’d end up in some beachside town in California and spend a week parked in the sand, maybe learn how to surf or something.”
You can picture the dream so effortlessly, almost like it’s one you’ve had yourself.
In some ways, you did.
Steve Harrington was the kind of boy that filled you with butterflies and childlike daydreams. It was more innocent than lusting, more significant than a teenage crush. There was a time you’d wanted to be with him so badly that you could barely breathe. It kept you up at night, fantasizing about a future with a boy that didn’t want you. It haunted your dreams just as often.
You were, perhaps a bit begrudgingly, a part of that stereotype — a girl who wanted all of the things adults thought girls wanted. You longed for a pretty white dress and a husband that cried when you walked down the aisle. You wanted a small house with a white picket fence, a home that’s always loud with laughing children and barking dogs and loving parents.
It was a future you only wanted with Steve.
But he didn’t love you. Not the way he loved Nancy.
Not the way he still loves Nancy.
It’s not a crime he needs to confess to for you to know he’s guilty of it. You can see it written all over his face, in the way he talks about his future family and flits his gaze from the winding backroad up to the rearview mirror to look at her. He’s picturing her in his head the way you picture him in yours.
Knowing someone else is a part of this dreamt-up family and not you is a bitter pill to swallow.
It has you looking back too, at the gang of ragtag soldiers you’re about to save the world with. You glance over your shoulder at all of them, finding them dozing or outright sleeping in the back of the R.V.
You don’t blame them. The past few days have been hell.
You’re just glad Max has finally found a moment of peace. The redhead lazes between Lucas and Dustin on the couch in the very back. She rests her head on the former boy’s soldier, but you can’t tell if she’s sleeping or not. Lucas has his eyes closed but a smile on his face as he lays his cheek on the crown of her head.
Dustin, on the other hand, looks dreadfully out of place among the two lovebirds. His head is tilted back and his mouth is wide open. Soft snores spill from his throat.
Erica, Robin, and Nancy all sit at the tiny table beside the tinier kitchen. Their heads are either resting on their folded arms or pressing against the window.
The small cushion adjacent to the couch is taken up wholly by Eddie.
Your Eddie.
His long legs are spread and his back is slouched against the side of the R.V. He’s taking up every bit of room the thing has to offer, which wasn’t very much to begin with. His pink lips are parted and slightly chapped. He blows soft exhales from them that make his chest rise and fall with even breaths.
Your hands begin to ache with the want to run them through his wild strands of hair, to ease his head to your chest and let the sound of your heartbeat chase away the nightmares that threaten to plague him.
You want so badly to sleep alongside him, but you know that slumber won’t come as easily to you.
Despite the exhaustion that weighs down your tired bones, whenever you close your eyes, you can only see Chrissy’s mangled body on the ceiling of Eddie’s trailer. The image of broken bones and sucked-out eye sockets is stained on the back of your mind.
It’s something you’ll never forget. Not in a billion, trillion lifetimes.
You’re scared you won’t ever sleep peacefully again.
But you’re glad Eddie’s finally resting. Even if you can’t.
And maybe that’s what love is.
…Love.
You almost can’t believe you’re calling it that. It’s not like you’ve told him as much or anything. You haven’t been together very long, only a few months, but you’re not sure what else to call this feeling. Is it normal for you to want to fight the most powerful dark wizard known to man with your bare hands as long as it means keeping Eddie safe?
The realization that you’re actually moving on from Steve is perhaps more shocking. You were starting to think you’d be fawning over him for the rest of your life, destined to be alone forever while he got married and had kids. But then Eddie came out of nowhere. He swept you off your feet without even trying.
You’d spent so much of your life in love with Steve that you’d forgotten how it felt to be loved. But Eddie reminded you, most ardently so, and you’ve never been happier.
And Steve can see all that.
He can see how you’ve gone to hell and back — quite literally — to keep Eddie safe. He can see how Eddie still manages to make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, even though death looms overhead like a big, gray storm cloud. It almost makes him angry. Not at Eddie, exactly. And certainly not at you. He’s more so mad at himself for waiting until you were out of his grip entirely to need you like air.
Steve wasn’t an idiot; he knew how you felt about him. He’s known for years. But Nancy was the only girl in his purview for… an embarrassingly long amount of time. Maybe that’s because she didn’t want a single damn thing to do with him at first, and it wasn’t like Steve to back down from a challenge.
But you? You were easy. You were always going to be there. Your love was the only constant thing in his life.
And then it just… wasn’t.
It was like his center of gravity had suddenly shifted or his feet had been knocked out from under him. The loss of you, of something that was never his to begin with, jarred him like he’d been awake with most vigor. Now, he finds himself living in a nightmare — forced to watch you fall in love with someone else while he ebbs slowly from your mind.
You sit with him now — with Eddie — while he and Dustin fuck around with the shields they’d crafted out of tin garbage can lids. You watch them with a smile on your face even though you’re shaking your head at them and telling them something that Steve can’t hear.
You’ve got a sword in your hand, and you sharpen its steel with a rock. The too expensive thing had been hanging on the wall at The War Zone, and you told Eddie you just had to have it.
“I’ll just… take up extra shifts at Wayne’s shop,” you reason with a shrug, gaze never leaving the bladed weapon.
“Do whatever you want,” the brunette boy responded nonchalantly as he dropped four cases of ammunition into the red basket in your hand. He smiled down at you. “That just means I’ll get to see you more.”
It hurts Steve for you to be so far away from him.
You’re just across the small clearing. All he’d have to do is walk over to you, really, but it’s more than just the distance. No matter how close he gets to you, or how far you get from Eddie, your soul’s always going to be with him.
Steve will never have you like that, and that’s what hurts the most.
He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping a stiff upper lip about it. He thinks he’s keeping some deep, dark secret, having no idea that he’s all but spilling his guts to Robin. Honestly, he’s just trying to make conversations while they make homemade bombs out of gasoline and glass bottles, but he’s more than obvious. As per usual.
“How long do you think they’ve got?” Steve asks her out of the blue while he pours the chemicals through the funnel and into the flask Robin holds out for him. He doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Because I thought they’d be over forever ago, you know? I mean… it’s Eddie. She’s, like, totally out of his league, right? But I’m pretty sure they just had an anniversary or something because I saw him buying flowers at Bradley’s Big Buy the other day…”
Robin opens her mouth to get a word in, but Steve just keeps on going going going.
“Unless you think they were for someone else? But let’s be serious, right? He’s a freak, but he’d never do that to her. I don’t know… Maybe he’s just the sorta guy that gets her flower for no reason, and it hasn’t been as long as it feels.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they—”
“Let’s face it, if he’s doing that for her, they’re probably gonna make it, right?” the boy laughs bitterly to himself. He stuffs a rag into the neck of the bottle. “God, I’m such an idiot… Maybe if I’d done those things, I’d still—”
“I swear to god, if you say you’d still be with Nancy, I’m gonna punch you in the forehead,” Robin snapped suddenly. She’s got a foreign sternness to her tone and a glacial hardness in her blue eyes. She glares at him with it. “You don’t love Nancy, Steve. And she doesn’t love you. So stop going for the easiest thing when you know it’s not what you want.”
He sighs. He knows she’s right. “I just—”
“I get it. It sucks being lonely. I’m pretty sure I’m destined to spend the rest of my life alone, so join the club,” Robin smiles, a tad bit cynically, at him. “It sucks being in love with someone you can’t have. Trust me, I get it. But you need to move on.”
Steve swallows. He almost winces at the thought of that — of never having you. He shakes his head as though to get rid of the idea entirely. “I can’t… I can’t do that, Rob.”
“Then what are you gonna do, Steve?” she asks him with a mirthless, but not unkind laugh.
She nods her head over to you. You laugh as Eddie spins you in his arms, both of you marveling at how you’ve just nailed a tree on the far edge of the clearing with the knives you’d thrown at it. Steve can hear the sound of your bubbly laughter from where he sits. Its brightness rivals that of the setting sun.
“Look at her. She’s happy. Finally. So… Just let her be happy,” Robin advises with a shrug. She sets the glass bottle in the box with the rest of them. “I mean, we’re about to stop a dark wizard from ending the world, you know? Some of us probably won’t make it out—”
“Don’t say that,” Steve scolds.
“Some of us probably won’t make it,” she repeats, firmer this time, like it’s something he really needs to hear. “Something could happen to Eddie. Something could happen to her. Do you really want to be the selfish asshole that ruins what could very well be everyone’s last moments together just because you’ve got a bleeding heart?”
She’s being harsh. He knows it deserves it. Now is virtually the worst time to tell you everything on his mind — just when you’re starting to really settle down with Eddie and about to fight some wizard in an alternate dimension.
Something could happen to her. Those words left Robin’s mouth and stabbed him in the heart like a thousand unforgiving knives. Steve can’t fathom anything ever happening to you. Even with the end of the world, with all of you about to fight a war, it never crossed his mind. He can’t picture his life without you in it.
He can’t lose you without telling you how he feels — that he loves you, that he’s always loved you, and that he’s an oblivious idiot who learned that too late.
He can’t lose you at all.
So, against his better judgment and Robin’s sound advice, Steve abandons his work with her and hikes the relatively short distance over to you.
Eddie hasn’t yet let go of you. He keeps his arms tight around your waist and hugs you from behind, pressing the back of you to his chest while his chin sits along your shoulder. His chocolate eyes are stuck on the bullseye you’d carved into the bark of the tree on the far side of the clearing. The four knives you’d thrown, now stuck at the very center of the target, stare back at him.
“This is probably a bad time to be turned on, huh?” he half-jokes, chin bobbing against your shoulder with every word.
“Eddie!” you scold as you wrench yourself out of his grip.
Dustin’s face screws up from where he lounges on the grass beside the both of you. “Gross…”
You walk away from the two boys to collect your knives from the poor oak tree. Eddie whistles lowly at you while you go — as though he’s never seen you in a pair of jeans before. You throw your middle finger over your shoulder at him in response.
That’s when Steve catches you, when you’re finally alone, and with a tiny white lie of needing to go back to the R.V. for more gasoline. You offer to walk with him, just like he figured you might, because none of you wants anyone to go off alone. Not with Vecna potentially watching you.
You walk alongside him through the thick wood, dodging low-hanging branches and uplifted roots. Steve notices the distant smile dancing on the corners of your lips — a beautiful stain Eddie’s left there.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks you suddenly. “You know, when this is all over?”
Your brows raise at his question, mouth falling softly agape and eyes widening with a far-off look. You look stumped by the simple inquiry, like it’s something you hadn’t thought of yet — of any of this being over.
“I don’t know…” you murmur. “Go back to work, I guess.”
Steve laughs. “We’re gonna save the world tonight, and you’re gonna be back in the office on Monday?”
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll take a sick day,” you joke, just to hear him laugh again.
He lifts a splintered tree limb to get it out of the way for you, then ushers you to walk ahead of him. You mutter a low and shy “thank you” as you walk beneath it. He lets the branch fall again as he follows behind you.
“What about you, then?” you retort. “What are you gonna do after? Since going back to a nine-to-five is so unreasonable.”
“Actually, I was thinking about writing an opera,” Steve quips with a straight face. “I would be the main character, of course—”
“You’re such an idiot,” you giggle with the shake of your head. The airy, sunshine sound makes him smile down at you. His honey-tined gaze swims with longing. You don’t catch it because you’re not looking back at him.
“What do you want me to do, then?”
You tilt your head to catch his stare. Your eyes sparkle and your brows arch with a look both soft and stern. “Honest answer?”
“Of course.”
“I think you should go work for your dad. Try and… I don’t know… make something for yourself—”
“Alright, that’s not…”
“—Because you can’t work at Family Video forever, Steve!”
“You’re not playing fair,” he concedes quietly, laughing under his breath and shaking his head.
He shouldn’t have expected anything less — you did preface an honest answer, after all. It doesn’t make him feel any less bad about it, though.
You’d supported Steve through a lot of shit. Every mindless fight with his parents, every breakup that had him swearing he would never love again, every aspect of his douchebag phase that almost ruined your friendship. You were always soft with him, but never dishonest.
So when he told you that his dad offered him a well-paying job in Indianapolis, it didn’t surprise him when you told him to take it. Despite all the other shit (his broken relationship with his father and his incessant daydreaming of settling down with Nancy, namely), you knew he wasn’t happy in Hawkins.
“Fuck your dad, Steve. This isn’t about him,” you’d said. “You should take it! Starting building your life in the city! And when you’re finally making more money than your stupid dad, you can rub it in everyone’s stupid faces.”
Steve, of course, ended up turning it down.
The salary was high — too high for a boy just out of high school — but he figured no amount of money was worth a wounded pride.
Steve was scared that it was all a ploy, another thing his dad could hold over his head, another accomplishment that wasn’t really his. And, truth be told, he was less enthusiastic about leaving Hawkins without you. He isn’t quite sure where he’d be in life without you guiding him through a significant portion of it. It made it nearly impossible to picture a life that didn’t have you at the very center of it.
He happily took to be Robin Buckley’s schmuck at Scoops Ahoy (and then again at Family Video) and Dustin Henderson’s unofficial chauffeur instead. He didn’t mind being a casualty of rattrap small town as long as it meant he didn’t have to stray too far from you.
But here you were now, right next to him in this lonesome forest, and still so far away.
You meet his boyishly forlorn expression with a sincere, tight-lipped smile. “You know that I’m right.”
“Yeah, I do,” he scoffs in response. “That’s the problem.”
“When we kill Vecna and save Hawkins for the… thousandth time… You should take that job. I mean, screw your dad, you deserve a life outside of all this shit—”
“So do you,” he argues.
“I’ll make it without you, Harrington. I’ll try to, anyway,” you quip, turning your gaze up to the family of birds sitting high in an oak tree and wishing you were one of them. You shrug to yourself. “I’ll keep on being a secretary at the car shop… Maybe settle down with Eddie.”
That makes Steve stop dead in his tracks. He laughs bitterly to himself, a quiet and venom-coated scoff. “Right. Because living with his uncle in a one-bedroom trailer is such a dream.”
It makes you stop, too, and turn on your heel to face him. You’re surprised to find him so many paces back. Steve sees a flash of hurt strike like lightning across your features, but he’s too hurt to apologize.
“I get it,” you concede with a small, cynical smile. “You don’t like him. You never have. But… He’s a good guy, Steve. If you just got to know him—”
“It’s not that,” he mumbles, cutting you off before he has to suffer through a list of reasons why Eddie’s so much better than he is. The boy’s gaze falls to the forest floor. He kicks a bunch of green pine needles with the toe of his sneaker rather than meet your prying gaze.
“Then what is it?” you retort. “Because I was just trying to help you. I didn’t say to, like, hurt your feelings or whatever. I just know that you want a life in the city, with a big house and a whole bunch of kids—” A laugh spills from your lips as you remember the dream he was telling you about. “You want that picture-perfect life, right? Now you can have it!”
“You don’t know what I want,” he counters quietly.
“Oh, please. I know you better than you know yourself, Steve Harrington—”
“Break up with him,” he blurts.
Your playful smile fades almost instantly. Your eyes search his face for any hint that he might be joking, but all you find is a deeply heartbroken boy. His bushy brows are scrunched together, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears, a puppy-like hurt painting each of his features.
You match his expression of grief with your own. Your face scrunches with a mixture of confusion and sorrow. “Wh… What?” you manage to stutter after realizing you’d been holding your breath.
“I don’t want you to settle down with Eddie,” Steve confesses. A secret he thought he’d take to his grave before ever telling you.
You’re quiet. For several long moments, you’re eerily silent. Even the forest hangs on bated breath. Birds stop chirping, the wind stops blowing, leaves stop rustling. It’s just you and him and a great big world waiting on the both of you.
A frown pulls down the very corners of your mouth. Your eyes go glassy and wide, like a heartbroken baby, and your head jerks back softly, still defensive and unsure.
“Why?” you force through a tightening throat.
“Why?” Steve repeats, finding it somehow within himself to laugh. He takes several short strides to stand with you again. With him closer now, you can see the sadness in his smile and the flush that blotches his cheeks. “You know why…”
You only shake your head in response. The words are far harder to get out. “No…”
“I just… I know it feels like I’m saying it all of a sudden, but it’s… It’s not new to me, you know?” Steve tries his best to explain to you why he’s choosing now, of all moments, to pour his heart out to you. His eyes are as wide and hopeful as the palms he waves out in front of him. “I don’t wanna go into this without you knowing how I feel about you—”
“Steve,” you agonize in hopes of ending his rambling. “Don’t.”
“—And I just want you to know, in case something happens, that I love you.”
“No,” you say with the defiant shake of your head, your chin quivering and your gaze ice-cold.
“Yes,” he replies, just as stubborn.
“Steve…” you choke out when the name gets hung in your throat.
A warm tear falls from your lashes and onto the very apple of your cheek. You wipe it away with the back of your hand and use your free one to bat Steve away when he tries to reach out for you. You stumble back from him, heading back the way you came — back to Eddie.
“Don’t, Steve. Just stop it.”
“Why?” he grieves in the softest voice he can muster, wet and warm with his hurt.
“You’re being mean,” you scold.
“I’m being mean?” he echoes with a sad sort of laugh.
“When it comes to you… I have always been second to Nancy. Always. And I won’t be the person you settle for just because she doesn’t want you, Steve,” you rant, voice fragile like glass or flower petals.
He wants to tell you that he doesn’t want Nancy — that being with the person he loves won’t be settling — but you continue in your lament, and he misses the chance.
“I can’t… I won’t do it, okay? Not after I’ve spent my entire life loving you,” you confess to him, face scrunched in anger. It’s a subtle sort of rage, pointed both at him and yourself.
He watches, feeling totally helpless, while you wipe bitterly at your damp cheeks. Steve’s seen a lot of assholes make you cry. He never dreamed he’d be one of them.
Robin was right. He’d ruined everything. It seems to be the only thing he’s good at these days.
“I’m sorry,” he calls to you as you walk away. “I wasn’t… I didn’t say it to make you sad.”
“You shouldn’t have said it at all!” you shout back, angrier than you’ve ever been with him. You take in a stuttering breath and exhale a shakier sigh, trying to calm yourself down again. “I just don’t get why you waited so long…” you agonize, words wet with tears. “Why did you wait until I was happy? Eddie… Eddie’s so nice to me, Steve. And you just… You just throw this shit at me right before we... That’s not fair.”
“I know…” he murmurs. “I know…”
The world starts turning again.
Birds sing their songs, sounding somehow sadder than before, as though in lament for the brokenhearted boy. The wind begins to whistle as it brushes through the trees. It’s only half successful in breathing air back into your lungs.
A rustling of the brush gains both of your attention’s. It sounds like something is slithering somewhere in the thick laurel — a rabbit, a snake, a dark wizard out to kill a bunch of sad teenagers.
You and Steve are alone, heartbroken, and clear targets for a monster who feeds on traumatized kids.
Though it’s entirely unlikely that Vecna has crawled out from the depths of the Upside Down and into these woods, you and Steve reach for your respective weapons anyway — him for the axe strapped to his back and you for the knives hanging on your belt. You’re ready to protect each other despite your distant anger.
But instead of some shriveled skin creep, you find freaks of a different kind.
The pale human faces of Dustin and Eddie peek out from the brush with curious smiles. They maneuver through the thicket and try to avoid the thorns. “What’s going on over here, huh?” the oldest boy wonders with his signature sparkling grin.
It’s almost scary how you so easily contort your features full of grief into a sickly sweet, artificial smile. You swipe the back of your hand over your face again to clear the tears clinging to your lashes, though it looks like you’re only wiping away sweat.
“Nothing,” you answer quickly with the innocent shake of your head. “Steve was just being an idiot—”
“Imagine that,” Dustin scoffs.
“—And saying stuff he doesn’t mean.”
“That’s not true,” Steve mutters, then clears his throat when the words come out more choked than expected.
“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t out here making moves on my girl, Harrington,” Eddie lilts with a playful smile. He reaches you and wraps a heavy arm over your shoulder to tuck you into his side.
His sudden touches stopped surprising you a long time ago. You realized early on in your relationship that he can’t go without touching you for very long.
Eddie squints teasingly at Steve. “Go get your own.”
The boy doesn’t have a comeback at the ready. He isn’t sure of what to say, anyway. Eddie’s jokes aren’t as funny when they aren’t jokesanymore. He was just sort of professing his love to you and getting his heart stomped on in the process. He should probably be used to the feeling by now, but it stings like it’s brand new.
You’re grateful for Eddie’s appearance and the bickering that seems to follow him wherever he goes. It’s easy to get lost in his words, let all the sarcasm run over you, and forget the bullshit that came before it.
“We should head back before the others think we got abducted by Vecna or something,” you urge, desperate to get away from these woods and from this moment.
Dustin listens to you without question because he always listens to you. And Steve listens because he wants an escape just as much as you do. He’d rather go back to Robin and all her “I told you so”’s than keep watching Eddie hold you like he is now.
“What do ya say we skip this joint and have our own fun out here?” the wild-haired boy jokes, already leaning down to press a kiss to your mouth.
“Eddie, don’t—” you huff, but otherwise don’t fight him. It’s only an innocent peck, a loud smack upon your lips, that makes Dustin mutter “gross…” under his breath as he walks away.
And if he heard it, that means Steve heard it.
You keep your eyes open all the while. You feel a bit numb, actually. A little like you’ve just kissed a ghost. You feel as cold as one, as distant and not all there. Eddie holds your hand the entire walk back to the clearing, but you have a hard time feeling it.
You feel a bit like woods surrounding you. You’re all crowded and heavy with sadness. You can’t tell if your grief is your own or if you’re feeling Steve’s too, because you can’t seem to take your eyes off him.
There’s an entire forest within you, you find, and Steve’s carved his initials into every tree.
Summary: When Steve's voice starts calling for help somewhere deep inside the Upside Down, your only instinct is to find him. That's exactly what Vecna is counting on.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, set around the events of season 4, psychological horror, canon-typical violence, anxiety, fear, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 8.3k
A/N: this one is HEAVILY inspired by a recent rewatch of hunger games: catching fire, specifically the scene with the jabberjays. this fic has been sat in my drafts, half-written, since, honestly, about march. i finally got round to finishing it this evening, and i feel incredibly proud of it. also probably not canon-accurate in any way, but we can all pretend. enjoy <3
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The Upside Down is quieter than it has any right to be.
Not silent - never silent - but subdued in a way that feels almost expectant, as though the whole landscape is listening rather than breathing. Ash drifts lazily through the air, settling in your hair, your eyelashes, the shoulders of your jacket, while every now and then something groans somewhere overhead, the sound echoing through the skeletal remains of Hawkins before disappearing into the endless red-grey haze. Every shadow seems to linger a fraction longer than it should. Every abandoned house feels as though it's watching you back.
Nobody speaks unless they have to anymore. After everything that's happened over the past few years, you've all learnt that unnecessary noise rarely ends well in this place.
The six of you move carefully along what used to be a residential street, flashlights sweeping slowly across abandoned cars, collapsed fences and gardens swallowed whole by impossible roots. Your boots crunch through brittle leaves that never seem to decay, disturbing clouds of pale spores that drift lazily back towards the ground as though gravity itself behaves differently here. Somewhere nearby, something creaks - a long, drawn-out noise that could just as easily be an old house settling as something waking up - and without thinking, the entire group pauses for half a second before continuing on.
Nancy walks at the front, shotgun resting across one shoulder as she periodically unfolds the increasingly battered map tucked into her jacket pocket, comparing hastily scribbled landmarks against the warped streets around you. Robin stays close enough to mutter the occasional nervous observation whenever the silence starts pressing too heavily against her chest, her voice never quite loud enough to carry beyond the group. You fall into step just behind them, while Lucas and Max keep pace a few feet back and Mike brings up the rear, glancing over his shoulder often enough that it's obvious none of you are particularly comfortable being separated.
Splitting into two groups had been necessary.
Nobody had liked it.
Least of all, Steve.
Even now, you can still picture the expression he'd worn before you'd gone your separate ways, bat slung over one shoulder, jaw set so tightly you'd thought he might crack a tooth. Every instinct he possessed had been arguing against leaving you somewhere he couldn't immediately reach, and it had taken Nancy reminding him - twice - that covering more ground was the only way this plan stood a chance of working before he'd reluctantly given in.
