tit for tat | steve harrington
pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: after a messy breakup, you and steve are constantly at each other's throats. the party is tired of it. themes & warnings: steve being a douche, reader being petty, screaming matches LOL, emotional angst, jealousy ugh protective STEVEEEE we love, eventual resolution since the new season has been approaching ive been on a steve kick so bad guys
steve had never been so bored.
right now, he was sitting in the parking lot of the mall, his shitty AC blowing insufficiently cold air onto his body while robin sat in the passenger seat, flipping through static-ridden radio stations. after the past year of his life, he'd have thought he'd at least be doing something entertaining with his free time.
but no. he was babysitting. again.
well, not technically. the kids were all inside the arcade, old enough now to not need a constant supervisor. but he was the ride. always the ride. and right now, he was waiting on you. you were inside with the kids, having a particularly strong bond with max and will, playing games with them on your off time. plus, you supplied the quarters.
you'd dumped him three months ago in a blaze of shouted heartbreak and slammed doors. now, thanks to the tangled web of friendships in hawkins and the love you had for the kids, he was constantly, unavoidably forced to be around you.
"can you at least try to be civil today?" robin asked, finally settling on a crackly pop station. "my ears are still ringing from the last time you two went at it in the scoops ahoy break room."
"i'm always civil," steve snapped, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "she's the one who starts it."
"she asked you to pass the salt and you told her she was 'seasoned enough with bitterness.'"
"it was a joke!"
"it was a declaration of war, steve."
the arcade doors slid open and you walked out, a vision in your summer dress, a small, victorious smile on your face. still as infuriatingly gorgeous as you'd always been. dustin was trailing behind you, chattering excitedly, no doubt about some high score you’d just helped him achieve. the sight sent a familiar, unwelcome pang through steve’s chest. you looked happy. you looked free.
you spotted the car and your smile tightened into a polite, distant line. the war mask was on. you slid into the backseat, the air in the BMW instantly turning frigid despite the struggling AC.
“took you long enough,” steve muttered, putting the car in reverse.
“some of us were actually having fun, steve,” you said sweetly, buckling your seatbelt. “it’s a novel concept, i know.”
the kids clambered in on either side of you, max having to sit in your lap due to the cramped back seat. you shifted to allow her some space as she looked down at you with pleading blue eyes. they screamed 'not again.'
the silent plea in max's eyes was a gut punch. she, more than any of them, knew what real fighting sounded like, and the last thing she needed was to be trapped in a metal box with another one. you gave her a small, reassuring squeeze, a silent promise to try.
the promise lasted all of five minutes.
the drive was a tense, silent standoff. steve would adjust the rearview mirror, and you’d be staring out the window, pointedly ignoring him. you’d lean forward to ask dustin a question, and steve would crank the radio just a little too loud.
it came to a head at the stoplight by the town square.
“so,” dustin said, his voice unnaturally high, “mike’s having a D&D session tomorrow. you guys in?”
“wouldn’t miss it,” you said at the exact same time steve said, “i’m busy.”
you locked eyes in the mirror. a challenge.
“doing what?” you asked, your voice dripping with fake curiosity. “scooping ice cream and realizing you peaked in high school?”
steve’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “no. i have a date.”
the words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. robin visibly flinched. dustin sank lower in his seat, lucas pretended to not notice his surroundings, and will frowned. max went rigid in your lap.
you, however, just smiled, a sharp, brittle thing. “oh? anyone we know?”
“tammy thompson,” steve said, the name feeling like ash in his mouth. it was a lie. a stupid, petty lie.
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “tammy thompson? the one who cries when she sings? wow, steve. raising the bar, i see.”
“at least she can carry a tune,” he shot back, the words out before he could stop them. he was referring to your tone-deaf rendition of “total eclipse of the heart” you’d sung together, drunk and happy, in this very car a lifetime ago.
the light turned green. the car didn't move.
the air was so thick with hostility you could taste it.
“you’re an asshole,” you whispered, the hurt finally breaking through the icy facade.
