3:31 (i’m still your favorite right?)
tw/cursing, mention of anxiety, insta love, angst, steve smokes, abrupt ending(?)
or: the one where steve harrington is your neighbor and has a guitar and everything is okay
this was half stolen from a tik tok and i also haven’t written anything in two years so pls keep that in mind.
the midwest was hell.
you of course knew the jokes, even before the long trek over-the hours gripping the steering wheel, the anxiety of your phone somehow fucking you up and towing you the wrong way, losing service hours ago, surrounded by nothing but cornfields and are you going to heaven? signs
and your friends had prepared you before you left; sitting cross legged on your twin bed that you’ve long since outgrown, refolding the same shirt again and again, their voice low, a secret between just you two: “you proved your point, yknow?” their voice had been shaking when they told you, not able to look at you, “you don’t have to-“
you shook your head, an etch a sketch, frantically trying to get the image of fingernails digging into your skin, doors slamming, the burning smell that was permanently stuck up your nose-
this would be different. you told yourself. a change desperately needed. and you would make it work one way or another.
the weather was never happy in the midwest. a day of 90 degrees and bitting wind that made the tree by your room scratch at your window at all hours, as if it was begging to be let in-followed the next day by 50 degrees and tornado watches. it was something you were still trying to figure out.
you knew in your head it was too late to be planting.
mid may and sweat collected on your forehead even though the sun had barely yawned, barely stretched over the street yet, only one side of your face warm. dirt caked over your fingernails that you’d never been able to get out, no matter how much scrubbing and washing you did-
a door slammed closed, the sound of a screen covered door vibrating against the frame, followed by loud footsteps on a patio that sounds like it would break if the culprit stepped a little too far to the left. the sound of a lighter flicking on, a deep inhale and some cursing, banging as the culprit tried to get comfortable.
you held in the eye roll; you’ve been here two months and while you’d never met him, you know he’s pretty restless, never comfortable, doesn’t have a steady sleep schedule and you suspect is more cigarette than human-
“one, two” the voice hummed quietly, “one, two, three, four-“
the strumming was always off to a bad start; his hands shook, especially this early in the morning, when anxiety still nipped at him and kept him up all night, the dark bags under his eyes the prize-
and listen, you’d probably enjoy it-if he could get through more than one line without letting out the worlds heaviest sigh, a string of curse words you thought border on being creative-you don’t think in the few months you’ve been here he’s ever sang more than a line and even that was generous.
the idea comes another month later.
you’ve compromised and instead of a swing in the backyard, laying on an old tattered bath towel, the edges long gave way, more holes than actual material-and it’s late for your neighbor. the sun has gone down and invited the midwest cold that chilled your bones, some kind of deep cold you didn’t know existed. you were trying to romanticize where you were;
when the sun gave way if you concentrated, really stared a long time, tilted your head enough to the left, closed an eye-could make out some constellations. you were trying to map them, to remember their shape and curve and find a home in them, a way to feel less alone, when the sound of the slamming screen door came again.
out of habit you jolted up. second guessing yourself with what time it was, when you checked again, saw you were right, almost 10 at night, you held your breath as you listened to him stumble around, the sound of his guitar slapping the wood of the deck-
the strumming. the cursing. you had it memorized. the heavy sigh he lets out, like he’s frustrated at just himself, can’t get anything right-
you can’t stop yourself. don’t have time to maul it over, to let it seep into you, to make a pros and cons list to see if this is right:
“play some taylor swift.”
your hands are cupped around your mouth and your voice booms, bounces around the houses that are too small, too cramped, too close together-
silence for a long time. long enough your face turns red, you sit up, start rolling your blanket up to hide in shame in your own home-
“are-“ the voice sounds like laughter, like it’s positively ticked, and if you hadn’t heard this voice for so long, you would’ve thought it sounded like it has never been frustrated in its life; all sunshine, all hope: “are you talking to me?”
you sit cross legged, playing with your fingers, weighing the pros and cons:
“i don’t hear anyone else with a guitar.”
the voice laughs, “touché, i guess. i didn’t realize i was taking song requests.”
you sigh: “you’ve been playing the same chords for four months. if you don’t like it, find something else to play.”
he pauses. lets it sit for a second. doesn’t want to erupt there, tell you the song and what it means to him and how it has to be just right, can’t settle for less, won’t settle for less-
“alright,” he plucks at the strings for a second: “bad news, i only know one taylor swift song, and i think only know the chorus.”
“i’ll be the judge of that. continue.”
“yeah? you gonna help sing?”
“i’d rather die,” you say immediately, “play the song.”
“you don’t even know my name-“
“sorry, didn’t realize i needed to know everything for you to play a song. can i have the last four of your social too-“
your cut off by louder strumming now, some confidence you didn’t know existed within them, can see them rocking back and forth with the song through the slants of the gate-
“marry me juliet, we’ll never have to be alone-“
a smile forms over your lips, pulls at the corners and begs for it to curve-
“boooo!” you immediately yell back, “try again. every frat boy at a party knows that song.”
he huffs and you can see him jabbing at the air, his pic in between his teeth: “no no,” be says: “you said: ‘play a taylor swift song!’-“ his voice goes lighter when he does an impression of you, “you never said what song so frankly, you’re disqualified-“
“you can’t disqualify me in my own home!”
“it’s the midwest baby, there’s no rules here,” he talks with his hands, still balancing his guitar on his thigh as he talks, “now if you’d like to put in a request for a specific song, we would potentially be open to it-“
“who the fuck is we? there’s literally just you-“
“like i was saying, we’re open to requests.”
“play out of the woods.”
it’s a demand. not a request.
he hums, still playing gently with the strings: “i don’t think i know that one-“
later, much later, when you two are tangled into sheets, not able to tell what body part belongs to who, vows told under the sheets, he’ll admit he did know it. knew every word, forward and back- but knowing it meant less of you. he’d perform it, you’d hear it, and move on, out of ideas, he’d be the normal one trick pony-
“guess you have some studying to do.”
he laughs. “yeah, i guess so-“
he strums gently and you think you hear part of the song but know you’re overthinking it,
“if i learn it, you’ll sing it, right?”
he’s teasing and it’s obvious, but the smile finally pulls at your lips: “fine. but you have to prove it first.”
he laughs. it sounds like thunder coming in; “it’s a date, sweetheart.”