"Yeah," he'd muttered, still unconvinced. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
You'd smiled despite yourself, reaching across to squeeze his hand through the fingerless leather glove he refused to throw away, reminding him that if anyone in Hawkins knew how to survive the Upside Down by now, it was probably the woman standing in front of him.
That hadn't impressed him nearly as much as you'd hoped.
Instead, he'd simply sighed, stepped closer, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dustin wasn't looking, and pressed a quick kiss against your forehead.
"Be careful."
"Always am."
"Liar."
You'd laughed, nudged his shoulder, and watched him disappear into the crimson mist with Dustin, Jonathan, Eddie, Will and Eleven until the trees had swallowed them completely.
That was maybe an hour ago. The memory still tugs at the corner of your mouth.
Until-
"...Hey."
The smile disappears instantly.
You stop so abruptly Robin almost walks straight into your back.
"What?" she asks, steadying herself with a hand against your shoulder.
You don't answer.
Your head turns slowly towards the trees to your left, every muscle in your body suddenly taut.
It isn't loud.
If anything, it's strangely distant, the sound drifting through the dead forest like smoke on the wind. For a heartbeat there's nothing else - only the soft hiss of spores falling through bare branches and the faint crackle of your flashlight.
Then it comes again.
"Hey!"
Closer this time.
Urgent.
"I'm over here!"
Your stomach drops so violently it almost hurts.
You would know that voice anywhere.
"Steve?"
The name leaves your mouth before you've consciously decided to say it.
Nancy's head snaps around immediately. "What?"
Before you can answer, the voice comes again.
"Honey."
The nickname punches the air from your lungs.
Nobody else calls you that.
Not Robin. Not Nancy. Not your parents.
Only Steve.
"Honey!"
There's something beneath it now that wasn't there before.
Fear.
Not the loud, frantic kind, but the tight, restrained panic of somebody desperately trying to keep themselves together. The kind of fear that makes your own pulse spike before you've even had time to think.
"I can't-"
The sentence breaks apart abruptly, swallowed by the trees.
Your heart lurches into your throat.
"Steve?!" you shout, already stepping forward. "Steve, where are you?!"
For a moment, the world answers with nothing.
Not even the ordinary silence of the Upside Down, but something heavier, stranger, as though the entire landscape has paused to listen.
Then, impossibly, the voice comes again.
Closer.
Close enough that you instinctively turn your head.
"Come find me..."
The words catch on a ragged breath before the final one arrives, quiet enough to almost disappear beneath the drifting ash.
"...Please."
Everything inside you seizes.
You've heard Steve angry before. Exhausted. Bleeding. Terrified enough to stand between monsters and children with nothing but a baseball bat clutched in white knuckles.
But you've almost never heard him sound helpless.
You don't think.
You run.
The forest surges towards you as your boots hammer across uneven ground, branches clawing at your sleeves while ash billows around your legs. Somewhere behind you, Nancy shouts your name, followed almost immediately by Robin yelling, "Wait!" but neither voice properly registers. Steve sounds hurt. Steve sounds alone. Steve needs you, and every instinct you possess drowns beneath that single overwhelming certainty.
"Steve!" you yell back, your voice tearing through the trees. "Steve, where are you?"
Nothing.
Then-
"Honey!"
Further ahead now.
You change direction immediately, scrambling over the twisted roots that split the road apart. He sounds closer this time. You can get to him. You just have to keep moving.
Behind you, Nancy's voice grows sharper.
"Wait!"
This time she's running too.
Robin isn't far behind, crashing through the undergrowth in your wake, and neither of them is trying to stop you anymore.
They're following. Because they'd heard him too.
Somewhere further back, confusion suddenly erupts.
"Wait - what's happening?" Mike calls.
"What are you doing?" Lucas shouts, his voice carrying faintly between the trees.
Max's follows a heartbeat later. "Guys?"
You never hear the answer.
The forest swallows their voices almost immediately, leaving only the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, your breathing growing harsher with every step, and somewhere ahead, drifting through the ash like a lifeline you can't bear to lose...
Steve.
Calling your name.
Nancy doesn't waste a second.
The moment you're swallowed by the trees, she snatches the walkie-talkie from her belt without breaking stride, thumbing the transmit button as she runs, branches whipping against her sleeves and catching in her hair while Robin struggles to keep pace beside her. Both of them are still searching desperately through the dead woodland for any glimpse of your torchlight, but you're already disappearing deeper into the crimson mist, moving far faster than either of them can hope to match.
"Dustin," Nancy says sharply, breathing hard between each word. "Dustin, come in."
For one agonising second, only static answers her, the familiar crackle hissing through the speaker loud enough to make her grip tighten instinctively around the radio. Robin glances sideways, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and fear, before Dustin's voice finally bursts through the interference.
"Nancy?" he says, sounding perfectly ordinary. "You guys okay?"
"No." Nancy doesn't even attempt to soften the answer. "Where's Steve?"
There's a pause.
"...What?"
"Dustin." Her voice is tighter now. "Where is Steve?"
Another beat passes before Dustin replies, and this time the confusion in his voice is unmistakable.
"...Uh..."
The radio crackles again.
"...He's here."
Nancy almost stumbles over an exposed root. "What?"
"I said he's here."
Robin's head snaps sharply towards her, eyes already widening as Nancy presses the walkie harder against her ear, convinced she'd simply misheard. "What do you mean he's there?"
"I mean..." Dustin sounds genuinely baffled now. "...he's standing right next to me."
There's the muffled sound of movement, someone taking the radio, and then Steve's voice comes through the speaker.
"Nance?"
The blood drains from Nancy's face.
"...What's going on?"
She stops so abruptly Robin nearly crashes into her shoulder before managing to catch herself, both of them standing motionless amongst the twisted trees as the impossible settles between them. For a long moment neither woman says anything, because the voice coming through the walkie is calm, confused, completely steady. It bears absolutely no resemblance to the terrified voice that had been echoing through the forest less than a minute ago.
"...Steve?" Nancy manages eventually.
"Yeah?"
"...Are you okay?"
"...Yeah."
"You sure?"
Steve lets out a small, bewildered laugh. "I mean... considering where we are? Sure enough."
Nancy looks at Robin. Robin looks back. Neither of them says it aloud, but they both reach the same impossible conclusion at exactly the same time.
Robin leans towards the radio first.
"...Steve." Her voice comes out far quieter than she'd intended. "...We just heard you."
Silence.
Nancy forces herself to continue. "You were yelling for help. You kept calling out and..." Her throat tightens painfully as she glances in the direction you'd disappeared. "...and she ran after you."
Another silence follows, longer this time, until Dustin finally breaks it.
"...What?"
Steve sounds equally lost. "...What yelling?"
Nancy can hear her own heartbeat now, loud enough that it almost drowns out the radio. "You were calling her name."
"I wasn't."
"You said-"
"I never said anything."
There's no hesitation in the reply. No uncertainty. No searching through his memory to make sure he hasn't forgotten. Steve says it with the absolute certainty of someone stating an indisputable fact.
"I never yelled."
The words settle over both groups like falling ash.
Nobody speaks.
Not Nancy. Not Robin. Not Dustin.
Even the radio seems to fall silent.
It is Robin who finally whispers the question none of them wants to ask.
"...Then who did we hear?"
Nobody has the chance to answer.
Very faintly, through the crackling speaker, another voice reaches the other group.
"Jonathan!"
Jonathan's head jerks upright on the other end of the radio. "Nancy?"
Again.
Closer this time.
"Jonathan!"
Jonathan is already moving before anyone can stop him.
"Nancy!" he shouts instinctively into the darkness. "Where are you?"
"No!" Nancy's voice tears through the walkie. "Jonathan, wait!"
He freezes mid-step.
"It's not me!"
The forest falls deathly quiet.
Jonathan lowers his flashlight by fractions, his eyes never leaving the darkness ahead, while beside him Steve has gone completely still, every muscle in his body suddenly taut.
Then the voice comes again.
"Jonathan..."
It sounds closer now.
More desperate.
"...Please."
Jonathan's face empties of colour.
"...That's..."
The sentence dies unfinished.
Chaos erupts almost immediately afterwards. Questions crash into one another from every direction, nobody waiting long enough for an answer before another voice cuts across it.
"What the hell is that?"
"How is it doing that?"
"It sounded exactly like-"
"Jonathan, don't move!"
"Steve, wait-"
Because Steve has already taken a step towards the sound.
Just one. Instinctive. Automatic. The sort of step you don't realise you've taken until somebody points it out.
Will's voice is so quiet at first that nobody hears him.
"...It's learning."
The panic rolls straight over the top of him. The radio continues crackling with overlapping voices while Steve stares into the trees, every instinct screaming at him to run after Jonathan before it's too late.
Will looks up.
"...Guys."
Still nobody listens.
Then, louder this time-
"It's learning!"
Everything stops.
Even Steve.
Will has gone frighteningly pale, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees as though he's finally recognised a pattern that's been sitting just beyond reach this whole time.
"It isn't just copying us."
Nobody interrupts him. Nobody even breathes.
"It's finding the voices we'll follow."
The words settle over the group with all the weight of a death sentence.
Steve feels something cold slide slowly down his spine as every conversation he's ever had in this place suddenly replays itself in his mind. Every frantic shout across a battlefield. Every nickname. Every desperate search through the dark. Every time someone had called Robin, Dustin, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, Max... every time somebody had shouted his own name, or called you Honey across a room without thinking.
The Upside Down had heard it all.
It had listened.
And somewhere, somehow, it had remembered.
Not simply the sounds of their voices, but the relationships behind them. The people those voices belonged to. The ones each of them would instinctively run towards without stopping to think.
It wasn't imitating them.
It was studying them.
The realisation lands with such force that Steve feels physically winded.
His head snaps towards the walkie.
"...Where is she?"
Nancy and Robin don't answer immediately. Instead they look at one another, horror spreading slowly across both their faces as they finally understand what had just happened. Robin is the one who finds her voice first, though it barely rises above a whisper.
"...She went after the voice."
Steve doesn't wait for another word.
He tears into the trees at a sprint, Dustin and Jonathan following without hesitation while Eddie, Will and Eleven race after them. Behind him, Nancy forces herself back into motion as well, raising the walkie while she runs.
"East," she says breathlessly. "She headed east, towards the old woods. She thought..." Her voice catches for the briefest moment before she forces the words out. "...she thought she was coming to you."
Steve doesn't answer.
He can't.
Because only one thought is repeating over and over in his head now, louder than his own footsteps, louder than the pounding of his heart, louder than the forest rushing past him.
It knew you'd come.
Steve is moving before Nancy has even finished giving the direction.
"...East-"
It's the only word he hears.
His boots are already pounding across broken tarmac before his mind has caught up with the decision, the walkie still crackling uselessly somewhere behind him as Eddie swears, Jonathan shouts something he doesn't quite catch, and somebody - maybe Dustin - is barking for everyone to stay together. It barely registers. As far as Steve is concerned, he is staying together. You're out there somewhere, alone in a place that has just learnt exactly how to separate people from the ones they love, and everything else falls away beneath that single, brutal certainty. The plan, the map Nancy had spent hours drawing, the routes they'd carefully agreed to follow, even Vecna himself - all of it is pushed aside by one overwhelming instinct. You are alone, and he has to get to you.
He tears through the dead woodland without slowing, branches whipping violently across his face and shoulders, leaving thin scratches he doesn't even feel as they catch against his jacket. Thick vines snake across the forest floor, looping around his boots often enough that he nearly loses his footing twice, while ash swirls through the beam of his flashlight so densely that the trees seem to dissolve into shifting silhouettes before reforming again.
Every movement in the corner of his vision demands a second glance he doesn't have time to give. Every twisted trunk looks like somebody standing just beyond the light until he gets close enough to realise it's only another dead tree.
"Honey!"
His voice tears through the forest, louder than he intends, echoing strangely through the endless stillness before disappearing into the red-grey haze.
Nothing.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Honey!"
Again, only silence answers him. Not true silence - the Upside Down is never truly silent - but the slow groan of old trees, the distant crackle of vines shifting somewhere beyond the flashlight beam, the soft hiss of ash drifting endlessly from a sky that has forgotten what daylight looks like.
Less than two minutes ago, something in this place had been shouting your name over and over again, loud enough to pull you halfway across the forest without a second thought.
Now...
Nothing.
The silence feels deliberate somehow, as though the Upside Down has already said everything it needed to say.
Steve runs harder.
He can hear the others crashing through the undergrowth somewhere behind him, Dustin already beginning to fall behind while Jonathan stubbornly refuses to let him disappear entirely from sight, but they're little more than background noise now.
His own heartbeat pounds so violently against his ribs that it drowns almost everything else out, each breath burning harder than the last as one thought repeats over and over with desperate, unbearable simplicity.
Please answer.
Please.
Please-
A scream tears through the forest.
Steve stops breathing.
It isn't his name.
It isn't even words.
It's one raw, involuntary cry, ripped straight from somebody's chest before cutting off so abruptly it feels as though the air itself has been stolen away mid-breath.
His stomach drops.
Not because he recognises the voice, though he does immediately.
Because he recognises the fear.
The voices that had lured you away had been almost unnervingly perfect. They'd sounded exactly like him, exactly like Nancy, every sentence carefully chosen, every plea just convincing enough to override reason. Looking back, they were almost too perfect, polished in a way real panic never is.
This...
This isn't like that.
This scream isn't performed.
It isn't trying to imitate terror.
It is terror.
"Hurry!" he shouts to the others behind him, though he barely realises the words have left his mouth.
He changes direction instantly, boots skidding across loose earth as he throws himself towards the sound with reckless desperation. Branches claw at his sleeves, vines wrap around his ankles, ash blinds him for a heartbeat at a time, but none of it is enough to slow him down. Every instinct in his body is screaming that he is running out of time, and he pushes harder, lungs burning, muscles protesting, the forest seeming to resist every step as though it doesn't want him reaching you.
Then, without warning, the trees fall away.
Steve bursts into the clearing so fast he almost loses his footing entirely, stopping so abruptly that Dustin crashes into his back a second later before Jonathan catches them both.
Nobody moves.
Nobody speaks.
Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
You're suspended several feet above the ground.
Your head is thrown back so far it looks painful, your eyes rolled white beneath half-closed lids, arms drifting slowly outwards as though invisible hands are pulling them wider inch by inch. Your feet hang limp beneath you, toes barely disturbing the ash swirling below, while your fingers twitch and curl into impossible, unnatural shapes that Steve has seen once before and prayed he'd never have to witness again.
His mind doesn't even need a second to make the connection.
Another girl.
Another impossible choice.
Another body floating helplessly beneath a blood-red sky.
Max.
"Oh, God..."
The words escape him before he realises he's spoken them.
Everything inside him turns to ice.
No.
No.
God, no.
He's too late.
By the time Nancy reaches the clearing, Robin is only a step behind her, the others close on their heels, all of them arriving breathless enough that the sight before them steals what little air they had left.
Dustin reaches for Steve's arm instinctively, fingers wrapping around his sleeve before he even seems to realise he's done it, while Robin says your name just once, so quietly it barely sounds like a word at all. It comes out as disbelief more than anything else, as though saying it aloud might somehow make what she's looking at impossible. Lucas swears under his breath, a sharp, horrified sound swallowed almost immediately by the dead forest, and Nancy doesn't waste a second. Panic has always made her practical. She's already scanning the clearing, already looking for an answer, already searching for something - anything - they can still do.
Everyone is talking at once.
"What do we do?"
"Get her down!"
"El-"
"Steve!"
"The music-"
The voices blur together into meaningless noise. Steve hears them, but they never quite become words. His entire world has narrowed to the impossible image hanging in front of him.
To you.
Your head is still thrown back unnaturally, your body suspended several feet above the ash-covered ground, but then he notices something that turns his blood to ice.
Your lips are moving.
Slowly.
Almost conversationally.
As though you're talking to somebody standing right in front of you.
No sound comes out.
For one terrible, endless moment, Steve feels completely useless.
He has always known what to do. Swing the bat. Get between the monster and the kids. Buy everybody enough time to run. Keep moving until the danger passes. Even when he was terrified, there had always been something practical to hold onto, some action that made fear feel manageable.
Now...
There is nothing.
He takes one step forward, instinctively positioning himself beneath you before stopping again, his hands lifting helplessly as though he might somehow be able to catch you despite the impossible distance between you. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, to pull you back, to fix this somehow, but he can't even touch you.
His gaze flicks desperately towards Eleven, searching her face for reassurance she doesn't have, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he realises he genuinely has no idea what he's supposed to do.
Then something clicks.
The backpack. His backpack.
Before anyone can even finish shouting over one another, Steve is already dropping to his knees, wrenching the zip open with shaking hands and throwing supplies blindly into the ash as he searches. Flashlights. Rope. Spare batteries. Bandages. Everything he'd packed because somebody might need it. Dustin starts to ask what he's doing, but Steve barely hears him.
His fingers close around cold plastic.
The Walkman.
Hidden beneath spare ammunition and first-aid supplies is the cassette he'd tucked away weeks ago without ever mentioning it to you, your favourite album carefully rewound and ready to play.
He'd packed it after Max. Quietly. Secretly. Not because he'd expected to use it, but because the idea of ever standing helplessly beside another person he loved without at least trying had become unbearable.
Of course he'd brought it.
Of course he had.
Somewhere else, somewhere that doesn't feel like a place so much as a memory that's forgotten how to end, you are running.
The world around you is wrong in ways your mind can't quite untangle. Streets fold into childhood bedrooms, school corridors open into empty forests, and every familiar place seems to shift the moment you look away from it, rearranging itself into something almost recognisable before slipping just beyond understanding again.
Faces appear in the distance - people you love, people you've known your whole life - but something about them feels subtly, nauseatingly off. Their smiles linger too long. Their eyes don't quite meet yours. Their voices sound as though they're being remembered by someone who has never actually spoken to them.
Ahead of you, Steve appears between two dead trees.
He smiles.
He lifts a hand.
"Come here."
Relief floods through you so suddenly your legs almost buckle.
You take one step-
The image tears apart like paper caught in a fire.
The smile vanishes.
The trees dissolve into darkness.
And from somewhere beyond the endless red horizon, something begins to move.
Vecna emerges slowly, impossibly tall against the crimson landscape, each measured step echoing through the empty expanse until the sound seems to come from every direction at once.
He doesn't hurry. He doesn't need to.
One grotesquely elongated hand stretches towards you, fingers unfurling with terrifying patience, while his voice settles around you like smoke.
"You've always been so willing to follow."
You stumble backwards.
He keeps coming.
"There was never any question."
His hand reaches your face.
Long fingers press gently against your temple.
Your vision whites out.
Back in the Upside Down, your body jerks violently.
Robin gasps.
Steve looks up just in time to see you rise higher, another few feet lifting you into the air until you're suspended almost twelve feet above the ground, your arms beginning to spread wider as though invisible vines are pulling every joint apart one careful inch at a time.
The cassette clicks into place.
Music erupts from the tiny portable speaker, far too small for a clearing this large, the sound fighting desperately against the endless groan of the Upside Down.
Nothing happens.
Steve turns the volume higher.
Still nothing.
It can't have been more than a minute.
It feels like hours.
He stares up at you, desperately searching for any sign that you've heard it - that your fingers twitched differently, that your breathing changed, that something, anything, reached you - but your expression never changes.
Around him, nobody says it aloud.
Nobody has to.
They're all thinking exactly the same thing.
They're losing you.
Inside the vision, everything begins to unravel.
Your memories spill around you in broken fragments, recognisable enough to hurt but twisted just enough to become unbearable.
Steve turns away from you without looking back.
Robin laughs as she walks past, pretending not to know your name.
Empty rooms stretch endlessly before you, years of your life collapsing into quiet apartments where nobody ever comes to visit, birthdays forgotten, phone calls unanswered, photographs fading one by one until every face disappears.
You try to run.
The world doesn't let you.
Invisible vines wrap themselves tighter around your ribs every time you struggle, stealing each breath before it can properly fill your lungs.
"I told you," Vecna's voice murmurs somewhere behind you, everywhere at once. "Nobody ever loved you."
The memory changes.
Steve smiles sadly.
"I just felt sorry for you."
Another.
You watch your own funeral.
Nobody cries.
"The others will barely notice you're gone."
"No..." you whisper.
"They'll move on."
"No!"
You fight harder now, twisting violently against restraints you still can't see, tears streaming freely down your face as panic overtakes reason.
Nothing works.
Every desperate movement only seems to tighten whatever is holding you in place, until your screams barely escape your throat at all.
This is it.
You're never getting out.
And somehow, impossibly, the worst part isn't even that you're about to die.
It's Steve.
You heard him.
He sounded terrified.
He needed you.
You never reached him.
As another tear slips down your cheek, all you can do is pray that wherever he is, whatever found him, he made it out.
Please let him be okay.
Please let him survive this.
Even if you don't.
Suddenly-
another voice.
So quiet at first you almost mistake it for another trick.
"...Hey."
Not Vecna.
Steve.
Real Steve.
It barely reaches you, no louder than a memory, but you'd know that voice anywhere.
Vecna's words continue, louder now, trying to drown it out, but Steve keeps speaking anyway, his voice weaving itself carefully through every lie.
"Remember Family Video?"
The darkness flickers.
"The day I asked you out? You spilt that whole thing of popcorn all over the floor, then looked me dead in the eye and tried to convince me it'd already been there before you got there. You were so serious about it, I almost believed you."
Another memory.
Your first date.
"Remember when I tried so hard to impress you that I spent twenty minutes pretending I knew what I was talking about, and then you asked one follow-up question and I had to admit I'd completely made it up? You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bench. I thought I'd ruined the whole date. You told me afterwards it was the moment you actually started liking me."
The first time he'd kissed you.
"Do you remember our first kiss? I kept saying goodnight and then not leaving. I think I said it three times. You finally laughed and told me, 'Steve, either kiss me or go home.' So I kissed you… And then I still stood there for another five minutes because I didn't actually want to leave."
The first time he'd laughed so hard he'd fallen off the bonnet of his car.
"Remember when we stayed in the Family Video parking lot for almost two hours after my shift because we kept saying, 'Okay, one more story,' and then neither of us ever left? You got halfway through telling me about the weird dream you'd had where Robin somehow became President, and you were doing all the voices. I laughed so hard I actually fell straight off the bonnet of the car. You laughed because I was laughing, and neither of us could stop."
Every story arrives exactly as it happened, warm and ordinary and completely, stubbornly true.
Vecna's voice rises in fury.
Steve's doesn't.
It just keeps talking.
Keeps reminding you.
Keeps loving you loudly enough to be heard.
The vines around your wrists loosen.
Only slightly.
But enough.
You pull.
They give.
Suddenly you're falling forward onto solid ground instead of hanging helplessly in the endless red expanse, and for the first time since this nightmare began you can see it.
A tear in the darkness.
Beyond it-
the clearing.
Your own body suspended in the air.
Nancy.
Robin.
Max.
Everyone looking up at you in horror.
And directly beneath you...
Steve.
His face is streaked with ash and panic, his mouth still moving as he tells another story, another memory, another reason to come back.
You can hear him now.
Perfectly.
Each word grows louder as you begin to run towards him, the impossible distance between you shrinking with every desperate step across the crimson landscape. He's reaching for you, even though he can't possibly touch you from where he stands, and somehow you know exactly where the gap in this red hellscape leads.
You're almost there.
Close enough to see the tears in his eyes.
Close enough to hear him say your name.
Close enough that if you just keep running-
For one suspended, impossible heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then your body drops.
There isn't a graceful descent, no slow drifting back towards the earth. One moment you're hanging impossibly high above them, the next the invisible force holding you gives way entirely, and you plummet towards the ash-covered ground.
Steve is already moving.
He catches you before you can hit the forest floor, the force of your body slamming into his hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. His knees buckle beneath the impact, Dustin grabbing his shoulder just in time to stop both of you crashing into the roots behind him, but Steve barely notices. He's already wrapping both arms around you, pulling you instinctively against his chest as though he can somehow shield you from whatever has just happened simply by refusing to let go.