“takes one to know one,” he retorted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hated this. He hated every second of it.
a horn blared behind them. steve slammed his foot on the gas, lurching the car forward.
in your lap, max let out a tiny, involuntary gasp at the sudden movement, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. the sound was small, but it cut through the anger like a knife.
you looked down at her wide, anxious eyes, then up at the back of steve’s head. this wasn't just about you and him anymore.
the rest of the drive was a silence so profound it was deafening. when he finally pulled up to your house, you were out of the car before it had fully stopped, the door slamming shut behind you. you didn't look back.
steve watched you go, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. in the rearview mirror, he saw max staring out the window, her expression closed off and weary.
“tammy thompson?” robin finally said, her voice flat. “really?”
steve just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, defeated. “i know.”
dustin piped up, his voice matter-of-fact.
"all you two do is fight. and never about the actual issue."
the car was silent for a beat, the truth of dustin's words hanging in the air, sharper and more accurate than any insult you or steve had thrown. steve lifted his head from the wheel, his eyes meeting dustin's in the rearview mirror.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
dustin shrugged, but his expression was uncharacteristically serious. "it means you're not fighting about tammy thompson, or who can carry a tune. you're fighting about how you broke up. you're fighting about who was right and who was wrong. but you're just.. poking each other with sticks instead of actually talking about it."
will nodded slowly, looking down at his clasped hands. lucas mumbled, "he's not wrong."
max, still sitting stiffly, added, "it's getting really old."
steve felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. he looked at robin for backup, but she just raised her eyebrows in confirmation of the kids' statements.
he was being schooled by a bunch of teenagers. and the worst part was, they were right.
the "actual issue" was a tangled mess of miscommunication, stress, bruised egos, and one stupid, heated argument that had spiraled into a nuclear winter between the two of you. he missed you. he was pretty sure, underneath all the venom and ice you had on the surface, you missed him too. but all you did was lob grenades at each other, and the kids were stuck in the crossfire.
he sighed, the fight draining out of him completely, leaving only exhaustion and the same hollow ache he'd felt for three whole months.
"okay," he said, his voice quiet. "point taken."
he pulled away from your house, the silence in the car now contemplative rather than hostile.
robin glanced at him. “what are you gonna do about it, hair?”
steve kept his eyes on the road.
"i don't know."
you wiped your tears, sticky and black with mascara, and checked your reflection in the mirror of your vanity. groaning, you smudged it off the corners of your eyes. behind you, max, who had skated to your house shortly after steve dropped her off, frowned. sniffling, you tried to muster a half-assed smile in her direction.
"don't worry about me, mayfield. i'm tough."
max didn't buy it for a second. she crossed her arms, leaning against your headboard. "you're not tough. you're sad. and he's an idiot."
a wet laugh escaped you. "he is an idiot." you grabbed a tissue and wiped the remaining smudges from your face, your reflection looking raw and tired. "a massive one."
"but you still like him," max stated, not a question. she knew these things.
you sighed, dropping the tissue into the trash. "it doesn't matter. it's too messy. we're just.. we can't be in the same room without trying to murder each other with our eyes."
"because you're both too stubborn to say sorry," she said, her voice blunt. "its easier to be mad than to be hurt."
her words, wise beyond her years, hit a little too close to home. you sat down next to her, the mattress dipping.
"it's not that simple, max."
"isn't it?" she asked, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "you guys used to be so happy. and cool. you made him less of a douche. now he's just.. a douche again. and you're.. not you. you're sad."
you looked at her, at the genuine concern in her blue eyes, and felt a fresh wave of tears. the kids weren't just bystanders, they were casualties. they'd lost the easy dynamic, the fun group outings, the two people who used to be a unit now acting like rival generals in a nasty war.
"i don't know how to fix this."
max shrugged.
"just stop breaking it more."
the words were so simple. but they meant so much. the reality of it made your chest ache, forcing you to confront the truth. you were the problem too, not just steve. your desire to fight with him was just to keep a connection.
maybe the solution was to let the connection go? the thought made you genuinely sick, but maybe it was the best choice for you and the kids. and steve.
it wouldn't be easy. but then again.. nothing about this was.
parties weren't really steve's scene anymore. especially since he'd graduated high school and didn't even want to see half of the people he used to be inseparable from. but here he was, one of the only nights that he wasn't being the babysitter, holding a half full cup of warm beer and talking to tommy.
tommy was home from college, so naturally, it meant he was throwing the biggest party of the year. the guy talked his ear off, prattling on about college, the women, the sports. but all steve could think about, usually, predictably, was you.
it had been a month. you'd been avoiding him.
not like before, when you only saw him around the kids. this time, you even avoided the kids for the most part, too.
it was a clean break. a quiet, devastating ceasefire. there were no more arguments in the video store, no more sniping in the car. the kids had stopped trying to get you both in the same room, their hopeful attempts dying out one by one in the face of your polite, distant refusals.
it was what he’d thought he wanted, wasn’t it? peace. quiet.
it was hell.
he hadn't even noticed tommy was still talking until the subject changed.
