♡ cw: teacher!steve, steve has insomnia as a result of his trauma, minor hallucinations, canon!steve epilogue era, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, gn!reader lmk if i missed anything!!
♡ inspired by this request + my love of potion // steve masterlist !!
♡a/n: i'm sorry anon if u wanted it fluffier, i just followed my heart <3
Steve Harrington sits alone at his desk in his empty classroom.
He leans back in his chair, creaking in the stillness. The bare white walls feel closer than they should. He pinches the bridge of his nose, holds it there a second too long, then drags a calloused hand down his face like it might wake him up.
His gaze drifts back to the paper on his desk. The bright red marker has bled through the corner of the page, seeping into the fibers. He doesn’t remember circling it — the messy B+ on Christopher Colbridge's paper. He’s almost sure he didn’t, but the red is there anyway. He must have.
The longer his eyes linger on the page, the words begin to blur. Then they double. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and exhales slowly through his nose. When he opens them again, the letters haven’t settled. They swim, refusing to line up the way they’re supposed to.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum. They're soft at first, then louder, almost insistent. One of them flickers. Steve looks up just in time to see it stutter, the room dipping into shadow before snapping back to life. His jaw tightens.
Steve's heart kicks hard against his ribs. His eyes drift to the clock on the wall next to his classroom door as the second hand ticks forward. As kids start to flow in through his door, he straightens, pulling himself together.
Some greet him with a lazy "morning." Others file right into their seats, chatting with friends or flipping through recipe cards. The noise builds until the second bell rings, it is sharp and piercing. Steve's marker clatters against the desk, the bell startling him.
For a moment, the classroom tilts.
The kids' voices fade as Steve makes it to his feet. His ears are ringing from the morning bell.
"Morning folks," he says, walking around to the front of his desk and leaning back on it.
Steve receives a mix of responses. Some half-asleep stares, some muttered greetings.
"Study cards away and pencils out," he reaches behind him grabbing a stack of papers.
A hand shoots up in the front row. He extends his hand with the stack of papers before she even asks. She hops up with a wide grin and begins handing them out to the other kids.
A few groans ripple through the room.
"Lighten up kids," Steve says, clapping once as he moves back into his chair. "Test day's the best day."
The chair squeaks when he sits. The sound crawls up his spine, prickling the back of his neck.
He shakes his head just slightly as soft footsteps approach.
"Here, Mr. H." the student whispers, neatly stacking the remaining booklets on his desk. "Danny's out sick today and I think Jennifer is cutting."
"Thanks, Lauren," Steve forces a smile that causes his eyes to crinkle a little bit. She smiles back, nods, and returns to her seat. Her chair scrapes the ground as she plops down in it.
It sounds sharper than it should.
Steve pulls his chair up closer to his desk, his elbows coming to rest on the wooden surface. He stares out into the sea of kids as they work on his test. Multiple choice, one or two long answers, it shouldn't take them long.
Steve has never been big on exams. He remembers how much he hated writing tests in high school. But, this is a part of the gig. He teaches two periods of health, three periods of P.E.
Still, better than last semester when they stuck him with ninth-grade history. Boring.
His gaze catches on a poster stuck to his wall. He focuses on the torn corner, zoning in until the light above his desk flickers. Not completely out. Just on and off, once, then twice.
He unclasps his hands, sitting up straight in his seat.
Steve swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs. His fists clench, tight enough to turn his knuckles completely white, crescents biting into his palms.
The lights flicker all the time.
This, and the fact that he hasn't slept more than two hours at a time in days, so of course everything feels wrong.
Within seconds, his attention drifts to the window.
White particles float past the glass, slow and suspended. The sound of pencils scratching on paper fades until it's barely even there.
A draft crawls over Steve, goosebumps rising along his arms and up his neck. A cold not from the windows, not from the air vents.
It's the cold that digs underneath his skin.
Ash. Spores. They cling to everything, dulling the world to a muted gray. The classroom is so quiet, even breathing feels like a mistake. His palms press flat to the desk, curling his fingers.
A low hum crawls up his spine. That old, familiar dread. The one that tells him to run. He brings his attention down to his feet, the floor suddenly feeling a little less solid -
A voice cuts through, knocking the air out of his lungs.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, the world is normal again. A cloudy, foggy November day. Leaves shuffle on a small tree outside the window in the breeze.