"Hey, hey, hey..." His voice is shaking so badly he barely recognises it as his own. "I've got you. I've got you."
He lowers you both gently to the ground, pulling you into the safety of his lap.
You don't answer.
Not immediately.
Your body is trembling violently in his arms, each breath catching somewhere high in your chest before dissolving into another sob, your eyes squeezed shut as though opening them might drag you straight back into whatever nightmare you've just escaped. Steve's heart lurches into his throat.
His other hand cups your jaw instead, carefully tilting your face towards him just enough to check your pupils, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly across the tears still clinging to your cheek.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"Honey."
His voice breaks completely on the nickname.
"Come on."
Your eyelashes flutter.
Then, slowly, your eyes open.
They don't focus immediately. They dart frantically around the clearing, pupils wide with panic, as though you're still trying to work out which world you're standing in. For a terrifying second, Steve isn't sure you recognise him at all.
Then your gaze catches his.
Relief floods across your face so suddenly it almost hurts to look at.
Your fingers seize handfuls of his jacket before he can say another word, clutching the fabric with desperate, shaking hands.
"Steve."
"I'm here."
"What..." Your voice catches painfully. "Why were you screaming?"
Steve freezes.
"I heard you." The words tumble out faster now, tripping over one another as tears continue spilling unchecked down your face. "You sounded scared. You kept calling me and I- I tried to find you, but..." You shake your head hard, still gripping him so tightly he can feel your hands trembling through the denim. "Are you hurt? What happened? Where were you? Steve..."
Every question lands like a punch to the ribs.
You still think you were trying to save him.
You have absolutely no idea what really happened.
Steve opens his mouth.
He almost tells you.
Almost explains the voices, the mimicry, the impossible horror of hearing himself call your name while standing half a mile away. He almost tells you how close he'd come to losing you, how he'd watched you floating beneath that ruined sky exactly the way Max had, how for one unbearable moment he'd genuinely believed this was the last time he'd ever hold you.
Then he really looks at you.
You're shaking so violently your teeth chatter between words. Every breath is too quick, too shallow, your chest rising and falling in uneven bursts that never quite seem to fill your lungs. Even now, even after everything, your hands are moving over him in frantic little checks, brushing across his shoulders, his face, his arms, searching desperately for injuries that aren't there.
You're still trying to make sure he's okay.
This isn't the moment for explanations.
What you need isn't the truth.
You need certainty.
Without saying another word, Steve slides one hand gently to the back of your head and pulls you against him, his other arm wrapping securely around your shoulders until there's barely any space left between you. He can feel your heartbeat hammering wildly against his chest, completely out of rhythm with his own, and so he simply holds you there, one hand stroking slowly through your hair as though reminding you, over and over again, that he's solid.
Real.
Alive.
"I'm here," he murmurs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. "You're okay."
You shake your head weakly.
"No, but-"
"I'm here."
"I thought-"
"I know."
"I couldn't get to you."
"You don't have to."
His voice is impossibly gentle now, every word spoken with the same quiet certainty.
"I'm here, baby. I'm not hurt. I promise."
Another sob catches somewhere deep inside your chest.
"I'll explain everything when we get out of here, okay?"
He waits until your eyes find his again before continuing.
"But right now..." His thumb brushes carefully beneath your eye, wiping away another tear before it has the chance to fall. "...I've got you."
Your breathing catches.
Then, slowly, almost without either of you noticing, it begins to change.
One shaky breath.
Then another.
Steve doesn't ask you to breathe with him. He simply breathes himself, slow and steady, holding you close enough that your body has something solid to follow. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the frantic rhythm of your breathing begins to match his own, each inhale a little deeper than the last until your shoulders stop shaking quite so violently.
Only then does Steve finally lift his head.
Over your shoulder, the rest of the group stand scattered around the clearing in complete silence.
Nobody speaks.
Robin's hands are still clasped tightly over her mouth. Dustin has gone unnaturally pale. Eddie stares fixedly at the place where you'd been hanging only moments before, while Nancy slowly lowers the shotgun she'd forgotten she was still holding. Even Eleven, exhausted as she is, looks quietly shaken.
None of them need to say what they're all thinking.
The Upside Down hadn't almost fooled them.
It had almost taken you.
And for one unbearable moment...
it very nearly succeeded.
By the time you all make it back to Hawkins, the adrenaline has long since burnt itself out, leaving behind only the kind of exhaustion that settles somewhere deeper than your bones.
Nobody feels much like talking.
The drive back is almost entirely silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio somebody had forgotten to switch off and Robin quietly asking if anyone wants to stop for food before immediately deciding she isn't actually hungry after all.
You end up back at Steve's house.
Somebody makes tea. Somebody else disappears upstairs and comes back with blankets that don't quite match. Dustin spends five solid minutes insisting he isn't tired before promptly falling asleep in the armchair with his head tipped awkwardly against the cushions. Jonathan and Nancy sit shoulder to shoulder on the opposite sofa without saying much of anything, content simply to exist in the same room now that they're all accounted for.
Relief, it turns out, isn't loud. It doesn't arrive with celebration or triumphant laughter. It arrives softly, in mugs of tea gone cold before anyone remembers to drink them, in blankets tucked carefully around shaking shoulders, in the quiet reassurance of counting heads every few minutes and finding that everyone is still there.
You're lying along Steve's sofa, a blanket pulled loosely over you despite the warmth of the room, your eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
Every muscle aches. Your head feels heavy, your thoughts slower than usual, as though some part of you is still trying to find its way back from wherever Vecna had taken you.
Steve hasn't left your side once.
He's sitting on the floor beside the sofa, his shoulder resting lightly against the cushions, one hand absently cradling the back of your head where it hangs over the armrest, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles through your hair every now and then as though reassuring himself that you're still solid beneath his fingertips.
He waits.
Not because he's unsure whether to ask, but because he's spent the last hour watching you slowly return to yourself, and he isn't willing to rush whatever fragile peace has finally settled over the room.
Eventually, when everyone else's conversations have faded into comfortable background noise, he speaks so quietly you're almost convinced you've imagined it.
"...Can I ask you something?"
You turn your head just enough to look at him and give the smallest nod.
He hesitates for a moment, eyes dropping to where his hand still rests against your hair before he quietly asks, "...What exactly did it sound like?"
You know immediately what he means.
"The voice?"
Steve nods once.
"It sounded like..." You swallow. "...You."
He smiles sadly, shaking his head almost before you've finished.
"No." His voice is gentle. "Not who it sounded like."
A beat passes.
"...What did it say?"
You frown.
At first, all you can remember is the panic. The fear. The overwhelming certainty that Steve was somewhere ahead of you, frightened and alone. The details blur together, slipping through your fingers every time you try to hold onto them.
Then, slowly, one sentence surfaces.
Your expression changes.
"...It said..." You stop, hearing it again exactly as you had in the forest.
"'Come find me.'"
The room falls quiet.
Steve doesn't answer straight away.
Instead, he looks down at the floor between you for a long moment, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as something clicks into place.
You see it happen.
The same realisation finds you a heartbeat later.
"...You'd never say that."
Steve looks back up. "... No. I wouldn't."
You keep turning the memory over in your mind, examining it from every angle now that you know it wasn't real, and suddenly the whole thing feels obvious in a way it hadn't before.
"You'd tell me to stay where I was."
Another slow nod.
"Yeah."
Silence settles between you again.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he quietly adds, "...Or I'd come to you."
You stare at him.
Because he's right.
Of course he's right.
If it had been true - if Steve had genuinely been lost somewhere in the Upside Down, terrified and unable to reach you - he would never have asked you to run blindly towards him. He'd have told you to stay put. To hide. To wait. He'd have found a way to reach you himself, even if it meant walking straight back into danger.
The voice had been perfect.
Every inflexion. Every hesitation. Every tiny detail that made it unmistakably Steve.
But it had made one fatal mistake.
It had copied his voice.
Not his heart.
You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.
"It knew how you sounded," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. "It just... didn't know you."
Steve's expression softens.
"No," he agrees quietly. "It didn't."
Because that's who Steve is.
The Upside Down had understood your fear. It had understood your memories, your instincts, the people whose voices would make you run without thinking. But it had failed to understand something much simpler, and much harder to imitate.
Steve Harrington has never asked the people he loves to walk into danger for him.
He goes first.
Always has.
Always will.
For a long while, nobody says anything.
The house settles into one of those rare silences that only follows genuine fear, where nobody quite trusts themselves to speak because doing so would mean acknowledging how close they'd all come to losing someone.
The mugs of tea on the coffee table have long since gone cold, and outside, somewhere beyond the curtains, a car passes along the quiet suburban street, blissfully unaware that the world has almost ended again.
You find yourself looking around the room instead.
At Robin, curled awkwardly into the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked beneath her chin.
At Nancy, staring absently into her untouched cup of tea.
At Jonathan, who hasn't taken his eyes off Nancy since they got back.
At Max, quieter than usual, her expression unreadable as she turns an empty cassette case over and over between her hands.
And at Steve, still sitting beside you on the floor, his shoulder resting lightly against the sofa, as though moving even a few feet further away from you somehow feels impossible after what happened.
It is Will who finally breaks the silence.
His voice is quiet enough that everyone has to look up to hear it.
"...We need a new rule."
No one answers immediately.
Not because anyone disagrees.
Because they all know he's right.
The old rules had kept them alive this long. Stay together. Keep the radios on. Don't make unnecessary noise. Don't split up unless you absolutely have to.
Now those rules weren't enough anymore.
Will draws a slow breath before continuing.
"If you hear somebody calling your name..."
He trails off, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to finish the sentence himself.
Steve does it for him.
"...Don't answer."
The words land heavily in the room.
Nobody argues.
Nobody even questions them.
Robin swallows hard, her eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet as she quietly adds, "...Even if it sounds exactly like us."
Another silence follows.
Longer this time.
Because that is the part none of them wants to say aloud.
Not just don't answer a stranger.
Don't answer Dustin.
Don't answer Nancy.
Don't answer Steve.
Don't answer the people you love most in the world.
The room feels colder somehow.
You glance at Steve beside you, and for the briefest moment you wonder whether, if you heard him calling for you again tomorrow, you could really ignore it.
The thought alone makes your chest tighten.
Dustin is the first to move.
Without a word, he reaches for the battered Hellfire emergency pack that's been dragged through almost every disaster the group has survived, unzips the front pocket and rummages around until he finds a thick black permanent marker.
He hesitates only briefly before uncapping it.
Then, kneeling on the living-room floor with the backpack balanced across his knees, he opens the inside flap where every previous rule has already been scribbled in increasingly cramped handwriting over the years.
He doesn't ask whether everyone agrees.
He already knows they do.
Slowly, deliberately, he writes beneath the others.
RULE #8
IF YOU HEAR SOMEONE YOU LOVE CALLING YOUR NAME...
DO NOT FOLLOW THE VOICE.
The ink is still wet when he snaps the cap back onto the marker.
Nobody comments on it.
Nobody laughs.
Nobody suggests a better wording.
Because you all understand something they hadn't understood that morning.
The Upside Down hadn't simply learnt your voices.
It had learnt your hearts. Your trusts. Who you love most.
And from now on, surviving would mean learning not to trust them.
The weeks that follow are, by all outward appearances, wonderfully ordinary.
School starts again. Family Video reopens. Robin complains about customers with renewed enthusiasm, the kids fill Steve's house almost every afternoon as though nothing has changed, and somebody inevitably starts an argument over whose turn it is to choose the film.
Life, stubbornly and almost offensively, continues.
Some days you're almost convinced you're beginning to forget.
Not what happened.
Just the feeling of it.
The constant certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond the next corner gradually loosens its grip, replaced by familiar routines and evenings spent piled into living rooms with takeaway cartons balanced on your knees, laughing over things that would've seemed impossibly trivial only a few weeks earlier.
It gets easier.
Not better.
Just... easier.
Until one quiet evening.
Steve's house is unusually still, the late afternoon sunlight spilling lazily through the bedroom curtains in soft golden stripes that stretch across the duvet. You'd meant to stay awake. You'd only gone upstairs to lie down for half an hour while Steve started making dinner, but somewhere between closing your eyes and listening to the muffled sounds of cupboard doors opening downstairs, sleep had begun to pull gently at the edges of your thoughts.
You're hovering somewhere between dreaming and waking when you hear it.
Your name.
Quiet. Unhurried.
Floating up the staircase from somewhere below.
For one impossible moment, your body forgets where you are.
Your eyes snap open.
Every muscle locks.
Your heart lurches so violently it almost hurts, adrenaline crashing through you before your mind has had the chance to catch up.
You don't answer.
You don't move.
You simply stare at the bedroom door, every instinct warring with itself as the silence stretches on around you.
Because you know that voice.
You know it better than your own.
But you also know where that certainty almost led you.
The room remains perfectly still.
Downstairs, you hear nothing more than the faint clatter of something being set on the kitchen counter, followed by footsteps crossing the hallway.
A minute passes.
Maybe less.
It feels much longer.
Then the floorboards outside the bedroom creak softly, and a gentle knock sounds against the half-open door before Steve appears in the doorway, one hand still holding a tea towel he'd evidently forgotten to put down.
He smiles when he sees you're awake, though it fades almost immediately when he notices the way you're sitting rigid against the headboard, your breathing still just a little too fast.
"...Hey."
You don't answer straight away.
He tilts his head, confusion flickering briefly across his face.
"I called you."
A beat.
"...Why didn't you answer?"
Your throat tightens.
You look at him.
That's all you do.
You look at him, and in the space of a heartbeat you watch the question disappear from his expression.
Understanding arrives quietly.
Painfully.
His shoulders soften almost imperceptibly, and something in his eyes breaks - not dramatically, not with tears or visible grief, but with the quiet devastation of somebody realising that a wound they desperately hoped had healed is still there beneath the surface.
"Oh."
The word is barely louder than a breath.
Neither of you says anything else.
There isn't really anything to say.
Steve crosses the room without another question, sits carefully on the edge of the bed, and opens one arm in silent invitation.
You move before you've consciously decided to, the tension finally leaving your body as you fold into him, burying your face against his shoulder while he wraps both arms around you with the same steady certainty he always has. One hand settles instinctively at the back of your head, his fingers slipping gently through your hair, while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades until your breathing begins, little by little, to settle again.
He doesn't apologise.
He doesn't tell you that it was only him.
He knows none of that would help.
Instead, he simply holds you, solid and warm and undeniably real, allowing his heartbeat to become the only sound worth listening to.
Outside, the world carries on exactly as it always has. Cars pass along the street. Somewhere, a dog barks. The neighbours laugh over dinner in their garden. Hawkins continues with the blissful normality it has always pretended to possess.
Inside the house, though, something has changed forever.
The tragedy isn't that you failed to answer when Steve called your name.
It's that, somewhere beneath a blood-red sky, the Upside Down had managed to reach into one of the most instinctive acts of love a person can know - the automatic certainty that the voice of someone you love means safety - and twist it into something to be feared.
You escaped.
You survived.
But some echoes don't stay behind when you leave.
And every now and then, on quiet evenings when someone calls your name from another room, you still have to remind yourself that not every voice asking you to follow is trying to lead you into the dark.
summary | steve gives you a ride to the hospital when your brother gets sick and finds out boogers are (basically) the reason you hate him so much
warnings | steve's pov, reader is jonathan & will's sister, reader hates steve, steve is in love with reader, bitchy!reader (cut 'em some slack, their brother is in the hospital you monster), tried to keep reader gender neutral but probably flubbed somewhere, steve's parents suck and his childhood is the reason why he likes people who emotionally torment him, they just be saying stuff?? dialogue goes wild, only lightly edited so, ur mom
word count | 4.8k
Your dirty Chucks tapped a worried beat against bleach-white linoleum.
Steve watched them bounce from where he sat in the chair next to yours. He had his arms folded over his stomach, leaning back in a way that he hoped made him look casual and not like the sleazy douchebag you always remembered him as.
This sucked. Life sucked.
Aside from you, him, and the night nurse tucked behind the registration desk, the hospital waiting room was a total wasteland. Steve hadn't known it was possible for Hawkins to have so few emergencies. And, terrible as he knew it was, he actually wished there were a few more right about now.
He needed noise. Something to distract him from your erratic footfalls and the dull hum coming from the TV hanging in the corner, playing outdated commercials on a loop.
Reach out and touch someone, coaxed the pretty housewife in an AT&T ad.
Steve curled his fingers into the sides of his shirt, nails scraping over his ribs. Can't you see that's what I'm trying not to do? he wanted to ask her.
He wanted to reach out.
He wanted to lay a hand on your arm. Give you his sweetest smile. Promise that everything would be okay.
It didn't matter that he didn't know that for a fact. That his medical license was nonexistent and his track record as a successful psychic was, well, also nonexistent. He would promise anyways. And if things turned out to be not okay, he would find a way to make them okay.
But Steve liked having fingers. And touching you without permission was a surefire way to lose a few.
So he kept his arms folded over his stomach. Watched your shoes bounce, ignored the housewife's bad advice, and slipped into the molasses-thick torment of his own never-ending thoughts.
How well do you have to know someone before you can offer comfort that helps instead of hurts? Steve would've guessed Vaguely-Acquainted-via-Small-town-Lifestyle-and-Shared-Trauma-at-the-Hands-of-Freaky-Nightmare-Creatures would've been well enough, but had no doubt you would disagree.
He stole a glance at you from the corner of his eye.
God...was it weird to think you looked beautiful like this? Legs bouncing, gnawing on your thumbnail? Glaring holes through the double-doors labeled Authorized Personnel Only like they'd just smashed your brother's camera, and you were definitely about to kick their ass for it.
Steve was familiar with that glare.
Steve dreamed about that glare.
That was the moment he'd started trickling into love with you, he was pretty sure. When you found him two days after the camera incident, caught the front of his polo in your fist and pulled him so close that the tips of your noses nearly brushed. His face was already bruised from Jonathan's right hook, and with the way you were growling at him, he should've been worried that Little Byers had come to make the damage permanent.
But he hadn't been worried.
He had been too focused on the cute way your upper lip curled with every threat. How every hue in your eyes swirled together to make his new favorite color.
And when you walked away, he knew — knew — that from that moment on, he would do anything to stay the subject of your attention.
Steve frowned at the double-doors. Was it weird to feel jealous of a couple of hunks of wood and steel?
Uh, yeah, he answered himself. Totally insane, actually.
Before he could try to shake any further sense into himself, you slammed your Chucks down on the linoleum hard enough to make him flinch. To no in particular, you shouted, "Holy shit — is everyone here just fucking terrible at their jobs or does it actually take two-fucking-hours to figure out if someone's dying?"
Steve fought the urge to smile at you. Mouth like a sailor and a heart like a man-eating mermaid. You were the whole package, really.
Unfortunately the night nurse didn't seem to agree. She paused mid-crossword puzzle to shoot you a sharp look through her colorful, thick rimmed glasses before slamming the frosted divider shut.
In his head, Steve could hear the gritty voice of his old basketball coach during a bad fourth quarter. You're up, Harrington! Blow it and this whole team goes to hell.
Double unfortunate, since Steve had a bad habit of blowing things when it came to you.
"Hey..." His voice was practically a whisper, his hands pinned firmly against his ribs as he watched you for any sign of reaction. "No one's dying, okay? Will's a strong kid. He's gonna be just fine."
Your head snapped his way. The look on your face was terrifying enough to make the demogorgon blush.
"Oh yeah? And when did you earn your doctorate, princess? Before or after finishing high school with a negative GPA?"
Youch.
He took a long, steadying breath. This was fine. You had a right to be upset right now, and Steve had experience dealing with childish outbursts.
"Kids get sick," he told you calmly. "It's probably the flu! Dustin had it a few weeks ago. Maybe Will picked it up from—"
"Did Dustin sweat literal buckets, all but vomit up his own intestines, and then pass out on your bedroom floor?"
"Well, no, but—"
You cut him off with a razor-thin smile. "Then shut up."
You slumped back into your seat. The double-doors won your attention back and your dirty Chucks resumed their worried beat.
Steve felt like an idiot. Good news was that if he was an idiot, then Dustin was, too.
This whole thing had been the kid's idea anyhow.
"She's terrified!" Dustin cried when Steve answered his call, so loud he winced and pulled the phone back from his ear. "Apparently she already checked the Wheelers' and Jonathan's not there, and their mom's working another late shift and you already know that Melvald's phone doesn't work for shit."
Steve hadn't known that, actually, but he did interrupt with a stern Language, Henderson! that Dustin decidedly ignored.
"She wanted to see if I could get Mom to take 'em, which honestly speaks v o l u m e s about how terrified she is, because I've always thought she kinda hated my mom for all those comments about the holes in her jeans, which like, fair, ya know? Anyways, she wanted Mom to come get them, but I told her that wouldn't work because its already past eight, so you know Mom's already down at the library with her fellow knitters." Steve didn't like what it said about his social life that he did know that much. "I told her I could try calling, but that the odds of any of those old bats hearing the phone were pretty much slim to—"
"Dustin."
"Hm?"
"Not that this isn't riveting stuff, buddy, but maybe you should take us back a few steps and tell me what's got her terrified?"
The past few years had prepared Steve for something World Ending Awful. Who was dying? How many of the kids were involved? Did he have time to get his bat? Had demodogs somehow infected all of Hawkins with demorabies or something?
So, when Dustin had simply replied with "Will's sick," Steve had been a little shocked.
Not so shocked that he didn't immediately reach for his keys, though.
"Now's your chance!" Dustin cried before Steve hung up. "Saddle up, cowboy! Show her your good side! Make her love you!"
Steve hadn't bothered reminding him that all his sides were good. Maybe because he didn't believe it. Maybe because he knew you wouldn't, either.
At the risk of getting his head bitten off, Steve sighed and sat up straight. "Hungry?" he asked you.
"Nope."
"Thirsty?"
"Nope."
"How about—"
Your Chucks stopped bouncing. "You were on the swim team, right?"
Steve hesitated. This was a good sign, right? Changing topics, showing interest in him?
"Uh, yeah. I was, actually."
You nodded your head real slow. "Makes sense."
"What does?"
You gave him another smile, sickly sweet, yet sharp enough to cut straight through his chest. "Why you ask such stupid questions," you told him. "All that time spent holding your breath must've fucked with your brain."
Double youch.
Forget feeling like an idiot. Steve felt like a kid again, ashamed and embarrassed, learning to forge his parents' signatures so they wouldn't see his report cards or discipline letters and wonder why their little boy was so damned bad at everything.
Not that his parents would've ever been home long enough to sign anything for him anyway.
Nor would they have ever called him their little boy.
Steve pushed to his feet. Refused to look anywhere but at you, equally entranced and terror-stricken by that glare he never stopped dreaming about. Push me all you want, he wanted to tell you, but you'll never push me away.
Steve didn't know why you still hated him. But he knew what it was like to be too afraid to let people close to you — and how disappointing it was when no one cared to put in the effort to try.
"Come on," he said.
You gave him a look. "If you think I'm leaving Will, you're out of your goddamn—"
"We're not leaving." He wasn't as close to Will as he was the other kids, but he'd never leave any of them anywhere. "But we are going to the cafeteria. So come on, get up and get moving, tiger." When you still didn't move, staring at him like he just suggested going out back to swallow a family of porcupines, he added, "Now."
You stood up. No protests, no Fuck you, princess.
Steve hoped he did a good job masking his shock.
"Do you even know where the cafeteria is?"
Nope.
But that hadn't stopped Steve from leading the way, letting his (yep, very much so nonexistent) psychic intuition guide the two of you down several empty white halls, silently hoping to come across a directory.
"It's gotta be around here somewhere," he said. Because yeah, it did have to be somewhere.
You clicked your tongue. "Astute observation, genius."
Steve sighed and kept walking. He didn't know what else to do.
You were several feet behind him, and had been since leaving the waiting room. At first Steve had thought that maybe he'd been walking too fast; Dustin often told him as much, though rather than fall behind like you were, the little asshole would usually just shout out: Hey fartwaffle! My legs are shorter than yours, remember?
A growing knot in his stomach had told Steve that any insult you came up with would've been far less loving than Fartwaffle.
So, in an effort to avoid the much unwanted sequel to Oxygen Deprivation is the Reason for Your Obvious Faults, he'd slowed down so you could catch up.