"--so honestly, they could've won if they just-- yo. isn't that your girl?" tommy said, jaw dropped straight to the floor.
steve raised an eyebrow, looking in the direction of tommy's pointed finger. the bass of the music vibrated the beer in his stomach, making him physically ill at the sight before him.
there you were. he could tell you were drunk from where he was standing, thirty feet away. your eyes were hazy, lips stretched out in a lazy grin. you were dancing on the fucking table, slowly inching your shirt up, slowly, slowly, slowly, until the hem was just below your ribs. the crowd around you was whooping and cheering, a sea of faces he mostly despised, all looking at you. at the skin you were revealing.
"oh jesus christ." steve hissed, the plastic cup in his hand cracking, soaking his sleeve with warm beer. he didn't even notice. he was already on the move.
he was across the room in seconds, shoving people out of his way without a word of apology. the music was a distant thrum, the only sound he could focus on was the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
he reached the table just as you laughed, a loose, carefree sound that felt like a personal insult, and went to pull the shirt higher.
his hands closed around your waist. not gently.
you yelped as he hauled you off the table, your feet stumbling as they hit the floor. the crowd groaned in disappointment.
"hey, man, what's your problem?" some guy slurred.
steve ignored him, his grip firm on your arms as he steadied you. your hazy eyes struggled to focus on his face.
"steve?" you mumbled, your grin fading into confusion. "what're you... i was dancing."
"you were making a spectacle of yourself," he snarled, his voice low and vicious, meant for your ears only. the horrified feeling was a live wire under his skin. "what the hell is wrong with you?"
your confusion sharpened into defiance. "i'm having fun. something you wouldn't know anything about anymore." you tried to pull away, but he held fast. "let go of me."
"not a chance," he bit out, his eyes scanning the leering faces around you. "you're drunk and you're coming with me. now."
"i'm not going anywhere with you!" you shouted, your voice rising above the music. the fight was back, bright and ugly in your gaze. "you don't get to tell me what to do! you lost that right!"
the words hit their mark, but he was too far gone to care. he started pulling you toward the door, your heels digging into the carpet.
"steve, stop it! get off me!"
he didn't stop. he couldn't. all he could see was you on that table, all he could feel was the need to get you away, to get you safe, to make you stop. the quiet ceasefire was over. this was all-out war.
he finally managed to manhandle you out the front door and into the cool night air. you wrenched your arm free, stumbling back a few steps on the lawn.
"what is your problem?" you shrieked, your chest heaving.
"you are my problem!" he roared back, gesturing wildly toward the house. "dancing on a table? for them? letting them all... look at you like that?"
you laughed bitterly, drunkenly stumbling into the opposite direction. getting as far away as possible.
"now you decide you give a shit. well guess what? it's too late!" you shouted.
steve didn't have time for this. you were drunk, he was irritated, and it was very possible that you wouldn't even remember this conversation in the morning. he needed to get some water into you and get you home.
dragging you back toward the house, he sat you down and filled a glass of water from tommy's sink, stalking back outside.
"you're going to drink this," steve said, his voice tight as he thrust the glass of water toward you. you were slumped on the curb, head in your hands. "now."
you looked up, your eyes glazed with tears and alcohol. "go to hell."
he crouched in front of you, shoving the glass into your hand. "drink. it. or i'll pour it down your throat myself."
a fresh wave of anger surged through you. you took the glass, but instead of drinking, you threw the contents directly into his face.
the cold water was a shock, dripping from his hair and nose onto his shirt. he froze for a second, water plastering his bangs to his forehead, before he slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. the look in his eyes was dangerously calm.
"feel better?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"no," you spat, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it came, leaving you shivering and miserable.