His eyes flick to the window, then back to her.
"You good Mr. H?" another voice chimes in from the front row.
"Yeah yeah," he says, stretching his hand out under his desk. His knuckles ache from clenching them into a fist.
Lauren holds her test paper is pinched in between her fingers.
"Uh... for question six," she starts, hesitant. "Did you want like... a paragraph? Or just a few sentences?"
Steve's eyes drop to the test in her hand, his pulse thuds in his ears.
"Couple sentences," he says, his voice rougher than intended. He clears his throat. "Just enough to show you understand it."
She nods, looking at Steve for a moment before moving back to her desk, plopping into her spot and resuming her test.
Steve turns away before anyone can study him too closely. He rubs his hands up and down his thighs, breathing slow and deliberate.
The cold lingers, faint and stubborn.
"I think Mr. H is losing it," a kid whispers.
The rest of the period passes quietly, kids raising from their seats only to hand their tests in and then make their way back to their desks. The shuffling of their sneakers against the hard linoleum ground him in reality.
Eventually, the bell finally rings, signaling the end of the period. Steve flinches.
Noise begins to stack - chairs scraping, voices rising, as the zipping of backpacks cut through it all. He braces himself, palms flat on the desk. It's dry this time.
"Tests face down on my desk," he says. "Make sure your name is on it."
A line forms, tossing the papers in a messy pile on his desktop.
Lauren is the last to leave, straightening the pile of tests. She rocks back on her heels, lingering for a moment.
"Everything okay, Lauren?"
"Yeah," she says, glancing back at the door where other kids are filing out. "Just... if you need help with anything. Organizing. Or whatever. I can totally... help."
"Yeah, I'll let you know," he replies gently.
"Okay yeah, cool. Great! I'll see you tomorrow," she says, pivoting too fast, bumping into the doorframe and disappears down the hall.
A muffled string of "you're being so obvious," "teacher's pet," and "shut up," echo from the hallway outside of Steve's classroom.
Steve shakes his head and sinks into his chair, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. He stares at the floor until the buzzing in his ears begin to fade.
Rising from his seat, his hand reaches up to rub the base of his neck with one hand as the other grabs the stack of tests, shoving them into his backpack. He moves swiftly out the classroom, closing the door behind him.
The rest of the day blurs together - P.E., his second health class, followed by more P.E.
By the end of the day, he is overwhelmed by the smell of gym socks and disinfectant. One more hour. Coaching.
Steve waits in the gym, staring at the large tiger printed in the center of the gym floor. The slam of the gym doors pulls him out.
His chest is tight. Coaching is easy for Steve, but this day feels endless. Every step feels heavier than it should; every squeak from the sneaker and bounce of the ball causes his brain to rattle.
Steve is on autopilot. He demonstrates the drills, times the sprints, and blows his whistle on the occasional correction.
His eyes go dry as they land on the dust beneath the bleachers.
He forces himself to keep moving.
He's present, but only just. Each shout, each clap, each call to "move it!" takes three times the effort it should. The gym lights flicker in his peripheral and he shivers involuntarily.
At five o'clock, he blows his whistle three times, signaling the end of practice.
His back aches, his throat his dry, and his hands tremble ever so slightly as he reaches down to grab his bag.
The gym empties. Steve makes his way to the door and slumps against the door frame. His body feels like lead.
He breathes out a weight he didn't realize he had been carrying, thinking of the moment he'll have you in his arms again.
Steve pushes open the front door, pausing as the familiar creak of the hinges grounds him in the present moment. His house smells faintly of laundry, like you, like home.
He drags his bag inside and drops it by the stairs, rubbing the back of his neck as he starts to ache in places they didn't before, his shoulders, his calves, his lower back.
Each movement feels like he is wading through water.
He follows the quiet voice coming from his living room.
You're there, curled up on the couch with a mug of tea in your hands. Another one waits for him on the table, still steaming.
The soft glow from the lamp casts everything in a gentle amber, painting the room warm.
"Hi sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice is raspy.
You smile, your eyes softening at his posture.
You've seen him like this before. The tight shoulders; the jittery fingers; the way he moves like he's only half here.