You'd started walking slower, instead.
Following him around a corner into yet another long, white, empty hallway, you asked him, "Are you even hungry?"
"Starved," he lied.
When Dustin had called saying you and Will needed a ride to the hospital, Steve had actually just finished dinner. A TV dinner on a TV tray, pulled right on up to — you'll never guess it — the TV.
The American dream, he thought miserably, cold mush and bad sitcoms.
For a good minute, there was only the scuff of your shoes dragging over linoleum. Steve imagined you were glaring at the back of his head — maybe thinking about how good his hair looked, but probably not — flipping through potential insults to use against him like they were options in a jukebox.
He was starting to look forward to hearing what you'd pick. Would it be an attack on his brains or his personality? Definitely not his looks. If he was lucky, you might even pick something that would piss you off enough to grab him by the shirt again. He wouldn't mind having you touch him.
In his head, he could hear Dustin making a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. You need therapy, dude.
But when you finally spoke, it was with nothing more than casual curiosity. "Is the cafeteria even open this late?"
Huh. He hadn't considered that.
"I don't know," he admitted. Then, spinning around to face you, walking backwards with a charming smile on his face: "But hey, bright side! Even if it's not, vending machines are always 24/7, right?"
You didn't look impressed by his optimism. Or his ability to walk backwards without stumbling.
"You do know we've passed about a dozen of those already. Right?"
You were mocking him. And grossly exaggerating the number of vending machines you'd passed.
Steve decided to let both things slide. "None of 'em what I wanted."
You snorted at him. "And what's the princess in the mood for?" you taunted. "A five-star meal and a bottle of chardonnay?"
His smile faltered first. Then he turned around, kept walking, walking, determined not to bite. They just have to get it out of their system, he told himself. It's not about me. They're just worried about Will, and I'm as good a target as any. Except maybe it was about him, at least a little bit. Not just any target, their favorite target...
You kept going. "What, is chardonnay not good enough for you? Too lowbrow?"
He kept walking.
"How about champagne?"
He kept walking.
"Or is that even lower brow?"
He kept walking.
"Maybe you should just ditch Will and I."
He stopped walking.
"Find some place nice," you drawled, "tell 'em to whip you up something fancy, like a Negroni with orange peels imported from—"
He turned to face you. And his expression must've been serious enough, because it got you to stop talking. "I don't drink," he said, a tinge of annoyance slipping through; he hadn't had a drop since babysitting had become more important (and fulfilling) than partying every weekend. "And unless you consider a nuked Swanson meal to be five-stars, the 'princess' isn't eating any better than the peasants, alright?"
"Are you calling me a peasant?"
"No!" But he'd certainly stepped right into that one, hadn't he? "No, because in this scenario—" he motioned a bit too wildly between the two of you, frustration trumping sanity "—you would be the evil witch who lives in the woods and makes stew out of innocent children, convincing alllllll the townsfolk that every nice guy is secretly out for their turnips or something!"
Your brows pinched together. "Wait, what? Why turnips? An why am I making stew? Why not pie, or casserole, or—"
"Because no one likes casserole!"
"I like casserole!"
Steve threw his hands up, laughing, like that was his last straw. "Of course you like casserole. Of course!"
You drew a breath through your nostrils. "Fine," you said, clearly offended. "I'll make pie, then."
"Fine! You're an evil witch who makes pie out of innocent children and I — without any ulterior turnip motives! — wander through the woods with Chef Swanson wondering what in the ever-loving hell I'm supposed to do to make the witch forgive me for—" what, exactly?
He'd already apologized to Jonathan for the camera incident. Had even bought him a new one to smooth things over!
But there was something else. There had to be! Something he'd done that had made you hate him so much that nothing, absolutely nothing he did could ever make you feel anything for him but pure vitriolic loathing.
You were going to hit him.
He was sure of it — more sure than he'd ever been of anything. Your pretty hands were already curled into fists at your sides. And honestly? Fair. Steve was man enough to admit he'd maybe lost his cool a little, calling you a child-eating witch or whatever. If Dustin were here, he'd probably tell him he'd graduated from Fartwaffle to Diarrheamuffin in a second flat — and Steve would have to agree.
So he closed his eyes. Waited, and hoped you hadn't inherited your brother's nasty right hook.
But the hit never came.
He only heard you sigh. "You're such an idiot, Steve Harrington."
The words played on a loop in his head. Not the idiot part, surprisingly, but his name. Steve Harrington. He was pretty sure this was the first time you had ever said his name. And he was absolutely positive that he would remember for the rest of forever how your voice had curled around every consonant, making every letter sound prettier than it was.
He peeked an eye open to find you wearing an expression he couldn't read. "Uh, yeah," he said. "You may've mentioned that before."
Your snort came dangerously close to a laugh. "Clearly not enough." Placing a hand on your hip, you asked him, "Do you really not remember?"
Steve tried to think.
But all he ended up thinking of was those scammy game shows Dustin's mom liked, where whenever a contestant got an answer wrong they'd sound off that huge, embarrassing buzzer.
If the two of you were in some brightly colored studio instead of a dim hospital hallway, Steve was sure the look you were giving him —annoyed, vaguely pitying — would've definitely been the sound guy's cue to hit the buzzer.
You sighed and shook your head. "Forget about it," you said. "Let's just find the—"
"I'm sorry."
Did those words mean anything on their own? Steve didn't think so. They were empty until you gave them meaning, and he had full intent to give them meaning, but his mind was moving so fast and words started spewing up his throat like holding onto them for even another second would kill him.
"For everything, alright? All the stuff with your brother and his camera and—I don't hate Jonathan! And him and Nance are great together, alright, so there's no bad blood or ill will or anything, okay? I'm even sorry for hating on casserole! And for calling you a witch, because you're not a witch, and even if you were you'd probably be some really pretty witch who makes all the other witches wish they could do something about the boils on their noses, alright? So just..." He dragged a hand through his hair, catching a breath. "I'm sorry. Really sorry."
In his head, Dustin's groan of Oh, brother! overlapped with Robin's hiss of Stop talking, dingus! And Steve was sure they were right. He'd blown this, just like he'd blown everything else with you.
But then it happened.
One corner of your mouth curved upwards. Not much. Not enough to count as a real smile, but...close.
And Steve knew. Knew that he would keep talking for the rest of his life, say all the dumbest stuff he could come up with, if it meant you'd keep almost-smiling at him.
He took a half step closer to you.
You didn't back away.
"Tell me," he promised, "and I'll say I'm sorry as many times as you need me to."
Every hour, every minute, every second. He'd apologize until his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat ached around every syllable. And when his failed, he'd write it out over and over and over again in his best handwriting.
Because you deserved that much.
Because even if you didn't, he would've still wanted to do it for you.
Because he admired you, dammit. How you would do anything to keep Jonathan from being the butt of a joke. How you were always there for Nance and Robin and all your other friends. How you had taken all this Upside Down bullshit on the chin, constantly swallowing fear by the mouthful to keep Will safe.
He even admired how you hated him. Because at least you were consistent.
Steve liked consistency.
You drew a long breath through your nostrils. Wrapped your arms tight around your middle and stared down at your Chucks in a rare display of uncertainty.
Steve prepared himself for the truth. To learn whatever egregious, unforgivable sin he had committed against you.
"It happened in first grade."
Oh, sweet mother of—
"Seriously?" Steve was trying not to laugh. But to find out that mean Little Byers had been nursing a grudge against him since the days of Froot Loops and sappy cups? Oh, that was just too rich. Double chocolate cake with extra icing type rich!
"So you hate me," he clarified, "because of something I did when I was, what, seven?"
"It was a bad thing!" you cried, cheeks already turning red.
He nodded thoughtfully. "For sure, for sure; cause everyone knows seven year olds are evil little devils known for committing emotional warcrimes with crayons and fart jokes."
You scoffed at him. "You know what, if you're just gonna be a dick about it—" you went to turn around.
Steve caught you by the elbow, sputtering, Waitwaitwait!
"No more jokes." He lifted his free hand in a solemn three-finger vow. "Scouts honor."
"Were you even in the Boy Scouts?"
No. "Maybe."
You rolled your eyes at him. "You're lying."
He couldn't help but smile. He loved that you could tell.
"C'mon." He gave your elbow a light squeeze, surprised when you didn't immediately yank it away from him. "Tell me about first grade."
You did.
It had been the year of the Lovebug Boogie Bash. The two of you'd had different teachers, and yours had decided to make her whole class cut out heart-shaped cards from pink construction paper, write their very original poem inside, and give it to whoever they wanted to ask to be their date.
"Worst part," you told him, "is that I was actually sort of excited about it. I spent all morning on that stupid card, and I even liked the stupid poem I wrote."
Steve didn't like how sad you sounded.
He didn't like that even though he had no memory of it, he already knew who you'd asked to the Lovebug Boogie Bash.
You gave him a thin smile. "I gave you the card at lunch. You read it, then got up on the table and recited my poem for the whole school. Apparently you ripped it in half after that, but I don't know if that's true; Jonathan pulled me out into the hall before you'd even finished reading, so."
Shit.
Steve didn't know how long he stood there. Mouth open, still holding your elbow, trying to think of something, anything, to say.
"I—"
"Ms. Byers!"
The air shifted, the hallway suddenly far less intimate as a doctor rounded the corner behind you. You spun to face him. When you didn't immediately bombard the guy with questions about Will, Steve wondered if you were also hung up on how much the guy looked like Orville Redenbacher.
"Good news," announced Dr. Movie Theater Butter. "Your brother is awake and keeping fluids down."
You visibly sagged with relief. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"
"A simple flu," he answered kindly.
Since you weren't facing him anymore, Steve didn't bother hiding his I told you so grin.
Redenbacher went on, "Now, to err on the side of caution, I would like to give him another IV to stave the effects of dehydration. But afterwards he'll be all ready to go home, so if you would like to head back to the waiting area to get started on his discharge paper—"
"Can I see him?" you asked.
Dr. Movie Theater Butter gave no objections. Having offered to show the two of you to Will's room, Steve followed at a distance until he spotted a directory on the wall, where he then quietly slipped away to find his way back to the waiting room.
Those discharge papers weren't going to fill themselves out.
Will was asleep within seconds of Steve helping him from the wheelchair into the back of his BMW.
You were worried about how exhausted he was, but Dr. Movie Theater Butter had assured you this was normal for the flu. At that, Steve had wanted to tell him about the anomaly that was Dustin Henderson, who — when sick with the same strain, more than likely — had seemed even more hyper than usual.
He relented only because Will was already dozing off, and you were giving him that pursed-lip smile that said Go on, princess, brag on Dustin like you're his little soccer mom.
Steve closed the car door as gently as he could.
When he turned around, he found you looking down at your dirty Chucks, toeing a loose chunk of asphalt.
Moonlight shined over your face. A soft breeze rustled your hair.
It wasn't weird to think you looked beautiful like this.
Steve thought you looked beautiful all the time.
Eventually you muttered, "Thanks."
"For?"
You opened your mouth, then paused, as if a thousand words had rushed to the tip of your tongue and you had no clue how to actually say any of them.
"Everything," you decided. And everything was more than enough.
But Steve decided to feign consideration anyway. "I don't know." He clicked his tongue. "I don't think that's good enough."
Your head shot up, brow furrowed.
He explained, "I'm mad at you. See, you—" he pointed "—had access to all sorts of goodies to prep for the Lovebug Booger Bash—"
"Boogie."
"—but I," he touched a hand to his chest, "was extremely limited. So basically what I'm saying is that if this sucks, blame Tonya, okay?"
Steve wasn't sure he'd ever seen you look so confused. It was cute, though no more than your usual man-eating grimace. "Who the hell is Tonya?" you asked.
"Mean night nurse whose crossword you interrupted. Once I finished Will's discharge papers, I had to ask her for a piece of copy paper. And scissors. And a pen. And a dictionary so I could try to find something that rhymed with 'rose,' but..." He pulled the paper from his back pocket. "Dictionary was a no-go," he warned you, "so have a little grace, yeah?"
It was, unarguably, a very bad card.
The scissors Tonya had given him were so dull that cutting felt like a job for He-Man, making it look less like a heart and more like a brand-new shape no one had ever heard of before. He'd drawn more hearts on the front to try zhuzh it up, and stars that, no matter how hard he tried, kept coming out sort of wonky. It probably didn't help that it was littered with chicken-scrawl patient notes from Tonya — a HIPAA violation, probably.
But on the front in his very best handwriting, he'd written: Picked your nose in the last ten years?
You took the card.
Opened it.
Read it.
Steve tried ignoring the sound of his own heart racing. Tried to wait for you to collect your thoughts, to be the first to speak, to decide on your own how this interaction ought to go.
He failed miserably.
"I know we never found the cafeteria, but if you want me to lift you up on top of the car, you could—"
You started reciting the poem he'd written on the inside. "Roses are red, violets are blue. I know I'm a decade late, but I'd like to pick your boogers too." Your eyes lifted to his, totally unreadable.
Steve chucked while rubbing the back of neck. "Ol' Willy Shakes would probably kill for lines like mine."
"Shakespeare's rolling his grave." You held the card up. "This is awful. Like, finding out Leia is Luke's sister type awful!"
"Who?"
"Return of the Jedi?"
"Return of the Whosawhatsit?
You looked more aghast at that than the card. "You've never seen Star Wars?"
Of course he had; one didn't graduate from the Dustin Henderson School of Babysitting without a minor in George Lucas. But it was more fun to get under your skin, so he shrugged instead of saying that.
You shook your head, reeling, before discarding that argument for another. "And what's with the booger talk? You do know there's a difference between boogie and booger, don't you?"
"Pretty sure they're synonymous."
"No they're not."
He stepped closer, playfully bumping your arm with the back of his hand. "Remember when I asked for grace?"
"Remember when you humiliated me before the Lovebug Boogie Bash?"
"Nope, but the Booger Bash rings a few bells."
You laughed, and Steve wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or having the best night of his entire life. "There's no hope for you," you said, "is there, Harrington?"
He felt his cheeks getting warm. "Probably not," he admitted.
Your fingers absently traced over the card's jagged edges. Steve studied every inch of your face. Admiring it, searching it, wondering what clues Nance looked for to be able to read Jonathan so well.
Did you forgive him? Had he at least a taken a step in the right direction?
You pressed the card against your chest, then glanced through the back window at Will's sleeping form. "We should get going," you said softly.
Steve nodded and opened the car door for you. Forgiveness could wait another night.
He'd wait a million if that's what it took.
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
probably ooc, probably a million errors, but i'm just vibin.
warnings: angst? is that a warning? idk, but it gets fluffy. unrequited love, or is it...? fighting... not nancy bashing but critiquing?
summary: why does he think nancy wheeler is the one? She only sees him now because he "matured," meanwhile, you've been here all along.
a/n: this one yet again is not a request, cause I started it before I got any requests but I promise I'm gonna do the ones sent to me! and possibly pt 2 of not like that. anyways, this one maybe makes up for the angst from before- but first I need to hurt u again >:)
The One - S.H.
"Why are you so convinced that Nancy Wheeler is the one?"
Steve looks up from the pile of cassettes on the table inside WSQK station. No one else is around, just you and Steve.
It's late. Too late for people to still be here, and probably too late for you to have a conversation like this. Too late for you to be poking the bear that is Steve Harrington and his plight to be with Nancy Wheeler once again.
The way his eyes narrow a little is almost so small that if you were anyone else, you mightn't have noticed it. But you are you, and you have spent way too much time in the last few years watching Steve Harrington like he was a thing to be studied.
He sort of was, sometimes.
The 180 he did from High school to now was one to be noticed.
And he seemed like he was over Nancy. Like he could move on he just couldn't find the one; too many failed dates or sparks that fizzled out almost as soon as they came. As if he somehow lost the charm he had in high school.
Or, he was stuck on Nancy and just didn't want to admit it.
But after the chaos with Vecna and what happened to Eddie Munson over a year ago now, Steve stopped going on dates. Stopped trying to find the girl he wanted. It was so painfully obvious why. Nancy had spent that entire situation with you all, and it wasn't just you who noticed, but Robin, Eddie, Dustin- anyone who spent more than five seconds in their vicinity together could see it.
Now, instead of going on dates that turned into nothing more than a 'yeah, that was fun, I'll call you,' But no calls would happen, he was doing his best to show off, show up Jonathan Byers.
Some ridiculous, asinine, macho man, dick measuring contest between two men who were supposed to be adults by now.
Jonathan was dating her; how insecure did he feel in the relationship that he was playing into Steve's childish actions?
And how much of a jerk was Steve for seemingly taking advantage of the rift in the relationship between Jonathan and Nancy currently? Did he even realize how shitty what he was doing was? Or were his eyes really just covered in glasses that had Nancy Wheeler's name painted on them, so wherever he looked, all he saw was her?
"What?" Steve scoffs then, shaking his head as if you'd just offended him, "What are you talking about? I don't think Nancy's still 'the one,' whatever that's supposed to mean."
"Steve."
"What?"
"Do I look like I was born yesterday? Like I live under a rock?"
"Not yesterday, that'd be weird. Under a rock? Sometimes, when you come in early and your hair isn't brushed."
Narrowing your eyes, you lean back in the rolling chair, kicking your feet onto the desk, much to Steve's chagrin.
"How many times do I have to tell you, keep your feet off the damn table, I have to work here, you know?" He all but pushed your feet as he put another cassette into the organizer for them all.
Applause, laughter, booing, ridiculous noises. All cassettes with sound effects for the radio. Along with that silly rubber chicken on the table that you just loved watching Steve reach for with a dead serious expression on his face and squeeze into a microphone.
It's all very serious business.
"My shoes aren't that dirty," you huff, but pull your feet back down anyway, leaning back in the chair to stare at the ceiling in the booth, "and you're just changing the subject."
"No, I'm not. I told you, I don't know what you're talking about."
Steve doesn't even look at you this time as he says it, jaw ticking, like he's chewing on something tough and unsavoury.
"You do," it's your turn to scoff, spinning the chair back and forth with your foot, "unless the puppy dog eyes you make at Nancy and the tension between you and Jonathan is all just a figment of my imagination."
"Probably your imagination. You were always really good at imagining stuff," he mutters, "like when you imagined you saw Tom Cruise walking down the street."
"I didn't imagine that! I thought I saw a guy who looked like Tom Cruise."
"Seriously, why the hell would Tom Cruise be in Hawkins, of all places?" He continues, shaking his head.
"Steve."
"All I'm saying is you have a great imagination."
"You still love her."
"I don't- why is this even a conversation right now?" He groans, clearly getting annoyed. Frustrated.
"Because, just-"
Why was it a conversation right now?
Was it to fill in silence? A topic to discuss out of boredom- out of curiosity? Just words to listen to?
Or, was it some form of self-flagellation, because deep down, you were so painfully in love with the idiot across from you? And maybe you liked pain? Maybe you just needed to know- confirm that you weren't it. Never would it be you.
Steve tosses a cassette with a little more force than necessary- the plastic clanking against the dividers between each cassette as he sets it inside, like it's personally offended him.
"Seriously," he mutters, not looking at you still, "why do you even care so much about this anyway? You're acting like this is your problem, when it's not."
His words hit a painful place within your chest that you've been cradling close for a while now. A place with bandages that were barely holding together as it was; each time he looked at Nancy how he did, it etched away at something deep.
It's late. Maybe you're just overtired; overemotional. Or, maybe, you just love him way more than you should- more than you wished you did.
You could just back down. It's not a fight worth having, your brain says. But those words are fuzzy in the back of your mind because part of you is hurt- he is right. It's not your problem.
You should just drop it.
But your heart wins the battle with logic. Something fractures in your chest. A new fracture, which meets with an old one to create one big snap.
"Because, Steve," his name comes out harsher than you mean for it to, "I am so tired. I'm tired of watching you chase after someone who broke your heart a few years ago. Someone who has failed to see you - doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen."
Suddenly, he's looking at you. Not at the stupid amount of unorganized cassettes in front of him, or the dividers between each cassette he puts away. Not the red marker he left uncapped as he goes over letters that are fading on the sides of the plastic.
He looks at you as though you've grown a second head. Like you're speaking Latin to him, and expect him to understand.
"...what?"
Fuck.
Shit.
You said too much. But not enough- but just enough that he's looking at you incredulously. So dangerously close to just outright telling him you love him and his stupid hair. A realization that you've almost just said it. Without really having to say it.
"Nothing. I didn't mean-" hands rub at your tired eyes, a sickening feeling in your gut like you just did something embarrassing in front of an audience of people, "nothing. Forget it."
You stop slumping in the chair and reach for a couple of cassettes. Just- something, anything to do with your idle hands. Something to focus on. Anything but him.
Hopefully, he just drops it. Like you should have, 2 minutes ago.
But of course he doesn't. Why would he?
"No. Not forget it, seriously, what was that supposed to mean?" he presses like he's the bad cop interrogating someone. His confusion hardened into irritation, something close to anger. Defensive.
"It means-" the sigh that escapes you is almost painful, "it means whatever you think it means- can we just drop this, please?"
"No, apparently we can't," his eyes narrow at you, and you realize that isn't a look you like to see directed towards you, "because you brought this up in the first place. Digging at something that isn't even your business. Acting like you have it all figured out have me all figured out-"
A pause. The air is thick as you suck in a sharp breath, waiting for him to stop. Or keep going. Either one.
"-when you don't. You don't have me figured out. You don't know anything."
He practically spits that last part out. You don't know anything.
You've seen Steve upset before, angry. Mainly when Dustin or the others fuck around and don't listen to him, ending up hurt or in a worse situation than they started.
But that was more annoyance, irritation, affectionate annoyance. The type of mad you get when you're worried about someone.
This? Isn't that. This is just plain annoyance. Anger. It's confusing and jarring and - painful.
The silence between you is so deafening. You swear on everything; you can hear the sound of his jaw ticking and unticking.
Wide-eyed, you try to figure out what you say to that. His reaction is more than you expected, especially since you hadn't thought your words were bad like that.
"Shit- wait-" realization dawns on his face suddenly, and the other negative emotions wash away like nothing. You wouldn't say he was even mad now, "-I didn't mean- shit. That is not what I meant, Jesus, I didn't-"
He may as well be talking to a wall at this point, because you've checked out mentally.
You didn't know him. You didn't know anything.
Why did that hurt so much?
It's late. You're tired. He's probably tired.
Standing up from the chair, you put the cassettes you were fingering back down on the table, pushing the wheeled chair back toward the table.
"It's fine," you say, even though this feels like the farthest thing from fine right now, "you..."
You swallow thickly, mouth feeling like sandpaper as you grab your coat off the back of the chair you'd just been sitting on, not bothering to put it on as you pick your bag up too.
"You're right."
"What? No- don't-" he steps toward you as you skirt past him, headed for the door to the booth, "I shouldn't have said that, I didn't mean it- god. Don't go-"
"It's getting late," you cut him off, voice small, "I'm tired. You probably are too. I'm gonna head home."
Steve doesn't say anything after that. Words are like peanut butter, sticky in his mouth. All he can do is watch as you leave quickly, no slamming of any doors, just quick steps and quiet doors shutting.
Honestly, Steve would've preferred for you to slam a door or two. To be angry at him. But the quiet pain, the hurt look on your face? He couldn't handle that.
Inside the now empty booth, Steve stands there, looking where you'd just been, his fingers holding a cassette, silent.
"Shit."
-
There have been a few times in his life when Steve knew he had fucked up. And fucked up bad. Like when he was friends with Tommy H and Carol in high school, and they spray-painted Nancy's name on the Hawk theatre with a less-than-savoury word.
All because he saw what he thought was Nancy cheating. After being so worried about her, after actually finding himself not wanting anyone else but Nancy; no random flings, just Nancy. He wanted serious.
He still regretted ever doing that.
But then, Nancy broke his heart. And how long did it take her to get into a relationship with Jonathan Byers? The same guy he saw her being held by in her room after she told him she couldn't go to the movies?
Barely any time.
Steve sighed, a long, painful sound as he pressed the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, sitting where you'd been sitting 20 minutes ago. Pressing till he saw little stars and different colours.