"get in the car," he commanded, standing up and turning away from you, his shoulders rigid.
you did what he asked. you slid into the passenger side of his car, crossing your arms and leaning your head back, the spinning dizziness making you nothing short of sick. the ride was silent for about five minutes before, inevitably, your slurring voice could be heard again. angry. resentful. drunk.
"i hate you, steve. y'know that?" you slurred out, your lips and tongue not quite matching your vocal chords. you were so drunk that you were barely awake. but the words still had the effect they were meant to.
the words, slurred and heavy with alcohol, hit him with the force of a physical blow. his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were bone-white. he didn't look at you. he couldn't.
"i know," he said, his voice flat and empty. it was the only defense he had left.
"you don't," you insisted, your head lolling against the window. "you don't know. you broke… you broke everything. and now you… you just get to drive me home. like you're… like you're some kinda hero." a bitter, wet laugh escaped you. "you're not a hero. you're just… a boy. a stupid, mean boy."
each word was a shard of glass. he focused on the yellow lines of the road, counting them as they passed, a desperate attempt to anchor himself.
"and i hate that i… that i miss you," you whispered, the anger dissolving into a heartbreaking confession you'd never make sober. "it's so stupid. i'm so stupid."
steve felt his own eyes burn. he blinked rapidly, staring straight ahead, trying to make the tears disappear. he'd never let them drop in front of you. he knew they'd come back later.
"just go to sleep, Y/N," he managed to rasp out. "we're almost there."
you didn't say anything else. a few moments later, a soft snore told him you'd finally passed out.
the rest of the drive was a special kind of torture, trapped in a metal box with the ghost of everything he'd ruined. when he pulled into your driveway, the silence was absolute.
he carried you inside, your body limp and heavy in his arms. he laid you in your bed, taking off your shoes and pulling the comforter over you just as he had time and time before, but this time, he didn't get to join you. he didn't get to hold you. in the dim light from the hallway, he could see the tear tracks dried on your cheeks.
he stood there for a long time, just watching you sleep, the echo of your words -- i hate you... i miss you -- playing on a loop in his mind.
he stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. the anger was gone, leaving behind a vast, empty ache. you were right. he wasn't a hero. he was just a boy who had been too stupid to hold onto the one good thing in his life.
then, he drove home in a daze, the silence in his car now a heavy, accusing presence. in his driveway, he punched the steering wheel until his knuckles were raw. the sharp pain was a relief, a physical distraction from the emotional maelstorm inside him. he sat there in the dark, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint, metallic ring fading from the steering wheel.
he didn't even make it to his bed. he sank onto the couch in his dark living room, head in his hands.
and then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, the tears came. silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his entire body. they weren't just about tonight. they were for every stupid comment, every missed chance, every moment of the last three months he'd spent pushing you away when all he'd ever wanted was to pull you closer.
he cried for the "stupid, mean boy" he'd been, and for the man he was too scared to become without you.
for now, all he could do was sit in the dark and feel the weight of it all. the silence wasn't peaceful anymore. it was just heavy. he wasn't sure he'd ever truly wanted it in the first place.
the vile taste of tequila and regret created a film on the inside of your mouth. a pounding headache rocked your temples, making you want to rip your head from your shoulders and throw it in an ice bath.
sunlight stabbed through your eyelids like a hot knife. you groaned, burying your face deeper into your pillow, but the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. fragments of the night came back to you in a nauseating kaleidoscope. the bass of the music. the feeling of the table under your shoes. the whooping crowd. then… steve.
steve’s furious face. steve’s hands on your waist, hauling you down. the cold water hitting his face. the silent, tense car ride. your own voice, slurred and venomous.
i hate you, steve.
i hate that i miss you.
a fresh wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over you, worse than the hangover. you’d said that. you’d actually said that out loud. to him.
you dragged yourself out of bed, your body protesting every movement, and stumbled toward the kitchen for water and aspirin. as you passed the living room, you froze.
there, on the coffee table, was an empty glass of water. next to it sat two aspirin, and a note, written on a ripped piece of notebook paper in a familiar, slanted handwriting.
Drank the water. Take these. There’s Gatorade in the fridge. - S
no “love,” no “xoxo.” just his initial. it was so simple, so practical, and it somehow made everything a thousand times worse. he’d been in your house after you’d passed out. he’d seen you at your most vulnerable, your most pathetic, and his response wasn’t anger or a lecture. it was… caretaking. the one thing he’d always been good at, even when he was being a world-class jerk.
it was a peace offering you didn’t deserve and didn’t know how to accept. you picked up the aspirin, dry-swallowing them with a wince, the gesture feeling like a surrender you weren't ready to make. the war was over, but the aftermath was a minefield, and you were standing right in the middle of it, hungover and heartbroken.
as you were dissociating, your phone rang, worsening your headache. muttering a curse, you stumbled to the wall it was on, answering it begrudgingly.
"hello?"
will's voice crackled through on the other end, soft and hesitant as it always was. at least it wasn't someone annoying.
"hi, y/n. it's will," he said. "i was just wondering.. well, max told me to call and ask.. if you're still planning on coming to dustin's birthday party today? we really want you to come. we haven't seen you in forever."
the question felt like a physical blow. dustin’s birthday. you’d completely forgotten. of course steve would be there. he was the official party chauffeur, the defacto older brother. the thought of facing him, sober and raw, after last night made your stomach churn.
“i, uh…” you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse. a work emergency. sudden illness. a spontaneous trip to antarctica.
“please?” will’s voice was small, and you could picture his earnest, worried face. “it hasn’t been the same without you. everyone keeps arguing about the campaign rules and steve just… mopes. it’s not fun.”
steve just mopes.
the image was so pathetic, so unlike the loud, boisterous king steve of old, that it pierced through your own self-pity. the kids were suffering. they were caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't start, missing the easy dynamic that used to exist.
you looked back at the note on the coffee table. s. a simple initial that held so much weight. he’d taken care of you, even after you’d thrown water in his face and called him names. he was trying, in his own, messed-up way.
taking a deep, shaky breath, you made a decision. it wasn't a surrender. it was a ceasefire for a higher cause.
“yeah, will,” you said, your voice softer. “i’ll be there. what time?”
“four o’clock!” will said, his relief palpable even through the phone line. “at mike's. thanks, y/n!”
you hung up the phone, your heart hammering. you were going to have to see steve. sober. in broad daylight. and you were going to have to find a way to be in the same room without vomiting.
mike's basement was decorated with streamers. a banner read "happy birthday, dustin!" courtesy of joyce byers, who had a particular eye for these things. after the parents let the kids know that they couldn't go on random, spontaneous trips through the woods or accidentally on purpose set the basement aflame, they were cut loose. it wasn't too long after that that steve showed up.
the air was thick with the smell of pizza and the sound of bickering over the D&D board. steve ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to keep the peace between lucas and mike.
"look, who cares what color the wizard's robe is? is it significant to the story line?" he sighed tiredly.
lucas glared at him, crossing his arms.
“it establishes his alignment!” lucas shot back, his voice cracking with teenage indignation.
“it’s a robe, sinclair! it’s not that deep!”
max bounced her leg restlessly from her spot on the couch next to el, staring at the basement stairs. she missed you. steve knew it. she hadn't seen you in a while since the argument about tammy thompson, when you'd obviously decided that being around steve was too much.
"when's y/n gonna be here? did you tell her it was at 4?" max questioned will.
will, who was carefully arranging dustin's new dice by color, looked up nervously. "yeah, i told her. she said she was coming."
the unspoken i hope hung in the air. steve, who had been pretending to be deeply invested in the pizza box design, felt his stomach clench. he hadn't known you were invited. he hadn't allowed himself to even consider the possibility. the fragile, silent truce from the last party felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
the creak of the basement door opening cut through the bickering.
all heads, including steve's, swiveled toward the stairs.
you appeared, looking hesitant, holding a clumsily wrapped present. your eyes immediately found Max, and a genuine, relieved smile broke across your face. "hey, mayfield."
max practically launched herself off the couch, skirting the D&D board to wrap you in a quick, tight hug. "you're here."