"What's wrong with you, man?" He says it to himself because Robin isn't here to slap him upside the head, Dustin hasn't been around much to say anything, "Why would you say that?"
This was another time he knew he fucked up. Maybe not as bad as spray painting Nancy and the word Slut in the same sentence on a movie theatre sign. But, still. Fucked up. Shitty.
Why did he feel so bad? And why did what you said affect him so much?
Tired of seeing you chase after someone who broke your heart. Someone who doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen.
That had cracked open something in him that had already been long cracked, but had been held together with a jury rig of duct tape and denial.
You were right. Nancy didn't see him as he deserved to be seen. She hadn't paid him any mind like that again till 18 months ago, when she saw how 'mature’ he'd gotten.
Meanwhile, you were always there. You saw the change in him long before she really did. That he'd been that way for a while now.
It leaves a sickening feeling in his gut. It makes his heart feel painful, like someone's trying to squeeze the life out of him. Or, make lemonade with it.
He tries to distract himself. Picking up cassettes again and shoving them back in their place; how many kinds of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' does Robin need? Oh- and the APPLAUSE tape case is kinda cracked. Didn't matter, it was only small-
The stupid rubber chicken on the table falls and makes a pitiful, weak squawk. It would be funny if the noise didn't somehow replicate his current mood.
A little pathetic, a little sad, a lot of regret.
What did a rubber chicken have to regret anyway?
Steve grabs his keys.
He couldn't sit here with these feelings lying heavy in his chest; feelings he wasn't even sure he understood. All he knew was that it made him feel sick. And thinking about how he hurt you makes him feel even sicker.
The rubber chicken makes a shrill noise when he accidentally steps on it. Like a dying animal.
And then he's driving to your house without even realising he's subconsciously made that decision.
He doesn't even know what he's going to say. He just knows he can't leave it till tomorrow.
-
You're still awake, sitting on the floor by your coffee table with a container of leftover pasta from dinner.
Your home is so empty. Quiet. When Hawkins had that 'earthquake' which only you and a select few others knew was not just some earthquake, your parents were quick to get out of Hawkins before the military came down and locked Hawkins down.
They had tried to get you to leave, too. But you were legally an adult, and you refused. You couldn't leave Hawkins like this, not when you didn't know if Vecna was truly gone. Not when Steve, Dustin, Lucas- everyone was still here.
But now you were in your family home alone. Too big for one person. Too quiet. Lonely.
The TV is on, but it's static-y. Your dad never got around to getting a new one, and to get it to work, you needed to mess with the antenna till it wasn't even worth it anymore. And you weren't doing that.
It probably looked pathetic. Sitting there, with only a nearby lamp on, leftover pasta in front of you and a cup of tea that's going cold.
But no one was around to see it anyway. It didn't matter.
Then a knock at the door makes you nearly jump out of your skin, the fork you had clattering beside you.
Of course, you know who it is. Because no one else in Hawkins would be at your door nearing 12 in the morning except for one person.
Any chance of pretending you're asleep is pointless because you didn't turn the light off over the porch door when you came in. You forgot.
So you get up. You open the door and try to act normal. Like, whatever that conversation was 40 minutes ago in the Squawk headquarters hadn't even happened.
Steve stands there, the light of the porch making shadows across his face. It could be something out of a romantic, sad movie.
His hair is a little wild- which, granted, it always kind of was- but in a way that was put together; he ran his hand through it a lot, but it always just somehow looked good. Steve cared about his hair; he always had. But now, it just looked like he'd run through the wind to get here. Like he'd run his hands through it one too many times and in a way that suggested exhaustion. Stress.
It's cold and windy, and this could be something-
"You're wrong."
Is he serious?
His eyes look serious and determined. Frustrated. Irritated.
You immediately frown. Face drawing together as you stand there, confused. Blinking a few times at him, you almost can't believe that's what he came here to say. But it's Steve, why are you not surprised?
"You did not just come here at almost 12 am to tell me I'm wrong, again," you deadpan, half a mind to shut the door, "you already said that earlier, Steve."
"No, just hear me out!" He sounds frustrated and a tinge desperate as he runs his hands over his face.
You cross your arms over your chest, your hip pushing out as you stare at him, waiting, expectant. Because you honestly have no idea what he's about to say. What you're ‘hearing out.'
"I don't love Nancy," he huffs, almost petulant, "maybe I thought I did still? I don't know. I just want someone to, I dunno, see me? How I am now. And, I don't think she does- but, like- I don't think she's the one-"
He looks like he's trying to solve the biggest, most intricate math problem in the world. As though there are literal equations behind his eyes that he can't understand, till suddenly-
Realization. Eyes opening a little more, the crease in his brow is present but softening a bit. A little bit of colour draining from his face.
"You- noticed though," he suddenly frowns, his lips pressing together, looking down, the crease forming deeper once more, "you always did. I'm out here, acting like a fool, looking to Nancy to make me feel seen, and notice who I am now. To- love me? Because then maybe I'd be worthy of it-"
You stand there, frozen. You feel like a statue, or what you imagine it would feel like to be a statue. He's almost rambling, not looking at you as he keeps going.
"I never had to prove myself to you. I never needed to earn it. I was always worthy of everything."
"Steve..."
Your voice has never been so soft, so small and quiet.
"I'm not saying I'm having some big moment of realization, like this is some shitty romcom- or- or something like that, that's-" he sighs, "I don't even know what it is I'm feeling right now. But it’s different-"
He huffs, as if frustrated with himself. A hand runs through his hair, again. Somehow, it still looks good.
"But there's- god, there's something. Right?" Steve looks at you like you know all the answers, like you understand him, what he's saying- feeling, "with me. And you- us."
Your heart stutters. It's not an 'I love you,' which you're honestly glad for, because you want him to love you naturally. You want him to fall in love slowly and softly- till he's sure of it. Till he's-
"And I feel like such an idiot," he grumbles, "because this whole damn time, you've been right there. And I wasn't looking- I never stopped to really think. Which, I'm good at, I guess. Not thinking-"
You hate it when he does that; he boils himself down to the brawn, no brains. He decides to do the things that are physical and dangerous because he's ‘not as smart' as everyone else, and if anyone is going to be in danger, it should be him. And the others fed into that, whether they realized it or not. Even as a joke.
"Stop that," you can't help but scold him, even as he word vomits in front of you, laying his heart on a platter to observe with you because, god, he's confused too.
"Stop-" he blinks, then his eyes soften, and a weak laugh leaves his body, "that's what I mean. Only you would... Tell me to stop putting myself down like that in the middle of... Whatever this is I'm doing."
"Yeah, well, stop doing it then," you look away, feeling your face start to burn as he says that, calls you out.
He just smiles at you for a long moment. Before it falls, and he sighs deeply, "I don't think I'm making. Am I making sense? I'm not saying any of this right-"
"Start from the top, then."
Steve blinks like you just slapped sense into him, and he stutters, "uh, the top. Yeah- well. You see me. And I've been an idiot. I don't love Nancy anymore, I just... Want to be loved? That sounds pathetic-"
He steps closer, the space between you suddenly smaller- you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and it makes you want to move closer and step away all at the same time.
"I never needed to prove anything to you," his voice is quieter now, and it sounds like a lump has formed in his throat, "and I feel stupid for not seeing it before. Because maybe if I did, maybe if I put all that energy I wasted on Nancy on you-"
His hand, hesitant, gives you every chance to step back and create a line between you, a barrier, as it moves to your wrist. When you don't stop him, his fingers wrap around your wrist, squeezing. Not enough to hurt you, but to ground himself- or you. God, maybe both.
"-Then maybe I'd have saved myself a lot of bellyaching about Nance, about my failed love life," he whispers, his face so close you feel his breath fan across your own face, "saved myself a lot of... Shit, I don't know."
You could kiss him. He's that close- you could kiss him.
But maybe that's not what he wants- what this is- but it sure feels like it is, and the things he's saying suggest this is what it is. He might just be-
Warmth. Soft and sweet against your lips. Tentative in its beginnings, unsure and questioning. Allowing you to stop it. His lips on yours.
Something you never thought would happen. Ever.
Oh. So maybe it was something he wanted.
You don't pull away, but he does, "shit- sorry-"
He doesn't have a chance to finish the thought, because you're pulling him back in with your free hand on his neck- not rough, gentle. But with purpose.
The noise he makes is one of surprise, as if the man hadn't just kissed you first. Eyes wide open- then softening, closing, just barely open. The hand holding your wrist lets go, and slides down to your hand, fingers curling around yours. His palm is warm.
Breathing out through your nose, you let him find the confidence to kiss you back. And whith the knowledge you want the kiss, he's angling his head a little. It wasn't hard to know why he was known for creating the make-out spot at Skull Rock, in high school. His free hand touching your jaw, like you're something fragile, long fingers against your warm skin-
And then it stops. Because at some point, you need to breathe. And talk about whatever that was supposed to mean.
Crickets at least make it not completely silent. However, it somehow makes it worse anyway.
"So-" he starts, looking at you, really looking- like he's really seeing something he wished he saw before, "...we should go to the Hawk. See a movie."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
He huffs, hand dropping from your face, but the other still holding yours.
"Yeah," he narrows his eyes at you, "but I was trying to sound cool about it, thanks."
There he is. Steve Harrington. Funny, sarcastic- so easily him. And it makes you smile, head tilting a little.
"Yeah. Not right now, though, it's 12 am."
"Well, obviously."
"Yeah, obviously."
The way he looks at you is something you never thought you'd experience.
He isn't sure what his feelings are exactly; he couldn't pinpoint it if he tried- but he doesn't want to try and pinpoint it. Doesn't want to overthink it, because whatever it is, it feels amazing. It feels like a warm blanket, a safe place. He doesn't even need to try to prove anything to you. To name a feeling in that moment.
Because you've always seen him. You've never pushed him.
Series Summary: When Steve Harrington finds himself failing his last three Physics tests, his teacher gives him two options: take her assigned tutor or fail her subject completely. And it just so happens: you're the assigned tutor in question. You're perfect for it: smart, intelligent, a great tutor, Steve will be passing his worst subject in no time. Only issue: you're hopelessly infatuated with him.
Summary (For Part 2): You've never known pain this bad, humiliation this hurtful, betrayal this cutting, especially from the one person who held you heart captive in his hands. You're convinced you can never come back from wounds this deep, but then you start to wonder... maybe things aren't quite what they seem.
Warnings: Gut-wrenching angst, tiniest sort of hint of smut, violence-descriptions of blood, wounds, bruises, please for my sanity pretend for the very first part of this that teachers either don't exist or don't care- it has absolutely no impact on the story, public humiliation, fluff, King Steve days, dual pov- Steve and reader, set before the events of season 1, no use of y/n
Colourful lockers and people and loud, overbearing, suffocating laughter seemed to follow you, rain down on you as you streak down the hallways of Hawkins High.
Home.
You want to go home. You have to go home. You need to go home. Far far away from all the hollering, the whistles, the humiliation.
The betrayal.
Even as you run, you feel your insides rapidly disintegrating into a pile of... of ash.
Ash, that's fitting. Ashes of your heart, of the warm fuzzy feeling you'd had in your chest since yesterday. Since you'd kissed the boy you'd trusted, adored, given your heart to. Ashes of the happiness that had been burning through you as you'd looked through the halls for him just a few minutes ago.
Him.
The haze of your vision suddenly clears. Your feet slow down, and you stop right there in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily. Other students continue to walk past you, some of them glancing at you, sniggering, making some unoriginal comment at you.
But nothing registers in your head.
All your senses are focussed on the one face you'd been fantasizing about all of last night. That you'd been dying to find and kiss till all of five minutes ago.
Leaning against his locker, ripples of dark hair falling across his forehead, an effortless charming grin plastered on the same face you'd held in your hands yesterday while you'd been flushed and breathless.
You realize you're breathless even now as you look at him, but for all the different reasons.
A familiar insistent pressure begins to build up behind your eyes. Your vision turns glassy. Hot, angry, burning tears rise to your eyes before you can do something about them, blurring Steve's image before you. Your shaking hands clench into fists beside you, your jaw locked so hard it trembles.
You know you need to go home.
But you can't yet. The white hot fury rapidly rising in you, burning you from the inside out won't let you.
And it's this rage that fuels every single step as you march towards the lockers. The students in your path automatically step out of your way, forming a clear, straight path between you and Steve Harrington.
As if sensing the shift in the air, Steve finally turns, and his eyes fall on you. For a moment, you see it. The slight jump in his body as he pushes off the locker, a look you can't quite decipher flickering in his eyes. The rise of his cheekbones as a smile spreads over his face before he starts to speak.
"Oh hey, I-"
But the words die on his lips. His smile drops as quickly as it had come, his hand that was halfway raised to greet you pausing as he fully took you in.
Marching towards him.
A crease forms on his brow. "Hey what's wr- WOAH! WH-"
Steve doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence before you're slipping your bag off your shoulders and swinging the weight of five 600 page hard bound bookd straight into his face.
A loud metallic crash resonates through the hallway as Steve smashes back into the locker.
Ooohs and aahs immediately ring through the crowd of gathered students who quickly form a semicircle around you and Steve. The spectatcle of the hallway.
"You complete piece of shit!" You scream, a torrent of tears rapidly streaming down your cheeks and down your neck. "How could you do this?!"
You barely allow a pained groan barely to escape Steve's lips before your anger rises in a crescendo again and you're swinging your bag at him once more, this time straight into his stomach. An angry sound rises in your threat, and you can barely recognize it as something that left your own body. Adrenaline is the only thing fueling you now. Allowing you to do more with your anger than you'd ever be capable of otherwise.
Steve gasps, doubling over in pain, one hand wrapped around his mid-section, the other clutching his head.
"Wha-" He pants. "What are- are you.... talki.... ab-?"
"YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, YOU ASSHOLE!" You scream. "STOP- smack- ACTING- smack- DUMB-smack!" Steve's words and groans ony make you angrier, rage zapping through your body like lightning.
"What did I ever do to you? You cry out. "I trusted you! I was nothing but nice to you- Hell, I considered you my friend! I thought you were different from all these useless fucking bastards and bimbos you call friends!"
Your tears blur the miserable sight in front of you- Steve now sliding to the floor, head bowed, hand still clutching onto his forehead where you'd swung your bag first.
You stop for a moment, standing still, your bag still clutched tightly in your shaking fists. The hallway is pin drop silent now, no sounds im the vast space except your heavy, laboured breathing and Steve's quivering gasps. He's still doubled over, and you can just about make out the unmistakeable bubbling of dark, dark red from between his fingers.
You suck in a shaky breath, the anger pulsating in waves inside you now ebbing to a devastating stillness.
Steve... Your Steve.
Or so you'd wished.
From between his desperate gasps of air, you hear him mumble something- your name. Barely a whisper. But it's enough to convey a kaleidoscope of emotions to you. Shock, confusion, pain... concern?
Something bitter stabs through your heart.
And you can feel it curl in on itself- like a beautiful white water lily retracting its petals and closing for the night. Only, this night for your heart is endless. You can't ever come back from a betrayal like this, and you know it.
"It was all a game to you, wasn't it?" You whisper, voice breaking on a soft sob stuck in your throat, a stark contrast to your screaming just moments before. "None of it was ever real to you like it was to m-" You stop yourself, shaking your head and averting your gaze to the ground.
You hear him whisper your name once more, a breathy sound, unmistakeably laden with disbelief.
Was he still putting on his act of cluelessness? What a complete and utter coward.
"I really, really thought you were different Steve," you mumble. "But I guess we only see what we want to."
You lift your eyes to him one last time. The blood's now dripping from his fingers in tiny little streaks, his back heaving as he tries to breathe, majority of his head covered by his hand so you can't see his expression. But you see his other hand clawing against the wall behind him as if he's trying to push himsslf up, trying to form a coherent sentence through the likely ringing in his head from how hard you hit him.
No one takes a step forward to help him.
They all just stand there, gawking at the scene like they didn't expect this. Even his so called friends Tommy H. and Carol- wasn't he talking to them when you'd approached him?
Even they're watching you both. Like this is a show. Like your heart hadn't just been ripped from your chest and trampled under a stampede.
They're watching the show with their mouths open, amusement- amusement dancing in their eyes!
A bunch of cowards.
Every last one of them.
And then you turn around, and walk away from it all. You hear Steve call your name again, louder this time, but you ignore it.
You're done with this bullshit. With him. You're leaving.
But you don't head over to the school gates. Instead, you take the left turn into the girls' bathroom and set your bag on the sink counter.
Withhout glancing in the mirror, you turn the tap and splash your face with water, letting the cold liquid sizzle on your heated skin.
Once you're done, you swing your bag over your shoulder and march out of the bathroom.
Screw Steve.
Screw everyone.
You had done. Absolutely. Nothing. Wrong.
And you'd be damned if you went home and missed school and jeopardized your education for these stupid, lazy, ruined fuckers.
Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them cat-call. Let them laugh.
You head over to the notice board. One by one, you rip off the thick, snowy pages of your diary pinned to the board and stuff them into your bag.
And you do it with your chin up.
"Here you go, man." Tommy chuckles as he throws a damp washcloth over to Steve, who just barely manages to catch it. The amusement in Tommy's voice didn't go unnoticed by him, but at that moment, Steve couldn't find himself to care.
He's been in a daze ever since Tommy helped him up from the floor in the school hallway. Since he'd supported him the entire way out the school gates and into the back seat of Steve's own BMW. The silence that had followed for a few moments before both he and Carol--who'd followed them out the school--broke into untamed laughter and shrieks about the "nerd" absolutely losing it on "King Steve". Commentary that never once ceased the entire way to Steve's house.
And the whole time, Steve couldn't bring himself to utter a single word. Nothing made sense past the second heartbeat pulsing in his head and the faint ringing in his ears.
And her words. Her blows. Her screaming. Her tears.
Her silence.
Confusion, confusion even stronger than the pain overtook his senses till he was drowning in it.
What had he done?
Why did she do this to him?
For a long part of the previous night, Steve laid awake in his bed, fully dressed, thinking of her lips. Those sweet, sugary lips he'd kissed in his living room, the tiny little moan that had escaped her as his tongue explored her mouth. Her warm skin as his hand had caressed her under her sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.
God, when she was wearing his clothes....
And the look in her eyes.
The look in her eyes just before he'd kissed her. Wide with shock, but also filled with the unmistakeable darkness of barely restrained desire. She'd wanted him just as much as he'd wanted her.
The look in her eyes after he'd kissed her.
Then too, they were blown wide. But not just with desire.... something else too.
Something Steve hadn't seen before in any girl he'd ever had in that position. And before he could fully understand what it meant, she was already pushing off of him and running out his front door. Leaving him dazed and incredibly turned on, wondering what the hell had just happened.
But she'd told him she had a good time, right? Maybe she was just... shy? No of course she wasn't shy.... but like.... shy of kissing? Intimacy? Maybe this was the first time she'd kissed a boy and she got a little scared? He hated thinking of her from the lens of a stupid stereotype about studious children, that they didn't have a life outside of books and were inexperienced when it came to romance. Because if the past few days had taught him anything other than Physics, it was that smart people were some of the funniest, most amazing, charming, beautiful, irresistible people you could ever meet.
But if that was the case, then Steve had absolutely no explanation as to why she'd run off the way you did. So that's what he told himself later as he lay in the dark thinking of her.
He went through it all in his head till he practically had it memorized. The next day at school, he'd give her her clothes and the books she'd left behind, and then he'd ask her out. Clear up the air.
And then he'd kiss her till there was absolutely no doubt or concern in her pretty head about how much he liked her and wanted her. How he'd fallen for her in just a couple of weeks- weeks that had been some of the most refreshing time of his life. And how he'd like nothing more than for her to be his girlfriend.
But now Steve wondered if he'd done something abysmally wrong.
If he'd pressured her into something she clearly wasn't ready for. Maybe didn't even want.
Because Steve would never, ever forget the look in her eyes when she was marching over to him. The wild, glassed over, untamed look in her beautiful eyes, glistening with unshed tears- the face of sorrow. Anger. Fury. Determination.
And then she'd slammed her bag into his face.
Since then, his world had been pain. Pain and ringing and confusion. He was haunted by a thousand what ifs and the million dollar question- why?
So when Tommy laughed at him again for God-knows-which time, Steve just ignored him. He was numb inside, save for the part of his brain still wondering where he'd gone wrong. What he'd done wrong.
Wordlessly, he pressed the warm cloth to the raised patch of skin just beside his left eye, hissing at the sharp pulse of pain as the fabric made contact with the welt.
"God, that nerd beat you to a pulp, didn't she?" Carol comments, leaning back on her chair as Tommy dragged another one closer to her and dropped onto it.
"I'd never have guessed those arms of hers were useful for anything other than being an insufferable know-it-all in class," she continues, turning to Tommy with a smirk. "Ooh ooh Mr. Kaminski, I know the answer! Pick me, pick me, pretty pleeeease?" Setting both her and Tommy into a fit of shameless laughter once again.
"Oh I'm sure she uses her arms for other stuff too," Tommy grins, flashing his teeth as he extended an arm over Carol's chair. "Like wiping Miller and Kaminski's boots every other hour?"
"Oh come on Tommy, you know better than that! Those she licks clean with her tongue, like the litte pet dog she is. And I bet she enjoys it too-"
"Shut up you two that's ENOUGH!"
Silence falls over the room, sudden and jarring after the mocking laughter that had filled the space just moments before.
But Tommy recovers quickly enough, his cheerful expression quickly replaced with annoyance, brown eyes narrowing.
"What's your problem, man?" He spits out at Steve, his posture shifting from relaxed to aggressive in a matter of seconds.
"My problem? Steve challenges, chucking his washcloth to the ground. "You two are assholes, that's my problem! You've criticized her enough, okay? She doesn't deserve any of it."
"Oh wow," Tommy sniggers, turning to Carol. "You hear that, babe? She literally beat him up in front of the entire school and he's still pining after her." He laughs. "God, you're pathetic, Harrington."
"Hmm maybe we were right Tommy," Carol remarks, tapping her chin with a single pointed finger as if pretending to think. "Maybe those 'study' sessions were just them screwing each other-"
"I swear to God if you-"
"Maybe that freak didn't have that wild an imagination after all."
The words cut through Steve's anger like a knife.
Imagination?
"What?" He questions, staring at the chuckling couple in front of him. "What did that mean- 'imagination'?"
Tommy and Carol share a glance, amusement practically oozing out of them. Whatever this was, they were thoroughly enjoying themselves.
"You wanna tell him now or let him enjoy the full experience when he sees it?" Tommy asks, winking at Carol.
"Tell me what-"
"That bitch's probably taken it down by now," Carol muses, blowing out her bright pink bubblegum.
Tommy sighs. "Shame, isn't it?"
"If you don't tell me what you did right now, I'll-"
"You'll what, Harrington?" Tommy challenges, turning his head to look Steve straight in the eye, a frown forming between his eyes. "You'll what? Fight me? I'd like to see you try." His voice dripping to a low, menacing tone. "Cause I didn't see you a lift a finger when your little freak of a girlfriend beat the crap out of you in the hallway."
"She's not a freak-"
"Oh yeah?" Carol mocks, cutting him off abruptly. "Then maybe you should have read her precious little diary yesterday, instead of respecting her... what was it you said? Privacy? I think you'd love some of the things she wrote in it."
Steve's brain short circuits.
Her diary.
Her diary.
The diary she'd left behind at his house the day before. The diary Steve had very well noticed sitting on his nighstand and been ridiculously curious about it. But he'd chosen to respect her privacy- of course he'd bloody well respect her privacy!
And when Tommy and Carol had dropped by later that evening for a couple of beers since his parents weren't home, they'd been curious about the diary too. Steve had just told them to mind their own fucking business.
He should've known they didn't when he couldn't find the little black notebook that morning.
A sick feeling began to pool in Steve's stomach. Like an abyss had opened up inside him, sucking his insides and stealing his breath.
Dread. That's was this was.
A growing, all consuming dread that made him feel sick.
Sick for what he'd allowed to happen.
Sick as he looked at his friends, matching sneers painted on both their faces.
"What did you do?"
The first thing you do once you have a little breather between classes is head over to Mrs. Miller's room. You don't have Physics today and you wouldn't have any other opportunity to do this before tomorrow. No way in hell were you waiting another day.