"wouldn't miss it," you said, your voice soft. you handed dustin the present. "happy birthday, dude."
as dustin tore into the gift (a ridiculously advanced model rocket), your gaze inevitably drifted across the room, colliding with steve's. it was like two magnets, repelling and attracting at once. the air grew thick. the kids, sensing the shift, went unnaturally quiet.
steve gave you the same small, cautious nod he had before. an acknowledgment. a white flag held aloft. you returned it with a tight, almost imperceptible dip of your chin. a reluctant acceptance of the ceasefire.
then, you deliberately turned your back to him, focusing all your attention on max and el.
steve felt the dismissal like a physical blow. he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back to the pizza, the cardboard box suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. the party continued, the noise level slowly rising again, but a new, unspoken rule had been established. you and steve existed in the same space, a careful, orbiting distance between you. for the kids, it was enough. for steve, it was a special kind of agony.
and for el and max, it was annoying.
they sat on the couch, doing their teenage girl thing, analyzing with their eyes and whispering to each other. the occasional giggle, the occasional annoyed groan, and the formation of a plan bubbled from their lips.
you, of course, were oblivious due to the nature of the party. you listened to the boys rant and rave about D&D like you had for hours, curled into a recliner next to will, who sometimes glanced at you dozing off and smiled in amusement.
steve was too busy staring at you to notice either. it was pitiful, if you asked max.
with one final exchanged, deciding glance between blue and brown eyes, max and el clambered up from the couch and walked up to the chair you and will shared. they tried to look innocent (max mostly struggled) as el spoke.
"help." she simply said, gesturing to the upstairs.
you raised an eyebrow, sitting up.
"with what?"
"closet. need supplies."
groaning, suspecting no foul play, you sat up and followed the girls.
you followed max and el up the basement stairs, the noise of the party fading behind you. they led you to the closet they spoke of. when the door opened, your eyebrows furrowed. it was karen wheeler's cleaning supplies, full of pine sol, mops, and buckets.
"what do you--"
without another word, you were shoved in. the door shut behind you and clicked, the sound of a lock.
"what the fuck? jane hopper! maxine mayfield!" you seethed, pounding on the door.
you heard a giggle before you heard, "we will go get more help. don't worry."
they sprinted downstairs, now quickly approaching where steve sat, completely dissociating and sprawled across the couch they'd just been sitting on. he'd come over to claim their spot.
"help. y/n is stuck in the closet!" el said excitedly, grabbing steve's hand and attempting to yank him up.
steve matched your look of confusion, sitting up slightly.
"stuck? what are you talking about?"
"stuck," max confirmed, her face a mask of exaggerated urgency. "the door locked behind her. she can't get out."
a flicker of genuine concern crossed steve's face before it was replaced by deep suspicion. he looked from max's poorly concealed smirk to el's wide, "innocent" eyes. this had "ambush" written all over it.
but the thought of you, trapped and probably furious, was enough to get him moving. he sighed, heaving himself off the couch. "fine. show me."
they led him back upstairs, practically vibrating with suppressed glee. he could already hear you on the other side of the door.
"--so help me god, when i get out of here, i am telling joyce you've been using your powers to cheat at monopoly!" you were yelling, your voice muffled by the wood.
steve almost smiled. almost.
"stand back," he said, his voice firm. "i'm gonna try the door."
he heard a huff from the other side, but the pounding stopped. he grabbed the doorknob. it opened without an issue. there you were, face red, surrounded by cleaning materials. he smirked, turning back around to look at the girls.
"really? that was-- jesus christ!" he exclaimed.
el shoved him into the same closet, slamming the door behind him before he could get his hands on it. the lock clicked again. steve groaned, trying the knob, but it was damn near cemented. el using her powers.
"talk." el simply said from the outside, crossing her arms.
"without yelling." max added. "for twenty minutes."
crossing their arms, the girls turned and walked away.
"goddammit," he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
on the other side, you stood frozen, your own anger momentarily eclipsed by sheer disbelief. you were locked in a broom closet. with steve harrington. by two fourteen-year-old girls.
the space was suddenly, unbearably small. the sharp scent of pine-sol filled your lungs, mixed with the scent of steve's aftershave and the mint gum in his mouth. you could feel the heat radiating from his body just inches away.
"this is ridiculous," you whispered into the cramped darkness.
"you think?" steve's voice was a low, frustrated rumble right next to your ear. he shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and you both flinched away, pressing yourselves against opposite walls. it was a futile effort; the closet was barely big enough for the two of you and karen wheeler's cleaning arsenal.
silence descended, thick and heavy. you could hear his breathing, a little too fast, and the frantic thumping of your own heart. twenty minutes. it felt like a lifetime.
you knew that if you didn't address what had happened the other night, you'd look weak. and you'd also explode. neither were good options, and if you and steve kept ignoring what was happening between each other, things would only get broken worse.