You find Miller in her office, seated at her desk and correcting what looked like a stack of papers. You don't know why you hesitate as you raise your hand to knock on the door and make your presence known.
Tutoring Steve again could never be a possibility ever again, and you knew now that all those seemingly wonderful moments you'd had with him had only been veiled deceptions. Your attraction to him had only masked what should have been obvious to a cautious person like you from the beginning.
Never again.
You rap your knuckles firmly against the door, and Miller looks up, a small frown of concentration creasing her forehead before she sees that it's you.
The immediate change in her expression is obvious. "Oh, Ms--" A smile stretches across her lips as she sets her pen down. "Come in, come in."
"Morning, Mrs. Miller," you say politely, stepping into the familiar room. You attempt to smile back at her, although the conscious effort it takes you to do so probably didn't make it seem the most genuine.
She doesn't seem to notice though. "Take a seat," she says, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk.
"Oh no no... it's fine. This'll just take a minute," you say quickly, nails subconsciously scratching the palm of your hand. "I just wanted to let you know I can't tutor Steve anymore."
That seems to catch Miller off guard.
Her brow rises. "And why is that?" She questions, tilting her head. "Last I spoke to you, you said the sessions were going great, and I've noticed Mr. Harrington performing much better in class assignments as well."
You avert your gaze to the ground, taking in a shallow breath. How much should you reveal to her? What would you even say?
I was infatutated with him but he betrayed my trust?
He's a fucking piece of shit who broke my heart and doesn't deserve my help?
You couldn't even say something along the lines of "personality differences" because that would make you seem arrogant and unprofessional and she would just tell you to get over it for the sake of studying.
You decide to sprinkle in a bit of truth. "He was... he hurt me, ma'am. He said and did some things that are unforgivable in my eyes and I... I can't tutor him any longer. I won't be able to give it my all, and very frankly, I can't be nice to someone who can't afford me basic respect." You look back up at her. "I really hope you understand."
Miller's silent for a moment, looking into your eyes as if trying to gauge something, before she exhales and nods her head. "Very well then, I won't force you."
Her tone's carefully neutral, and you can't figure out what she's thinking, if she's disappointed in you, or just curious about what happened.
Whatever it is, you're not eager to stick around to answer more questions you can't give her the answers to.
"Thanks for understanding, ma'am," you say, turning to the door. "I'll see you in cl-"
"I hope it wasn't anything serious?"
You pause. "Sorry?"
"With Harrington. I hope the issue isn't serious enough for me to step in?"
It doesn't take a genuis to figure out the hidden question in her words. I hope he and his friends weren't bullying you?
Well... of course that is what they were doing. But... and maybe your view was a little controversial-- you didn't want call it bullying till you allowed yourself to feel like a victim. Calling it bullying meant you let them get to you. Let them upset you, let them win.
And no way in hell could losers like those spoilt rotten kids who had never worked a day in their life ever make you feel less than what you were worth.
"No no, Mrs. Miller," you reply quickly, even managing what you hoped was a quick, reassuring smile. "Nothing like that. Nothing you need to worry about."
Miller looks at you a second longer, before nodding and returning to her papers. "Right, see you in class, then."
"See you, ma'am."
You almost feel relieved as you step out of Chemistry and walk over to your locker, something you'd never thought was possible when it came to a Science subject. But there were only two periods left in the day now.
English and PE, but who cared about PE. You'd just say you were on your period and leave.
An hour of reading Hamlet, and then you were free to head home and cry.
You could be the strongest person in this world, but even the strongest person in the world isn't immune to a stab from someone they considered a.... friend.
When you were honest with yourself, you could admit that despite it all, you'd been on the lookout for him all day.
To catch a glimpse of him, his face, to see if the bleeding had stopped, how bad his wounds were. Cause when the rage inside you finally dwindled, you couldn't believe what you'd done.
Those books in your bag easily weighed 3-4 pounds, and together, the weight of your bag was enough to break your back everyday. All of them were hard bound, with edges that had poked you in various places more than once.
And you'd swung the full weight of them all in his face. And if you weren't wrong, Steve had been holding his eye when blood had been pooling between his fingers.
Everything aside, betrayal aside, physically hurting him was an entirely different matter... Whatever he'd done, he didn't deserve having his eye taken out! You hadn't held back with that swing in any way, and if a corner of a book went into his eye, injuring it permanently... you'd never forgive yourself.
As you walk into English, you run your gaze over the room. Tommy H. was in this class with you, as far as you remembered. Ms. Russell had called him out for some or the other nonsense during class more than once. But his usual seat was empty too.
Just then, your eyes accidently meet a pair of bright green ones.
For fuck's sake, you groan internally. Not this bitch again.
One of the girls from the fiasco in the morning. The same girls that had very kindly enlightened you about the noticeboard in the first place.
And judging by the sudden gleeful look on her face, she's clearly not finished having her share of fun with you just yet.
"Guys, look! It's Shakespeare gracing our English class!"
All eyes in the room are suddenly on you. And then the hoots begin, followed by exaggerated kissing sounds and even a few claps for the 'winner of the Booker Price, 1983'!
Just like you've been doing all day, you pretend you don't hear any of it, taking your regular seat at the front next to Robin Buckley from band who, for what it's worth, doesn't seem to participate in the mocking, judging by the kind smile she gives you when you take your seat.
You smile back at her, grateful atleast someone other than the Chess Club treated you like a living, breathing human being with feelings.
"Cat got your tongue, freak?" the green eyed witch calls out from her seat. What was her name again? Ka....ty? Whatever. She wasn't significant enough for you to remember her by name anyway.
You reach into your bag and pull out your textbook, slamming it onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and flip it open.
"Maybe the humiliation's actually rendered her dumb." Someone chimes in.
"That's a first, usually she can't shut up in class."
"Maybe she's saving her precious feelings for the diary."
"Are you stupid, man? Those pages are sacred! Reserved for the literary porn about her beloved Harrington."
A page crumples in your fist.
"Ignore them," you hear Robin whisper from beside you.
You nod without looking up from your book, trying your hardest to ignore the jeers.
"Someone should really thank Freckles for unveiling that masterpiece to the rest of us!"
Laughs ring out throughout the class, before quickly dying down as Ms. Russell, for the love of all that is good and true in this goddamned world finally enters the fucking class.
You force yourself to calm down and smoothen the page you wrinkled with the flat of your palm.
And then you pause, because as your insides cool, you finally register the words from before.
'"Someone should really thank Freckles for unveiling that masterpiece to the rest of us!"'
Freckles.
Steve didn't have freckles. You would know, you'd written literary porn about him after all, hadn't you?
You blink, before exhaling softly, a small frown beggining to form on your forehead.
As soon as the bell rings for PE, you're grabbing your things and running out the door and through the school gates before anyone has a chance to say anything else to you.
You need to do this before you lose your nerve. While the idea had been hatching in your head since lunch when there had still been no sign of Steve, you made up your mind fully only after the Freckles comment.
If you were terribly wrong about this and Steve was the one who did this to you for whatever reason... well too bad then. You'd go home and cry and try to dislodge the shards of your heart from your chest, but atleast, atleast you'd know you tried. At the very least you'd be giving rest to the delusional part of yourself that's read way too many trashy romances and is now trying to convince you that somehow this was all a tragic misunderstanding and Steve was innocent. Atleast it would help you get closure, and lose this false hope that would keep you from moving on if Steve was an asshole who'd revealed pages of your private diary to the whole school.
But regardless, you had to see him. To make sure you didn't hurt him too bad and it wasn't anything serious.... or permanent, like a lost eye-
A tingle of nervousness races down your spine as you jog, a cold fear settling in your chest.
You hated it when your emotions got the best of you like this. When you operated on impulse rather than head. Because that is what led to regrets.
Impulse made you kiss Steve, which then made you run away from his house.
Impulse made you smash a heavy bag into Steve's face which is now making you run back to his house.
Impulse made you take stupid decisions which caused a shit ton of damage. Impulse gave you nothing but ephemeral pleasure and everlasting regrets.
And all you ever wanted in life was to have no regrets.
Which is why you swallow your pride and your fear when you're standing at the gates of Steve's enormous mansion. You notice his car in the driveway, so he's obviously home.
So for the second time in the span of a day, you find yourself stepping into the Harrington residence, the crunch of small pebbles underneath your feet the only sound in the still air as you make your way to the front door.
The property seems silent and still as night, which only adds to your growing fear and anticipation, which you know is stupid, because it's such a big house and even if Steve was in there making noise, chances are the place would still seem quiet from the outside.
But when you're standing close enough to knock, it's suddenly not as quiet anymore. You frown, trying to focus on the noise- faint sounds of someone... someone shouting? It's too muffled for you to make out the words, but someone's very evidently yelling inside.
You don't know what to make of this. What could this yelling mean? A bunch of scenarios race through your head, and none of them have any good outcomes.
So before you can chicken out of this, you push them to the back of your head, take a deep breath, and ring the doorbell before you change your mind.
The sounds from inside stop. Unconsciously, you take a small step back from the door as footsteps begin to sound from inside, growing louder and louder by the second, before the door swings open-
All you can do is stare at each other.
Your wide-eyed gaze meeting Steve's equally surprised (two-eyed) one, eyebrows whicg were initially furrowed into a frown quickly rising as he sees it's you. The whites of his eyes are tinted with red, but much to your immediate, stark relief, they're still as large and coffee-coloured and unharmed as ever.
You can't say the same about the skin beside his left eye though. Just as easily as the relief had rushed in, it vanishes as you see the huge raised welt on his skin, inflamed and angry and no doubt painful as hell. You exhale softly, guilt suddenly clawing at your stomach, so consuming and intense that you only register Steve saying your name when his hand grabs your arm.
The touch is like lightning striking your skin. Your eyes immediately drop in surprise to where your skins touch, but then he quickly retracts it before you fully register what just happened. Your gaze flies up to his eyes again. And this time, you notice what's written so blatantly in them. Shock, no doubt. But also worry, concern, and the same emotion that's mirrored in your own- guilt.
"What are you- what are you doing here?" He stutters, as if he can't quite believe his eyes.
"I... I just wanted to make sure I hadn't hurt you too badly," you say weakly, your voice breathy and uncertain now that you were standing face to face with him. You decide you need to say what you came here for before you spiral further into breathlessness. "Steve, I- I'm sorry for hitting you like that, that was so fucking stupid of me-"
"Hey hey, no way," Steve quickly interrupts you, and you suck in a breath. "Don't you dare apologize. It wasn't your fault. I'd be just as pissed if something like that happened to me."
That small seed of delusional hope in you suddenly doesn't seem as delusional or far-fetched anymore. He's telling you to not be apologetic for hitting him? Why would he try to make you feel better if his goal had been to hurt you in the first place? Guilt? But it didn't-
"Steve, I-" you swallow thickly, looking up into his brown eyes with an almost pleading expression. "I have to know, Steve. Did you tear those pages from my diary and-"
"Would you look at that, Carol. It's the nerd! She's come back for more humiliation because this morning apparently wasn't enough."
Both yours and Steve'd gazes fly over to the figure now nonchalantly leaning against the shoe rack, a shit eating grin plastered on his freckled face.
And suddenly, it isn't so hard for your 'delusion' to make sense anymore.
"Tommy," you breathe out, your hands beginning to shake. "You-"
"He was the one who took your diary,--" Steve says quickly, your name like a desperate plea on his lips. "Not me."
"Aw come on, man," Tommy groans, just as Carol comes into view from round the corner, a similar smug expression on her face as she chewed bubblegum. "You could've kept the fun going for a little longer. Maybe she'd start beating your ass again and we'd get another show."
"Why did he have my diary, Steve?" You whisper, stepping fully into the house and slamming the door shut behind you, sealing all four of you into the house.
"They came by last night after you'd left. They saw your diary and I told them to not touch it, but they took it when I was not around and... I'm sorry-- I should have been more caref-"
"What makes you think he didn't read it on his own and then share it with us, princess?" Carol remarks, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know, after he was disgusted by reading all your pathetic fantasies about him?"
Your cheeks heat up. "I-" you start, but before you can say anything, Steve's stepping in front you.
"Carol, for once in your godamned life, shut your damn mouth!" He yells.
"Why should she?" Tommy snarls, pushing Carol behind him. The boys stand facing each other now, the air between them charged and volatile. "Because it's upsetting your little girlfriend? Hurting the nerd's precious little feelings? Or are you scared she'll stop screwing you after this?"
"I wasn't screwing her, we were studying!" Steve shouts. "And if you had even a quarter of the smarts she does, you would know that's the truth!"
"You actually expect us to believe that, Harrington?" Tommy asks, his voice loud and dripping with malice and disbelief. "Because the Steve I know would never pass on the opportunity to get wasted to study, unless we was actually getting some behind the scenes!"
"Well excuse him for actually caring about his future and not wanting to be a complete loser like you two!" You seethe, indignance racing through your veins.
Tommy's eyes flick over to you, wild and mocking. "I don't remember asking for your opinion, wannabe," He spits out. "Why don't you go back to your boot licking and sucking up since that's all you seem to be-"
But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because one second an angry growl is rising in Steve's throat, and the next his fist is flying into Tommy's face, sending him staggering back into the rack. The wood groans, the rack wobbling dangerously.
"Don't you DARE talk to her like that!" Steve just manages to growl before Tommy is charging at him again and tackling him against the opposite wall.
"STEVE-" you shriek, just as Tommy's fist rears back and slams into his face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh resonating through the whole room. Again, and again, and again.
"STOP! TOMMY, STOP! You'll hurt him!" You scream, charging over to the two, but before you can, Steve manages to push Tommy away for a split second, before flipping him around and kicking his legs out from underneath. They slam into the ground with a crash and a screech and a tangle of limbs, before Steve gets on top of Tommy, straddling him, hair hanging over his forehead as he heaves.
"This one is for hurting her," he gasps, before rearing his fist back and punching Tommy straight in the nose. Blood immediately spurts into his freckled face and Carol shouts, running over to the two. You stay frozen to the spot.
"Stop it, STOP IT STEVE," she shrieks, trying to catch hold of his fist before it flies into Tommy's face, but it's as effective as a whisper in a hurricane. Steve's fist flies into Tommy's cheek and the impact makes his head flip to the other side.
It's only when you see the trickle of dark, nearly black blood splattered over that dense sea of freckles do you jump into action again, as if the colour re-awakened the panic and urgency in you, and you sprint over to the two of them.
"Steve, STEVE that's enough! He's had enough, you're going to hurt him!" You yell, pushing Carol out of the way and grabbing onto his arm. "STOP!" You shriek, as he pushes against your grip. "Please- Steve, for God's sake, look at me." Without loosening your grip on his right arm, you drop to your knees next to him and roughly hook your other arm around his shoulders and turn him towards you so you're face to face.
Your eyes meet, and you nearly shrink at the rage embedded in them. Even as he heaves, his breath warm and harsh on your face, you can only focus on how dark the once warm, comforting brown of his irises is. A look you'd never expected to see on Steve.
Maybe it's the expression on your face that finally snaps him out his trance. Or maybe it's Tommy wriggling beneath him, or Carol trying to push Steve off of her boyfriend.
Whatever it is, you catch a glimpse of his usual, familar self in his eyes, and you let go off your grip around his body, scrambling to your feet and giving him space to do the same.
As soon he's up, he's stepping in front of you, while Carol helps Tommy up, whose eyes are shining with a near lethal glare, the blood in his face and the hair plastered to his forehead making him look more dangerous than you now know he is.
And you're right, because despite the very evident fury racing through him, he doesn't try to lunge at Steve again, and you're pretty sure it's not because Carol's holding him and whining in her pitchy voice about "just leaving".
"She's right, Hagan," Steve says, voice deceptively soft. "Get out. Get out of my house and don't you dare look at her or speak to her again unless it's to apologize. Get out."
Tommy just stands there for a second, glaring daggers at Steve, chest heaving as another trickle of blood streaks down his nose and onto the floor.
"Alright, Harrington, alright. I'll go. I'll go," he snarls, grabbing Carol's arm. "But don't you dare come crawling back to us when you're tired of being the complete pussy she's turned you into!"
And with that, he marches over to the door with Carol at his heels, pulls it open and bounds out, slamming it behind him so hard the hinges rattle.
For a long while, a heavy silence descends over the place in the wake of everything that just happened, the only sounds the ticking of a distant clock and your and Steve's laboured breathing.
Your arms hang uselessly at your sides, as if you don't quite know what to do with them. Or yourself, for that matter.
Where does one go from here? After so many misunderstandings, altercations, deep wounds that persist for a long, long time just because it's hard to forget.
But then the tension breaks, as if someone sliced throught the air with an invisible knife. Before you know it, Steve's pulling you towards him, his arms wrapping around your body like a warm blanket in the middle of a freezing winter, and you find yourself pressed flush against the broad expanse of his chest, cheek coming to rest against the soft fabric of his jacket.
For a heartbeat, the world outside seems to dwindle away. The only sound left is the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart next to your ear, a heavy thud that mirrored your own frantic pulse. But at the moment, nothing calmed you more than the steady beat, an embrace that finally loosened the knots that had materialized in your chest that morning. An embrace that felt like an anchor, as the delicious scent of his musky cologne drifted into your nose, cocooning you in its familiarity- familiarity that now meant safety in your mind.
After what seems like an eternity of standing there, wrapped up in each other, you finally feel Steve sigh against your hair. "Are you alright?" He whispers, breath warm against your scalp.
A tiny breathless laugh escapes your lips. You couldn't believe this man.
"Am I alright?" You pull back slightly so you can look up into his face. His face that's littered with so many different wounds of varying intensities that your heart aches in your chest. "Steve, I'm not the one who was beaten twice in a single day. Are you alright?"
"Well..." he raises a brow as if pretending to think. "Apart from the fact that my nose is throbbing, my cheek and eyes are on fire, and my head still hasn't stopped ringing since this morning..." a half smile spreads across his face that's anything but reassuring to you, "yeah, never better."
Your heart stops. "Your head's ringing?" You breathe out, voice catching at the end of the sentence. "Oh shit," you mutter, pulling away from his arms. "Shit, maybe you've got a concussion..."
"No, wait! I- I was just kidding," Steve backtracks, arms reaching out as if to pull you back into his embrace, but you just brush him away, your mind already racing as it went through all your medical knowledge.
"Okay... uhh, first things first," you say, more to yourself than him. "We need to get you to the hospital. But obviously you can't drive... so I'll need to drive."
"There's no need for tha-"
"But I've only ever driven my dad's car, and that was so I could get my license. You've got a BM-fucking-W, so that's just wonderful-"
"No need for that-"
"The hospital's a little while away so it'll take a bit...." you suddenly turn to him, hand reaching out to lightly turn his chin to the side. "Your cheek's split. Bleeding. Shit," you breathe. "I'll have clean that up before we go so it doesn't drip all over your car seats, but the rest of it they'll have to handle at the hospital- Do you have a first aid box here? I guess I could try to do a decent job of it, but gosh, I've never really a dressed a wound before and I-"
But you don't get to finish your sentence.
For the second time in two days, your brain short-circuits, because it tends to do that when Steve Harrington's large, warm hands are cupping your cheeks, his body is pressed up against your own, and his face mere centimeters from your own, warm breath fanning your face.
Your eyes widen into saucers, mouth falling open in shock.
"Steve-" you gasp, and you only get a second to watch his dark pupils swallow the last of the brown in his irises, before his lips are crashing into your own.
The moment his mouth touches yours, a sharp zap of electrifying pleasure shoots through your body, so sudden and potent that your knees nearly buckle there and then. But before you can fall, Steve's arm is snaking around your waist, pulling you to his body with a desperation that only goes to show how much he wants this. How much he wants you. And you didn't hesitate either. The surprise barely registers before your respond in kind, your arms snaking around his neck to pull him face down to yours, your lips moving against each other's with a bruising, burning intensity.
When you finally pull back to gasp for air, Steve's forehead drops to yours, eyes closed as he takes in a deep breath.
"We've got to stop kissing like that," he whispers, a hint of a smile in his hoarse voice.
"Like what?"
"When you're in the middle of rambling and I can't thick of a better way to get you to stop."
A breathless giggle escapes your lips, your insides still singing from electricity of the touch between you and Steve.
"Was that the only reason you kissed me?" You decide to tease.
Steve only chuckles. "You have absolutely no idea how much I've been wanting to do that since yesterday," he murmurs, fingers tightening around the fabric of your sweater at your back.
A shiver races down your spine at his words, warmth pooling low in your belly at the idea that Steve had been thinking about your kiss yesterday just as much as you had.
"I think I have an idea," you whisper, the corners of your mouth tilting up. "I'd been going crazy all night thinking about yesterday."
Steve pulls back a little at your words, and when your eyes meet, your smile fades, because you can see the vulnerability in them, the confusion swirling in ths pools of coffee.
"Why did you run away then?" He asks, voice soft and uncertain.
You bite your lip. "Steve..."
"I thought I did something wrong," he continues. "The way you... ran out of here like you'd seen a ghost." He sighs. "I thought maybe I'd pressurized you into it, that you-"
"What?" You whisper, indignation racing through at the absurdity of what he'd said. "Steve, tha-that couldn't be further from the truth, I-" you pull your hands from around his neck to cup his face- careful of his split skin- and angle his face up so you're looking into each other's eyes. "Steve, I'm absolutely not kidding when I say that was the single best kiss of my life."
There's a small pause as you two simply stare into each other's eyes, letting the weight of your words settle between you.
"That kiss was everything, Steve. Everything I've ever wanted from a kiss. And... well, it made me panick. I panicked because of how good it felt, because this was everything I've ever wanted coming to life, and I didn't know how to deal with this- this explosion of feelings inside me! A-And-" You sigh. "And if the..." you press your lips together for a moment, letting your gaze wander for a moment before returning to his, "-content... of my diary was anything to go by..." a small smile spreads across your lips, "You know how much I've wanted this, wanted you, for such a long damn time."
Right now, a tiny part of you is screaming in your chest that you're finally, finally confessing to STEVE HARRINGTON about your massive crush on him. A year of pining, and suddenly you're face to face with him, telling him you've wanted him for a long time?
And this was nothing like a few hours ago when you thought he'd read your diary. That was a different feeling entirely. Then, you'd felt nothing but humiliation. Of course no girl who's ever had a crush on a boy would ever want him to know about the crush by reading the things she'd written about him in the privacy of her imagination! How you are with yourself and how you want to present yourself are two entirely different things which have nothing to do with trust, or how close you are with someone. Maybe, after months of knowing Steve, after dating each other, you'd feel comfortable enough to have a good laugh over it, but without any context?
You'd thought he was disgusted by what he read. Maybe he thought you were a creep, a stalker like the assholes at school had branded you. And nothing could be more humiliating than that.
But now? Actually confessing to him how you felt of your own volition was a rollercoaster kinda rush. Exciting, yet frightening as hell. Even though you kind of knew he... sort of... kind of... maybe liked you too? You honestly knew better than to expect anything or even hope for anything at this point.
But if the stupid smile currently spreading over Steve's lips was anything to go by...
"And here I thought my ego couldn't get any bigger, but then you come along and-"
You pull back from Steve's arms and smack his arm. "Asshole!" You exclaim loudly, but you're laughing, a growing warmth spreading inside your whole body, what you can only describe as unadulterated happiness rushing through you after all the drama of the past.
"Ow," Steve says in an exaggerated voice, clutching his arm. "Too soon, babe, too soon."
Your mouth falls open. "Oh. Oh shit, was that one of the places where I hit you with my bag?" You ask, hand rising to your mouth.
"One hell of a bruise I probably have."
"I'm sorry," you say wincing. "We've flounced around way too much. Like I said before, let me clean up some of your open wounds so you don't drip blood, and then we'll get you checked out to see if you have a concussion."
Steve opens his mouth, as if to protest, but one look from you and he quickly closes it, as if he's figured out this is not up for discussion.
He sighs. "I'll show you the medicine cabinet."
"Good decision."
For the fifth time in the last five minutes, you contemplate crawling under a hole out of guilt when Steve winces.
"I'm sorry," you mumble, rubbing a cotton dipped in antiseptic over the cut on his cheekbone. "I'm trying to be as gentle as I can, but the cut's going to sting regardless because of the antiseptic."
"Stop apologizing," he says, when you finally chuck the used cotton in the trash and bend over to the kit to get some more. "You've been apologizing every two seconds when it's not even your fault."
"But it is, Steve!" You say, soaking the cotton ball in the solution. "I beat the shit out of you this morning when you hadn't even done anything wrong."
"But you didn't know that, so it's not your fault."
"But-"
"No buts, seriously," he says firmly as you step back over to where he's perched on his bed and lean closer to clean a smaller wound by his eyebrow.
You try not to blush at the promixity, but it's hard when you know his lips are once again only inches from yours and you can feel his eyes staring intently at your face.
"And besides," he murmurs, the vibrations right next to your ear. "If I had to get beaten up by someone, I'm glad it was by the most beautiful girl I know."
You should have known hiding your blush was a task destined for failure. At this point, you'd be lucky if your neck wasn't beet red too.
"Smooth," you say, trying to hide how weak you feel, not trusting yourself to look into his eyes as you say that. "But I wasn't the only one who beat you up today so you may need to specify who you're referring to."
Steve scoffs. "Look at you pretending to be all cool and unbothered. Like your cute little flush isn't telling me everything I need to know," he murmurs, voice low and husky, as rich as a pool of golden brown honey.
Your hand falter, the cotton nearly slipping from your fingers as a wave of desire so intense rushes through your body that you feel that old familiar ache between your thighs, knees faint like they can't quite handle your weight anymore.
Your eyes fall shut as you will your racing pulse to slow down. But it's no use when you can practically see that smirk playing on Steve's lips behind your eyelids.
And then his fingers are on your lower back, tracing a slow, careful path down your spine. Even though there's the fabric of your sweater between you, it's like you can feel his skin against yours, because wherever they go, they leave a searing trail of burning hot desire.
You feel him lean closer, the whisper of his lips against the delicate skin of his earlobe, raising he hair at the back of your neck.
"If you want me to stop, darling, now's the time to tell me. Because once I start, there's no going back."
Oh, dear God.
You're so far gone at this point, you couldn't tell him to stop even if you wanted to. But you don't. For God's sake you don't. You don't want him to stop at all, because if he did, you wouldn't survive it. You wouldn't make the same mistake you did yesterday.
You try to speak, but suddenly, it's hard to find your breath. You shake your head, the tiniest, most imperceptibe movement. "N-no," you breathe out.
Slowly, you open your eyes, to find Steve's already on yours.
And you break. Your hands are flying to his jaw and you're pulling his face to your own, lips finding his with such force that he puts a hand on the mattress to steady himself lest he fall back on the bed, while the other tightens its grip around waist. At your current position- him on the bed and you standing in front of him- you're at eye level with him, and this new angle gives you more control over the kiss than you had before.
The tips of your fingers bury themselves in his thick, soft hair, the strands like silk caressing your skin, and you both moan at the same time, the vibrations sending pump after pump of desire shooting straight down to your belly.
"Steve," you whimper, your voice a breathy, desperate sound. "Please...."
You don't know what you're pleading for, because conscious thought seems to have fled your head, and you're running on pure sensation now. You're pleading for him, for him to do something, anything to quell the unbearable sensations raging wild in your body.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers against your lips. "So goddamn beautiful, driving me absolutely insane."
And then both his hands are at your waist, and you feel him tugging you up, lifting you off the ground. Almost instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist and settle into his lap without so much as breaking your kiss for more than a second.
The new position does nothing to calm your racing heart. If anything, every nerve ending of your body becomes even more hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. Everywhere you're touching Steve and he's touching you, from his hands roaming over your skin like he needs to commit to memory every curve and every hollow, to your legs around his waist, and the hardness you can feel pressing against the inside of your thighs.
Steve groans into your mouth, the sound coming from the depths of his throat, raw and hoarse and telling of just how affected he really was. You feel his fingers find the hem of your sweater and you unhook your arms from around his neck, lifting them up so he can slip the sweater off your torso and throw it somewhere behind you.
And then Steve pauses, his eyes falling to your chest, now clad in just a simple baby pink cotton bra. Impossibly enough, you feel heat rise to your cheeks. There's no doubt about how much you both want this, want each other, but being bare in front of the most handsome man you've ever seen is about as nerve-wracking as it gets. You've never really felt physically insecure before, but then again, there's no one you've ever wanted more than Steve Harrington.
But then he whispers your name, whispers it like it's something sacred, with so much reverence and awe and desire in his voice that all insecurity vanishes from your head.
Because Steve had a way of doing that, of making every doubt you had about yourself feel silly and insignificant when he was around. It wasn't even a conscious effort on his part- the dilation of his pupils when he was close to you, how he sometimes stared at you a little too long while talking as if lost in the way you looked, the reverent way he touched you as if you were something precious that needed to be handled with love and care... Even though you were now sweaty and bare and heaving, you'd never felt more beautiful and cherished in your life.
"Steve-" you start to whisper, before his hands find your waist and suddenly you're squealing as he flips you both around so your back rests against the cool mattress and he's straddling you. In one swift motion, Steve pulls off his sweater... and now it's your turn to stare. At the hard lines of his torso, the way the muscles in his chest flex with every little movement, skin glistening under a thin shean of sweat.
But when you notice the bruises, your breath catches. A constellation of crimson red littering his abdomen, one underneath his ribs and two by his side, like a mottled, almost abstract pattern over his fair skin, and despite yourself, you feel the guilt return to your body, guilt for marking such a beautifully sculpted masterpiece with your impulsiveness. As if in a trance, you reach out a tentative hand to skim your fingers over the marks, feeling his muscles tense underneath your touch.
"I'm such an idiot," you whisper.
"Don't call yourself that," Steve murmurs, his voice tight. One of his hands reaches up to cover your own, his long fingers intertwining with your own. The embrace reminds you of your first ever tutoring session in the library- the first time you'd ever spoken to each other. How warm his grip had felt that day as he shook your hand, the electricity that had shot up your arm from just a simple handshake. If anyone told you you'd be lying topless in his bed a couple of weeks later, you'd have laughed in their face.
You're not laughing now, as you and Steve lock eyes with each other, the silent, inevitable question evident in both of your expressions.
Your heart skips a beat as he says your name.
"Are you- are you sure you want this? With me?"
Slowly, you nod your head.
"I am, Steve. I want you."
With that, the atmosphere in the room shifts, the weight of the moment settling between the two of you, the silence giving you the time you'd needed to be absolutely sure this was everything you wanted, Steve was everything you wanted. Something far deeper, something honest and raw, like a silent promise, passes between you two.
And when Steve bends down to kiss you again, you finally allow yourself to feel, and lose yourself in the moment. In him.
You're staring at something. Frowning, as you do so. Puzzled, Steve follows your line of sight, wondering what could possibly be making you upset right now, when it seemed like absolutely nothing in the world could be better than this moment, right now.
He smiles when he sees you're looking at.
Your intertwined hands, fingers tangled together in no specific fashion against the sheets. More specifically, you're eyeing his knuckes, the torn flesh tinted a light red colour, even though he'd long since washed the blood off of his hands.
"Kiss them better?" He murmurs, grinning into your hair.
"You're delusional if you think I'll kiss open wounds, Harrington," you reply without missing a beat.
A rush of affection rises in Steve's chest at your smart response, and he bends his head so he can press a kiss to the crown of your forehead without moving you from your position on his chest, shifting his legs so they can tangle even further with yours.
"But I see the heroines kissing the hero's knuckles in movies all the time! Especially when he's been in a fight to defend her honour."
"I think you're forgetting one very important thing here, darling." The amusement in your voice is evident.
"What's that?"
"Those are movies."
"Very funny."
"Mhmm. Honestly, I'm just upset those stupid wounds were the reason you couldn't put those fingers to... good use earlier."
Steve snorts. "My mouth wasn't good enough for you?"
You pretend to think, and Steve catches a hint of a sly smile spreading over your face as you hum. "Could've been better."
"Yeah? Didn't match up to your literary fantasies?"
Steve regrets his words the moment your turn your head around and glare at him. Despite he beautiful flush on your cheeks, your hair sticking to you skin with sweat, despite you being the most gorgeous girl Steve had ever seen, the murderous fire in your eyes at that moment is enough to make any person run away with their tail between their legs.
"Sorry," he quickly mutters. "Too soon?"
"You think?" You exclaim, rolling your eyes before turning back around and burying yourself against his chest once more.
A small silence ensues, sweet and comfortable while it lasts, because barely a minute passes before Steve opens his mouth again.
"So umm, babe.... since we are on the topic.... I just thought I'd let you know I didn't read a word of what was written in your diary."
"Yes, I know that now," you reply, and Steve can swear he hears a bit of regret in your voice as you say that. His suspicions are confirmed a second later.
"So all you know about the contents of the diary is what Tommy and Carol told you?"
Steve sighs. "Yeah, but I'm sure what they were saying couldn't be further from the truth! That was- that was a load of bullshit I didn’t believe for a second, sweetheart."
You're quiet for a moment, and Steve can practically sense you're not convinced just by how your previously pliant body seems to have stiffened in his arms.
"Then why'd you refer to 'literary fantasies' earlier? If you knew it was a load of bullshit?"
Steve mentally curses himself. "That was just a joke, babe, nothing serious-"
"It was only stuff about how much I liked you, Steve," you mumble, voice calm, ostensibly devoid of emotion, but Steve can sense the weight of your words and how much it means to you that you believe him.
"There was some...," you chuckle softly, "yearning, but nothing stalkerish or disgusting, Steve. Not what everyone's making it out to be."
Steve hates the hint of desperation in your voice. He hates you feel you have to make him trust you, like just your word from you isn't enough for him to disregard any of the bullshit the others have told him. Hates how you're in this position in the first place because his friends stole your diary while he should have taken care of it. This was on him.
"You don't have to prove anything to me, sweetheart, I believe you. I'll always believe you. And if anyone so much as dares to look at you the wrong way again tomorrow, they'll have to deal with me." He pauses to press a quick kiss to your damp forehead, closing his eyes mometarily at the comforting heat of your skin, at the tiniest hint of lemony perfume that still clings to you after everything that you two did in the past hour.
A small smile spreads over his lips. "And even if it wasn't all innocent, you know I'd only be flattered my beautiful Physics teacher had those thoughts about me. And no I don't mean Miller before you say it."
You burst out laughing, and the sound makes Steve's heart soar, a rush of warmth and affection overwhelming his senses till he can't stop the stupid laugh escaping his own lips too.
And as he lies there, with you cuddled to his chest, laughing together in each other's arms, Steve can't think of anything else he could want more than the wonderful girl he hoped to call his own very soon.
"Steve?" You ask once the laughter's dwindled to just amusement lining your voices.
"Yeah?"
"About being your beautiful Physics teacher.... I-uhh.... already spoke to Miller earlier today about not being able to tutor you anymore, but ONLY cause I thought you'd been the one to do all that shit and I-"
Steve groans.
A/N: Sorrrrry to everyone who expected proper smut after the poll I put out! I was planning on it, and even wrote a few paras, but I felt it seemed better this way! I really really hope you enjoyed it, and hoped it was therapy enough after the last part
Also, if you have any more requests about these two, I'd love to work on them! I'm also open to taking general Steve requests, so hit me with your ideas!
Gentle reminder that likes, comments, reblogs all make me reallllly realllly happy!
Warnings: Angst, fluff, King Steve days, dual pov- Steve and reader, set before the events of season 1, no use of y/n
A/N: I'm really, really sorry for this. Hope you walk out of this sane, and if you don't, I'll pay for therapy.
Summary: When Steve Harrington finds himself failing his last three Physics tests, his teacher gives him two options: take her assigned tutor or fail her subject completely. And it just so happens: you're the assigned tutor in question. You're perfect for it: smart, intelligent, a great tutor, Steve will be passing his worst subject in no time. Only issue: you're hopelessly infatuated with him.
"Steve, I'd like you to stay back for a minute, please."
Steve Harrington pauses mid-sentence, having been in the middle of recounting an incident to Tommy and Carol that reinforced how much of an asshole his dad was, but the sound of his Physics teacher, Mrs. Miller calling him back in that no-good tone made him turn.
"Oho, you're done for, man," Tommy scoffs, slapping him on the back, a shit-eating grin splitting his freckled face. Beside him, Carol blew out her bubblegum with a loud, mocking pop.
"Shut up," Steve mutters, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, but inside, his mind was racing.
"Wonder what he's in trouble for now," Carol sings, resting her chin on Tommy's shoulder while he grabbed both their bags.
"Maybe he was finally caught cheating off of that four eyes he sits next to- what was his name again? Mark? Mace?"
"Mav-"
"Okay, shut up you two, get out of here," Steve says, playfully aggressive on the outside, smacking a hand against Tommy's chest as if the whole thing was one big joke- a mere inconvenience.
But as he watched them finally saunter out along with the rest of the class, the tiny room growing quieter by the second, he allowed some of his worry to show on his face.
Physics was one of his biggest weaknesses- no surprise there considering he could barely figure out Maths and Chemistry, so Physics was naturally out of the question.
What was concerning though, was that he had failed the last three tests in a row, and he may not be good with numbers, but he could very well guess three fat zeroes could not have done his year average in the goddamned subject any favours.
"Right, Harrington," Miller suddenly began in her clipped voice, and Steve realized with a dull jolt that they were now the only two people in the room.
Steve walked over to her, wondering if any of his 'King Steve' charm would work on the stern, spectacled, grey haired woman whose glare seemed to be as lethal as her subject. He decided to give it a shot- Carol was always going on about how she slept her way to passing her classes, maybe he could try the more innocent version of that.
"Mrs. Miller?" Steve asked, flashing her his award winning smile, one that coupled with his flowy, curled hair made all the ladies swoon.
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Harrington. You're failing my class."
Not this lady, it seems.
"You were barely scraping by earlier, Steve," she continues, tilting her head up to look him straight in the eye, "but now it seems you're only headed further south. At this rate, I do not see you passing Physics at the end of the year."
Steve's smile vanishes instantly, an uneasy feeling settling low in his chest. This is what he was worried about. He didn't particularly care much about his grades as long as he passed, but if he didn't- let's just say his dad would be promoted from just 'asshole' to a 'Grade-A Asshole'.
"You- you wouldn't fail me, Mrs. Miller, would you?" Steve asks, a little desperately, and a little futile too, considering she'd made it very clear she did not see him passing her subject this year.
"You know I would, Steve," she says forebodingly, looking up at him through her rectangular glasses. "Which is why-," she pulls out a small notepad from inside her desk and flips through it, till she finds the page she was looking for. "I think it would be best if you got yourself a tutor."
Steve blinks. He hadn't expected that.
Miller pulls out the paper from her notepad and hands it to Steve, who takes it from her wordlessly.
On it, a single name's written in scratchy red ink, next to his own.
Something stirs faintly in the back of Steve's mind. He may have heard the name before... maybe.... maybe Carol mentioned her as one of the annoying, nerdy girls in her Biology class, who knew all the answers and wasn't afraid to show that she did.
"She's one of the top scorers in Physics, Mr. Harrington- brilliant, if I may say so. I asked her if she'd be open to tutoring you three days a week, and lucky for you, she said she'd be happy to."
Steve looks up at Miller, a little unsure of what to make of all this.
"She said she's available today from 3 to 4. You'll find her in the library, and you can take it from there."
"Right..." he mutters, mentally cancelling the coffee date he was supposed to go on with Laurie... or was it Amy?
As if reading his thoughts, Miller's gaze narrows.
"If anyone can help you, Harrington, it's her. I expect you to take this seriously- whether you pass or fail my subject depends on this, after-all. I better hear that you met her in the library promptly at three, and spent a good hour studying. Don't waste your time, or hers."
For the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes, you look up from your textbook to glance at your watch.
Five minutes to three.
Your heart makes an unusual jump in your chest, which you immediately chide yourself for.
Tutoring. You were here to tutor Steve Harrington in Physics, your favourite subject. A subject he was failing, you desperately try to remind yourself.
But it was no use.
Your heart wouldn't let up on its unusual rhythm, and your nerves refused to stay still- your entire body felt like a ball of red, nervous energy.
Nothing you did could make you forget the fact that you were about to speak, for the first time in your life, to the boy you'd had a massive crush on for nearly a year.
And how could you not? Steve Harrington was one of the most handsome men you'd ever seen in your life. With those perfectly tousled brown hair, swept to the side in the way that a single curl always fell by his left eye like the most perfect imperfection you'd ever seen. Those coffee eyes you'd only ever admired from afar, and those beautiful, beautiful lips, stretched into a gleaming smile that made you swoon whenever you saw it.
When Miller had asked you to tutor him, you could barely hold in the startled gasp that threatened to escape your lips. Spending an hour a day, three days a week with the most popular guy in the school who you happened to hopelessly admire?
You couldn't pass on the opportunity.
You'd tutored others before too- you quite liked the job, in fact. Sharing knowledge about something you loved with others always meant a fun hour spent- atleast for you. But tutoring Steve was a whole other story.
You weren't unpopular or lonely, by any means. You may be a nerd, but you had friends, those who had the same interests as you, or were, at the very atleast, sincere about what they did. You weren't the shy type- you never had been. And you never gave a shit about what others thought of you, so the ones who did have an issue with you mostly left you alone.
But there was something about Steve Harrington that flipped a switch inside you. You'd never been brave enough to speak to him.
For one, you didn't exactly trust yourself to speak like a sane human being around him.
Secondly, you were scared of what you'd find if you did interact with him. Steve Harrington's reputation and friend circle preceded him- pompous rich kids who threw around their parents' money like water, frequented parties every other day, indulged in alcohol, smoking, drugs... You hoped Steve wasn't like that, you really did. Maybe you couldn't see his true personality through the heart eyes you always seemed to get as you looked at him. Or maybe he genuinely wasn't like that....
Whatever the matter may be, you weren't willing to test either of your theories, and merely contented yourself by writing about him in your diary.
But today? Both your theories would be tested.
The sound of your name being spoken snaps you out of your trance. You startle, and your open textbook falls to the ground with a loud crash and a tangle of pages.
"Shit," you curse, scrambling off your chair and bending down to snatch your book up from the ground.
"Sorry, did I startle you?" A warm, velvety, perfectly-ordinarily-attractive masculine voice speaks from above you.
A voice you know all too well.
Coming from the lips face you know all too well.
You rise hastily, your book clutched weakly in your hand, as your eyes meet ones that have featured in way too many of your dreams.
Your insides do a funny little somersault.
But you recover quickly enough, a part of your brain still functioning enough to remind you to not make more of a fool of yourself than you already had.
"Oh- uh no... well yeah, but I'm alright," you say... casually.... letting out a tiny giggle at the end.
Steve raises his brows, a half smile spreading over his lips. "Yeah? Well I'm glad to hear I didn't scare my tutor before we even started with the Physics." His voice was low, words you could only describe as flowing like liquid honey, his eyes boring straight into yours as he extended his hand. "I'm Steve," he says, "Steve Harrington."
You breathe out your own name, your hand automatically rising to meet Steve's.
You fight the urge to combust as your fingers touch his for the first time. His warm hand-so much larger than yours- feels like a blanket carressing, enveloping your skin, a firm, confident grip that sends tingles down your arm.
The touch lingers a moment too long.
Or maybe that's just your delusion acting up, you think, as you both finally let go off each other's hand.
Steve pulls out the chair next to yours and you're quick to follow, taking your seat carefully, all too aware of yourself so you don't accidently knock over something or bump your knees into the table or screech the chair too loud and appear clumsy.
"Right," Steve says once you're both settled. "So, ma'am, you're probably aware that I'm failing Physics."
You nearly shiver at the way he addressed you. Ma'am. But you can't show how affected you are, so you simply shrug, shooting him an apologetic smile.
"That's how Miller started the conversation. But don't worry," you add quickly, a teasing glint appearing in your eyes, "you're dealing with the best in the tutoring business. You'll be getting straight As in no time. Or atleast straight Bs."
Steve chuckles, and you feel a pang of victory in your chest. You made Steve Harrington laugh.
"Alright then, miracle worker," he says lowly, mahogany eyes twinkling. "I trust you."
The simple three words send a shiver down your spine. He trusts you. You know you won't be able to mask the shock on your face, so you quickly turn to your textbook, flipping it open to the index.
"So... what is it you're currently studying?" you ask casually. You expect him to pull out his own book then, but much to your second shock of the afternoon, Steve scoots his chair closer to you, leaning his head so he can read the topics in your book.
A delicious heady scent invades your senses, a musky leather that makes your toes curl and your one of your hands clench into fists underneath the table.
"Uhh, I think Miller was going on about some nucleus... atom... thingy.... alpha beta or-"
"Ohh, modern physics, right!" You say, recognition drawning over you, and you quickly flip through the pages, tapping your palm lightly against the worn text once you've found the chapter.
"Right, okay then," you breathe out. "Before we start, I need to know you know what you're studying. What do you already know of modern physics?"
Steve blinks. "Uhh.... physics that's modern... recently discovered stuff?"
"Which entails...?"
"Uhh... spaceships?... The recent space developments? You know, cause... all these were recently... invented... modern physics..."
You know then that this was going to be a long, long afternoon.
Slanted sunlight streaked through the long, patterned windows of the school library, falling across your table in rectangular strips. Dust motes danced in the illuminated area, buzzing with energy that Steve was almost certain they had leached from him.
You were still hunched over the thick, worn textbook, your brow furrowed in concentration as you read over a paragraph you would subsequently relay to him in simpler terms.
Cause that's what the past hour had been like. Steve being absolutely clueless as to half the things mentioned in the book, which could be in Russian, for all he knew.
But you were a champ about it. Never once did you snap at him, or mock his cluelessness, which was what he'd expected you to be like based on everything Carol told him when he had told her and Tommy that you were going to be tutoring him.
An nerdy, arrogant, insufferable know-it-all who looked down upon anyone she deemed stupid.
But so far, if that's what you were really like, Steve was yet to see it.
So far, Steve had known absolutely nothing about Modern Physics- unless you counted knowing atoms, electrons and protons were words in the English language.
Honestly, Steve wouldn't have blamed you if you'd quit halfway through when he said he'd figured atoms were the size of small marbles, like the model Miller had once shown them to make them understand some molecular structure. But you didn't even laugh at him, atleast not unkindly, or in a way that made him feel as stupid as he was.
No, you'd only let out a tiny adorable chuckle that lit up your whole face- especially your eyes, that shone like little stars as you looked at him, your head tilted to the side. At that moment, Steve felt like he could make a thousand more such stupid claims if it meant you would laugh like that once more.
Steve couldn't look away after that.
He listened to every word you said, actually retaining Physics for the first time in what seemed like forever.
You had a way of explaining every topic in an idiot-proof way, repeating things again and again till they they finally made sense in his brain. It's almost like you could predict exactly what implications he would make from what was written, and cleared away any doubts before they could befuddle him.
He tried not to think of how your voice reminded him of liquid honey, a thick, sweet ripple of liquid gold cascading over his mind. He tried not to stare at your lips as you spoke, coloured a pretty, berry red shade that suited the rest of your face impossibly well.
"Okay, so basically, this part explains why Rutherford's model of the atom failed," you stated, looking up from your textbook. "Basically, just like Thompson's model, there were things even Rutherford's model couldn't explain. One major fl-"
You pause when you see Steve roll his eyes.
"Seriously? This guy's model was also a failure? What's the point of teaching it then?"
You raise a brow, a challenging glint in your eyes. "Well, unless you know how something was developed, how would you be able to understand it fully?"
"Just teach the final product, that's the correct one anyway, isn't it?" Steve shrugs, resting his chin on his hands, leaning forward on the table.
"But what that really be beneficial at the end of the day?" You ask, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Think about it, Steve. You would know what the scientist discovered, not what led him to the discovery. You'd never know how these things work then, how future discoveries could take place. We wouldn't learn from their journey, their mistakes, know how to avoid certain challenges, or how to go about anything really. The goal of Science isn't to create passive beings with just knowledge fed into them like a vending machine. It's to inspire others to do greater things, and that's the beauty of it all."