"thank you." you whispered, crossing your arms.
the two words, soft and unexpected, seemed to suck all the air out of the cramped closet.
steve went completely still. "for what?" he asked, his voice cautious, confused.
"for the other night," you clarified, your voice barely audible. you stared straight ahead at a bottle of bleach, unable to look at him. "for... getting me home. for the water and the aspirin. i was... i was a mess. and you didn't have to do that."
there was a long pause. you could almost hear him processing, the gears turning in his head.
"i did have to," he said finally, his voice low and earnest. "Y/N, i will always have to. even if you hate me. even if you never want to see me again. if you're in trouble, i'm... i'm there. that's never going to change."
the raw, unvarnished truth in his words was a battering ram against the walls you'd built. it wasn't a grand romantic declaration. it was something deeper, more fundamental. a promise of loyalty that transcended their broken relationship.
a sob caught in your throat, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle it. the sound was small, but he heard it.
"hey," he said softly, his tone shifting from defensive to concerned. "don't... don't cry. please."
"i'm not crying," you lied, your voice trembling.
you felt him shift beside you, his arm hesitantly brushing against yours again, but this time, neither of you pulled away. he tried to turn your body towards his.
"look at me," he whispered.
you shook your head, still facing the bleach bottle as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"please, baby."
the pet name simultaneously shot sparks down your spine and poured cold water over your head. slowly, reluctantly, you turned your head. your eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and you could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows, his expression open and unbearably sad.
"i'm sorry," he said again, his gaze holding yours. "for all of it. for being a stupid, mean boy. for not being the man you needed me to be."
the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. you didn't wipe them away.
"i miss you," you whispered, the admission feeling like both a failure and a liberation. "and I hate it."
a shuddering breath escaped him. he lifted his hand, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. the touch was so familiar, so achingly gentle, it made you want to scream and lean into it all at once.
"i know," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "i miss you too. and i hate that you hate it."
you stood there, trapped in a closet, crying while steve harrington wiped your tears, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like a battle. It just felt sad, and real, and like maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
you could feel him getting closer, his smell, the heat of his body, until you were breathing it all in. his nose brushed yours gently. two days ago, you would've never dreamed he'd be this close to you ever again. it felt like you were floating, an out of body experience.
his lips were a breath away from yours. you could feel the warmth of them, the ghost of a touch you’d ached for and resented in equal measure. your eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the space between your mouths. jt would be so easy to close it. to fall back into the familiar warmth, to let the anger and the hurt dissolve into this. but you couldn't move.
steve could. this was all he'd ever wanted for months.
"i promise you," he whispered, his scent fanning over your face. "i swear on everything i love. i will never hurt you again."
the words were a balm and a brand all at once. a promise you desperately wanted to believe, seared into the air by the heat of his proximity. your resolve, already cracking, began to crumble.
that was all the invitation he needed.
he closed the infinitesimal distance, his lips meeting yours.
it wasn't like the frantic, desperate kisses from before the breakup. it wasn't like the angry, bruising clash you'd shared in the middle of your worst fights. this was slow. reverent. a silent apology and a desperate question all in one.
a sob escaped you, muffled against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. your hands, which had been braced against his chest, unclenched. your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
he kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to pour every unsaid "i'm sorry" and "i miss you" and "i love you" directly from his soul into yours. one of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until not even a whisper could fit between you.
the world outside -- the party, the kids, the months of pain -- ceased to exist. there was only the dark, the scent of pine-sol and his cologne, and the devastatingly gentle pressure of his lips on yours.
when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads resting together again in the dark.
the lock clicked.
the door swung open. max and el stood there, their eyes wide.
max’s mouth dropped open. "whoa."
el just smiled, a small, knowing smile.
steve didn't jump back. he kept his forehead against yours for a second longer, his eyes still closed, as if savoring the moment before the real world intruded. then he slowly straightened up, his hand sliding from your back to find yours, lacing your fingers together.
he looked at the girls, a new, quiet confidence in his gaze. "we're good," he said, his voice low but firm.
it wasn't entirely true. the hurt wasn't gone. the trust wasn't magically rebuilt. but the war was over. the peace talks had ended with a treaty sealed with a kiss.
you looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him, and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. it was an answer.
we're getting there.