Steve couldn't do anything but stare at you spoke- stare at the pure passion in your eyes as you spoke about something you loved. Your words wash over him, and he understands, he really does. How could he not, when you spoke of it so beautifully, with so much conviction in your honeyed tone, the warm sunlight catching loose strands of hair that fell around your face, framing it in the most perfectly imperfect way he'd ever known?
Some time later, as you two packed up your things, and you smiled at Steve as you agreed to meet up the same time tomorrow, Steve realized something.
Physics was a subject he could definitely grow to like.
In a matter of a couple of weeks, you couldn't remember what it was like to feel nervous around Steve.
All your initial jitters about meeting the boy you'd had a massive crush on were merely memories of a time when you hadn't known who he really was.
Not because you didn't like him anymore. If anything, your attraction to Steve Harrington had only multiplied tenfold every hour you spent in his company.
Back then, it was only physical attraction. Now?
Now you knew how Steve had a habit of colouring in the margins when he was actually focused on his work, how he only ever used a black fountain pen to write and the ball pens you preferred made his already scratchy handwriting practically illegible. You knew the secret to his iconic hair, which you managed to somehow coax out of him in conversation before he even realized what he had revealed.
You knew one of the tiny freckles on Steve's cheeks was actually a very inconspicuous mole.
You knew how the impossible darkness of his eye colour wasn't absolute- his pupil was ringed with the faintest hazel tint, invisible until you looked close enough.
You knew the way those same eyes sometimes lingered a moment too long on yours even after you'd finished talking. Or how they'd sometimes drop to your lips as you'd explain something to him. Or how they'd watch when you were seemingly engrossed deeply in the text.
But you noticed. You noticed it all, and you tried to convince yourself this was all your delusion. It wasn't a far reach to think this was all in your head- maybe your brain wanted to make up something where there wasn't anything because God, you wanted it so much.
But instinctively? You knew.
You knew you weren't imagining things.
Steve Harrington, no matter how much he tried to conform to his 'King Steve' image, was not like the others he hung out with.
So when on a random Thursday afternoon, you got stuck in the rain- you considered it a sign from God.
It had been raining lightly since nearly 2pm, and you did not have an umbrella. It was barely a drizzle by the time you had to leave school, and you liked a little rain- after all, what damage could it do?
Turns out, a lot, if that little rainfall turned into a torrential downpour in the time it took you to walk one block: just the right amount of distance so that running back to school and running home would be equally dooming.
Just as you're contemplating all the shitty life decisions that have led you to this moment, trying to futilely shield your bag with your arms, a car pulls up beside you.
And not just any car. The latest burgundy BMW, the pride and joy of none other than...
The window drops down a few inches and a familiar face you absolutely adored peaks out through it.
... Steve Harrington.
"Ugh, sorry I'm making a mess over your floors..." you mutter, frowning as you pad over the marble flooring of Steve's bedroom, the embarrassment at leaving a trail of wet footprints and rainwater in his pristine mansion preventing you from realizing the sheer monumentality of being in Steve Harrington's bedroom.
"Don't apologize, it's not your fault," Steve says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click, sealing you off from the rest of the empty house.
Steve's room was just as you'd expected it to be. Huge, spacious, twice the size of your own, a checked wallpaper adorning the walls- luxurious, beautiful.
"I feel bad enough that I ruined your car seats," you wince, sliding your bag- drenched despite your best (useless) efforts- to the ground, beside his rug.
"I'll.... deal with it, don't worry about it," he chuckles after a small pause. "In the meanwhile... we need to get you some warm clothes."
Steve strides over to what you presume is the door to his closet, and disappears into it. From where you're standing, you can't see into the space, save for the warm yellow light emanating from inside it, before Steve reappears a second later, holding a stack of folded clothes and a small red towel in his arms. An outwardly apologetic smile plays on his lips, but you can't deny the hint of... eagerness... teasing in his expression.
"Hope you're fond of oversised sweatshirts and sweatpants," he shrugs, extending the clothes to you.
You take it from him automatically, but inside, your brain seems to have short circuited, finally having caught on to fact that you're in Steve's bedroom.
Dripping wet.
And he's giving you his clothes.
His clothes.
"Steve," you whisper, but you don't know what you'll say after. No? You can't exactly refuse even if you didn't want to, cause you couldn't stay in your sopping wet garments without freezing to death. And you didn't want to refuse him anyway. You really, really didn't.
"You can change in the bathroom, it's right there-" Steve says, pointing to the other closed door in the wall, "-and you can put your clothes in the laundry basket when you're done, I'll get them washed and hand them over to you in school tomorrow."
You nod wordlessly, and somehow manage a tight, nervous smile, before hurrying over to the bathroom and locking the door.
Your mind is reeling. Spinning. Marvelling at how filmic all of this was.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
You snap out of your musings with a jolt at that the last thought.
You're delusional, you think for the umpteenth time in the last two weeks, absolutely delusional with a capital.... D....
You quickly strip out of your sopping wet clothes, mentally commending your past self who decided on your cardigan as part of your outfit that morning, because underneath it, your white shirt is completely see-through, your dark bra starkly visible from underneath it.
You chuck all your clothes- cardigan, shirt, skirt- into the laundry basket, before grabbing the towel and quickly wiping yourself with it, marvelling at how soft it was.
Once you're done, you set it on the spacious washbasin counter- and then hesitate, staring at the neatly folded clothes stacked beside it. Steve's clothes.
While your thoughts earlier may have been stupid, there was still no denying how absurd this was.
Terrifying.
But a little exciting too.
You slowly pick up the plain pale blue sweatshirt and stare at it for a second. At the seamless, expensive blue material, and you find yourself imagining Steve wearing it. Casually sitting on his bed, his dark hair tousled from his usual style... and against your better judgement, you bring it to your nose, breathing in its scent. Much to your delight, it's his perfume- the same one you're all too familiar with now, and absolutely, absolutely love. The heady, musky, leathery scent invades your senses and your stomach clenches, fingers tightening around the fabric.
God, get a fucking grip.
You change into Steve's clothes as quickly as you can. The sweatshirt falls past your hips to the tops of your thighs, and you have to tighten the drawstring firmly around your waist so the pants don't fall off even as they bunch up around your ankles, but atleast you're comfortable.
And you don't look half bad either, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror.
Your hair are drenched, but once you pat them dry with your towel and squeeze out most of the water.... you certainly don't look like a raccoon left out in the room like you would have if your mascara hadn't been waterproof.
Huh. Some investments were worth it.
Once satisfied with your appearance, you unlock the bathroom door and step back out into Steve's bedroom.
He's still there, but his back is turned to you as he stands at his desk, fiddling with books... your books?
He turns around before you can properly make out what he's doing.
"Oh hey, I was just drying ou-"
Steve breaks off mid-sentence as his eyes fall on you, standing awkwardly by the door.
His lips part, and your heart skips a beat as his eyes run down your body and back up.
He's checking you out.
Steve Harrington. Is checking. You out.
"I- I was just drying out your books," Steve finishes lamely, his eyes drifting back up to yours, but his gaze is still a little unfocused.
For some reason, the sight gives you the confidence you need to behave as you generally do around him now- normally.
"Oh, thanks Steve," you reply, your voice steady and pleasant sounding. You walk over to where he is, your gaze falling over all your textbooks that he's spread over the table, the pages curling and damp.
"Shit..." you mutter, gingerly flipping through the pages of your biology notebook, the ink slightly smudged. But it's still legible, much to your relief.
"It could've been worse," Steve says from beside you. "If you used fountain pens like I do..." he trails off, the insinuation clear.
"See? Ball pens have their charm."
"Never denied it."
You giggle, while Steve lets out a soft laugh. There's a small silence.
"Do you want something to drink?" Steve asks. "You must be cold, I can make you a coffee, if you'd like?"
"Oh... I don't really like coffee."
"You don't like coffee?.... Wow okay... uhh... tea?"
".....No."
"Is this one of those moments where you'll come out and say you prefer whiskey?"
"That would actually be really cool. But I'm going to have to pass. A hot chocolate sounds nice though, if you have cocoa powder?"
"We have every possible ingredient for a good coffee, ma'am, and lucky for you, chocolate happens to be one of them."
Normally, when you want hot chocolate, you go to a cafe. Rarely do you venture into the kitchen to make yourself something more than a simple sandwich or get a glass of milk.
Never did you think you'd be in Steve Harrington's kitchen, with Steve Harrington, stirring some milk heating on a stove while he whisked a bowl of liquified chocolate powder till he was satisfied the mixture had no lumps.
To add to it all, the soundtrack to your evening was Bryan Adams on the turntable, because Steve insisted he couldn't work without some music to listen to.
So yes, all things considered, this was absurd.
"Alright, I think the milk is warm enough," you say slowly, squinting at the liquid for a second, before turning the stove off.
"The chocolate seems to be done too," Steve remarks, rapping the whisk sharply against the bowl to get the chocolate still stuck to the spokes into the main mixture, although it remained stubbornly stuck to it.
If you were alone, you'd just lick it off, but you wonder how Steve would react to that.
You spare him a glance, and he's staring at the chocolate with a look you can only assume is similar to yours.
Your eyes meet.
And you promptly burst out laughing, knowing you're thinking the exact same thing.
"You want to do the honours or should I?" You ask, biting your lip to control the laughter threatening to bubble out of you.
"Well, I am a gentleman, so I'll let you-," he extends the whisk to you with a low bow, "-the lady, lick the chocolate off the whisk."
"Why thank you, Sir Harrington," you reply, eyebrows raised in the most pompous expression you can put on. "Your graciousness is a... delight to witness." You pluck the whisk out of his hands, and looking him straight in the eye, you flick your tongue out and run it along the thin spokes, lapping up the chocolate into your mouth.
You don't know where this new found confidence is coming from, but like before, it seems to stem from and be fueled by the fact that Steve is staring at you with that look in his eyes. You can't quite place it, but the humour vanishes from them in an instant, the dark brown appearing nearly black.
You tilt your head to the side, the atmosphere all of a sudden sober.
"Ready to assemble the hot chocolate?" You ask softly.
Steve exhales, still looking at you with that same expression before nodding.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says breathily, finally breaking your stare to grab two mugs from a shelf on the wall. He places them on the counter, while you lift the boiler containing the milk and pour out equal amounts in each of the cups.
"Moment of truth," you mutter, as Steve grabs the bowl of chocolate, and with a few firm taps to the counter, he tips it over one of the cups.
The viscous liquid dribbles down the side of the bowl, swirling into the milk, before Steve moves on to the next. Once he's done, you grab a spoon and scoop any remaining chocolate from it into the cups, flashing him a sheepish smile.
Steve, meanwhile, reaches for the sugar.
"Want any?" He asks, and you notice his voice is back to normal, but his eyes still hold that same darkened look. The sight thrills you more than the melted chocolate syrup had.
"Uhh I'll pass, this is gonna be sweet enough without the sugar," you chuckle.
"Looks like we won't need this then," Steve shrugs, putting it back.
"You won't take any?"
"Do I look like someone who takes a lot of sugar?" He raises his brow, sliding the sugar back into place before flashing you what you assume is a deliberate charming smile.
You laugh, a warm feeling growing in your chest. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington."
His smile softens. "And you're beautiful," he says, followed by your name as if it's the prettiest word in the English language, and your heart skips a beat.
In the background, the old vinyl record began to play Straight from the Heart, the soft strums of the guitar filling the kitchen. You breathe out slowly.
"Steve..." you whisper, and for a second you two just stand there, staring at each other. For a second, you remember the two reasons you'd once had for never being able to speak to him. Your own nervousness was now a thing of the distant past, never to be spoken of again. And Steve's personality, that he'd be just like his friends- just as arrogant, air-headed, spoilt?
Maybe he was a little of all those things. But at that moment, as you looked into Steve's eyes, those impossibly dark brown orbs ringed with a faint hazel, you knew none of it mattered.
Because deep down, you knew none of those things defined him. If they did, you wouldn't be here right now, in his kitchen, licking chocolate off of whisks, listening to Bryan Adams, looking into his eyes and thinking of how every tutoring session with him had been some of the highlights of your week.
And maybe you always knew that. You always knew Steve Harrington was inherently good, and that's why you hadn't hesitated giving your heart to him long before you ever poured over your Physics textbook one afternoon in the library.
Within the next hour, you and Steve are seated in his living room, sipping your hot chocolates and nibbling on cookies, while the rain outside continues to patter against the huge French windows in the vast space.
"This has to be my new favourite thing to do," you mumble, wiping your face with the back of your hand to rid yourself of any residual cookie crumbs. "Drinking hot chocolate in the rain, listening to Bryan Adams...."
"In the company of Steve Harrington..." Steve adds with a wink. "Or is that not part of the 'favourite' experience?"
You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin in ostensible contemplation. "Hmm... let me see... Apart from the fact that this whole situation is kind of crazy," you smile at him. "Yes, maybe I do see you as part of my favourite thing to do." You realize what you've said a second after you say it, as Steve's brows rise.
Your eyes widen into saucers. "Wait no! Shit that came out wrong!" You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling your cheeks heat up. Great, just great.
"Well I'm flattered-"
"Oh, shut up!" You groan, running a hand down your face. "That just- that just come out wrong... I-I didn't mean doing you as in doing you, just as in you're part of my new favourite thing to d-... Ughhh shit-" Steve's hollering with laughter by now, and you're sure you're the colour of healthy, red tomato by now.
"I didn't mean that! As in- as in you're part of what makes this experience a favourite one! Not- not like thing to do as in conventional meaning of doing someone, because th-that would be crazy-" You're rambling now, and you don't notice Steve's calmed down by now, and he's saying your name again and again, willing you to calm down as well. You rarely get this flustered, but embarrassing yourself in front of a person you like is definitely grounds for an exception.
"I-I mean... us doing, that's... that's crazy cause like we're- we're us, from two completely different worlds. You're- you're Steve Harrington, King Steve of Hawkins High, Captain of the Swim Team and Basketball Star, and I'm- I'm me, nerdy, an unapologetic know-it-all, Captain of the Chess Club, and we're just entirely different and there's now way you'd ever be-"
Your ramblings die off abruptly, lips frozen in the ghost of your last word.
Your mind goes blank- no, it short-circuits, because it tends to do that when Steve's Harrington's face is inches from yours, body mere inches from yours where you two are on the couch, hands holding onto your arms.
He says your name again, eyes boring into your wide ones, and when he speaks, you can smell the sweet chocolate on his breath.
"I don't think it's that wild an idea."
If you'd thought you were shocked a minute ago, you don't know what you'd call this. Hearing Steve say doi- being with you was not a totally crazy idea.... Of course you'd suspected he sort of liked you judging by how he'd behave around you, but still. Thinking and hearing it out of his mouth are two very different things.
"Steve," you breathe out weakly. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"But-"
His grip on your arm tightens. "Don't tell me you haven't felt it too," he says your name again, a silent conviction in his eyes. You hadn't noticed that the constant, loud pattering of the rain against the glass windows had stopped, but now, the silence is louder than the noise had been, echoing through the huge room.
"But-"
"I don't care about who you are! Tell me you don't feel it and I'll stop."
"I.... I feel it too," you whisper. You've barely got the words out before he's closing the distance between you two, and his lips are pressed against yours- warm, firm, moving against yours with an insistence that steals your breath. A hot jolt like electricity zaps straight through your body, pooling low in your belly, and before you know it, your hands are flying up to his face and pulling his mouth down into yours, kissing him back with a heat that is a product of every moment you've spent thinking about him, every feverent word you've written about him in your diary, every smile passed between you two, and every time you've looked at each other like you've always wanted something more.
You feel his tongue slide across your lower lip and you can't control the soft whimper that parts your lips. Steve takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, a low groan emanating from his throat, and you feel the vibrations against your fingers where you're clutching tightly onto him.
Steve tastes like sugar, sweet, sweet sugar as his tongue explores your mouth, while his hands slide down your body, as if mapping every inch of it. Each touch, even through the thick material of his sweatshirt, sends tingles racing through your veins, till his hands settle low on your waist, fingers gripping whatever they can find.
It's only when the pressure of his hands on your waist becomes a tug, and he's lifting you up so you're seated on his lap, does some semblance of thought finally return to your brain, and you pull apart. Immediately, you suck in a deep breath and Steve does the same. Undeniably, breathing had been the last thing on your mind just a second ago.
Your body is buzzing. Your heart is going absolutely crazy in your chest, beating wildly against your ribs, and your brain seems to have melted from the heat coursing through you.
But when Steve's hands move from their place on your waist and slip under your sweatshirt, it's like a switch flips in your head.
Suddenly, you're all too aware of the fact that you're sitting in his lap, so close his hair tickle your forehead, his warm breath on your face, his taste in your mouth.
Your thoughts from before suddenly resurface in your mind.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
And simple as that, you panic.
One minute you're clinging onto Steve like he's your anchor, and the next you're sliding off of him, stumbling to your feet.
Steve looks so taken aback that he's not quick enough to stop you before you're already off of him.
"What-"
"The rain's stopped. I should go," you quicky mumble, unable to look Steve in the eye.
"Wait-no-" Steve starts, but you don't wait. By the time he gets to his feet, you're already running up the stairs to his room, flinging open his bedroom door and barging inside. You grab your bag- still damp, but you can't do anything about that. Eyes unfocused, you haphazardly stuff your books into your bag in a frenzy. When you're done, you zip it closed and fling it over your shoulder and rush out the door, just as Steve reaches the top of the stairs.
"Wait-" Steve calls out your name, but you just shoot him a quick apologetic smile you're sure doesn't reach your eyes. "It's getting late, Steve, my parents are probably worrying. I should go home."
You rush past him, bounding down the stairs.
"Wait, I'll drive you home-"
"No need," you call over your shoulder. "It's close enough, I'll walk."
You reach the front door, and when your hand is the knob, you suddenly pause. You turn around, finding Steve standing a few feet away, his lips parted and red, hair a bit of a mess, cheeks flushed. He's never looked more handsome to you.
"I had a great time today, Steve," you manage to say, and he blinks.
"I did too..." he murmurs, and you give him a last quick smile, before pulling the door open and bounding out, past the tall gate, and out onto the road.
You run all the way back to your place dodging puddles, never stopping once to catch your breath. And when you're home, you rush upstairs to your room after quickly letting your mom know you're home, before locking yourself in your bedroom.
Your mind swirls all evening, first from pure, unadulterated shock, then disbelief and then a giddiness that fills you up with so much energy that you jump on your bed for a few minutes, before shrieking into your pillow.
By nightfall, you're regretting ever leaving his house the way you did. Or actually leaving his house at all.
It's only before bed that you realize your Chemistry textbook is missing. You look everywhere, in your drawers, cupboards, even under your bed, before realizing you'd taken it to school. But when you check your bag, it's not there.
Maybe you left it at Steve's home. Come to think of it, he had mentioned you'd had so many books in your bag his desk couldn't accommodate them all, so he'd kept some to dry on his nightstand. In your haste while leaving his house, you'd forgotten to bring home the ones on his nightstand.
You mentally curse yourself. You spend the next fifteen minutes taking inventory of all your books. Your chemistry textbook and notes were the only one missing along with....
Your stomach drops.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Your diary.
Your diary, that contained every single one of your thoughts, that you carried around with you everywhere you went because you didn't want to let something so sensitive away from your person.
Your diary, which contained every single thing you'd ever thought about Steve. Every embarrassing story, imagination, musing....
Now at Steve's house.
But Steve wasn't like that! The diary very clearly, had your name on it, followed by the fact that it was your diary, and to keep out, in bold letters.
Steve wouldn't invade your privacy.
Right?
Right. You trusted Steve.
Steve would return it to you the next day, along with your books and clothes.
You tell yourself that as you turn your light off and get into bed.
The next morning, you wake up wanting nothing more than to kiss Steve again. To sit on his lap and have his lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hair tickling your forehead, hands gripping your waist.
You don't just want him. You crave him like he's the air you need to live.
You practically skip your way to school, your mood the best it's been in a long time, a giddy, stupid smile playing on your lips the entire time.
And as you enter through the school gates into the hallways, you have only one goal in mind.
Find Steve.
Find Steve and tell him yesterday was the best kiss of your life and that you'd very much like to do it again and again everyday for the rest of your-
"Hey-" you hear an unfamiliar voice call your name and you turn, to see Chad Andrews walking over to you- a jock you vaguely remember from Home Room.
"Uhh... hi?" You say uncertainly.
"Always knew you were a nerd," he starts, "But I didn't know your true calling was romance author!"
....
Huh?
What in the- Before you can ask him what he means, he's already walking off down the hall, chuckling to himself.
Weirdo, you think to yourself, and you're about to continue to look for Steve, but before you can, you hear your name called once more.
You flip around to see Becky Willis, member of the cheerleading squad and bitch extraordinaire, walking towards you, her posse in tow, a smirk plastered on her face.
"Look, girls, it's the stalker," she says, her wide doe eyes filled with mirth as the others around her laugh.
You look over your shoulder, wondering if there's anyone else in this school with the same name as yours that you're only finding out about today.
"Aww, look how innocent she seems," Becky pouts, finally face to face with you. The other girls around her giggle once more.
You're still too confused to speak, your mind struggling to come down from the Steve-high and catch up to what was going on.
"What are you talking about?" You finally get out, your brow wrinkling in perplexity.
"Uhh... what a creep you are?" she exclaims, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I always knew nerds were just wannabe freaks, but you take it to another level."
You blink.
Was she high? You seriously consider it.
"She's got a real future as a writer too," one of the girls adds.
What WRITER? What famous writing had you done recently that everyone seems to be talking about?
You're about to voice those thoughts, your patience wearing thin, when one of the girls scrunches up her face, throwing her head back dramatically.
"His eyes, oh his eyes," she cries out. "His eyes the colour of ground coffee, and his voice, his honeyed tone falling on my ears-"
"Blessing my very existence!" another one cries out, with the same dramatic flair. "I see him across the cafeteria, talking, laughing, leaning back on his chair with that oh-so-sexy smirk!"
A cold dread begins to creep up your spine. A trickle of familiarity pours into your brain, but you try to force it out, refusing to accept that reality. You can't.
"What are you on about?" You spit out harshly. "Did you fall off the top of the pyramid while cheerleading and hit your head?"
"Oh dear diary," one of the girls continues mournfully, ignoring you, her eyebrows wound together as she cups her cheeks with her hands. "I'm having trouble sleeping tonight, sleep refuses to come to me. So naturally, as I lie here idly, he comes to mind. I think about him, his hair, his eyes, that beautiful smile, that beautiful body, and all of it just. makes me. so. wet!"
You didn't write that last part. You know you didn't. You never wrote anything remotely disturbing or disgusting. But the rest of it?
It doesn't matter whether you want to accept that reality or not. Either way, it's hitting you in the face right now.
"That ring a bell, honey?" Becky sings, her voice mockingly sweet. "Go take a look at the notice board in the hallway if you need more of a reminder."
Your legs feel weak, as if your knees could collapse any moment, but as soon as you hear 'notice board', you're pushing past the girls, running down the hallway, their laughter and shrieking following you.
"Hey, nice handwriting, Shakespeare!" Someone throws your way, but it all just translates to a buzzing in your ears. The hollering, the laughter- till you're skidding to a stop in front of the large notice board.
All the usual content it's supposed to have- flyers, pamphlets, club practice times, posters, everything's hidden.
Hidden underneath snowy white pages roughly ripped from their margins and stuck to the board with pins, over everything else.
You see it. You see loopy words and sentences written in your own steady hand as you poured your heart out about Steve Harrington. Because that's what it was. Pages upon pages of everything you'd written about him in the past year, torn from your diary.
The diary you'd left at Steve's house yesterday. The same day you'd made hot chocolate with him, worn his clothes and kissed him in his living room.
Your feet feel frozen to the ground.
But maybe it's adrenaline- the same one that's making your hands shake- that fuels you.
That forces you to move your feet down the hall and run. Far, far away from here.
You run.
A/N: Let me know your thoughts on this, I'd love to hear them, and leave a comment or ask if you'd like a Part 2, although I feel a bit evil and may just leave it here.
A gentle reminder that likes, comments, reblogs, asks, all make me realllllly reallllly happy
If you're reading this on 12th December, WISH ME, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!