He sinks into the couch next to you, trying to ignore the lingering headache blooming behind his eyes.
The lamp casts shadows across the room, and just for a second, he notices how the darkness stretches beyond the edges of the light.
Steve shivers as a chill creeps up his spine.
You reach for his hand without asking, your thumb brushes over his knuckles.
He blinks, not answering right away. He flips his hand so his palm faces upwards, fitting it into yours.
"Yeah," he exhales. "Long day."
You don't press, you squeeze his hand gently as he leans against you.
You look down at him, sprawled out on the couch. His head is resting on your shoulder, legs are stretched wide. Every muscle in his body is taut, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Steve hasn't slept in days. It shows. The dark circles under his eyes sit beneath a distant look he can't quite shake.
You're not really sure what to do.
A few nights previous, the two of you fell asleep on the couch — or so you thought, anyway. You woke up in the middle of the night on the couch, a blanket draped over you, twisted around your legs.
You sat up on the couch, brows furrowed in a squint, listening as the floorboards creaked softly. He rounded the corner back into the living room, eyes wide and distant. He mumbled something about cold darkness and vines, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The discomfort he carried that night stayed with you. With him too, as the sleeplessness followed him throughout the week.
Seeing him this tense causes your chest to tighten with worry. You feel helpless, a cold pit forming in your stomach. You haven't been together long. Steve has had bad dreams before, where he wakes up thrashing in a cold sweat. You've always been there to ground him until he drifts back to sleep.
This is the first time you've seen this happen night after night.
You reach for him again now, wishing there were more you could do than just sit there and offer your presence.
He shifts slightly, his body heavy from the day. The week. His eyes are half-lidded.
"You don't... have to stay, y'know" he mumbles, breaking through the silence.
"I mean... sittin' here. Waiting." He huffs, frustration creeping into his voice. "I know you haven't been sleeping. You shouldn't be dealin' with me... you need rest too."
You haven't been sleepless like Steve; however, his nights have fractured yours. The night terrors, the tossing and turning, the constant tension made it a difficult environment.
"Steve," you say softly, "I'm staying. You don't have to worry about me."
"But I do," he mumbles, not moving. His body feels like dead weight against you.
His thoughts drift to past relationships and how afraid he'd always been to let people in, this strange darkness trailing him ever since he found himself in Dustin Henderson's backyard.
His bad dreams always made it difficult anyone to stay the night. But you were different. You never seemed to mind. You made him feel safe. Yet, in his previous long term sleepless spells, he's always been alone. He'd never had to worry about it affecting anyone else.
He shakes his head in a frown, lost in his own thoughts.
You squeeze his hand again, "I'm not going anywhere."
You let go of Steve's hand and lean forward, grabbing the extra cup of tea before settling back beside him. You hold it out.
"Thanks," he murmurs, bringing it to his lips. The warmth sinks into him, easing the chill that's lingered under his skin since this morning.
You sit together in silence for awhile. Steve finishes his tea and sets the empty mug on the coffee table with a clink. His head settles back on your shoulder. Your hand drifts into his hair, slow and steady, trying to coax his body into relaxing.
His eyes are closed, you think he maybe drifted off for a moment.
Until he jerks next to you with a sharp gasp.
You feel him tremble slightly against you, eyes darting around the living room. You flatten your palm on his forehead. He exhales, long and shaky. Gradually, the tension eases, his shoulders loosen just a fraction. His eyes linger on the lamp in the corner.
"You should go lie down," you suggest quietly.
He groans in protest, before shifting closer, sitting up with effort. You stand with him, a hand steady on his shoulder.
The past few nights he's opted for the couch. He hasn't been in his bed in a few days, since the sleep paralysis. The dream where he was trapped back in the Upside Down, vines winding around his body, tight and suffocating. Vecna had you.
Steve finally makes it to the bedroom. His steps are slow, feet dragging across the ground. When he reaches the bed, he collapses onto it, curling onto his side and pulling the blanket over himself.
You watch him for a moment, your chest tight as he finally lets go.
His breathing grows heavy but steady, sinking into the mattress. You slide onto the bed next to him, staying on top of the covers.
Your hands rest on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling, your mind is running wild. You don't know what to do to help Steve, not really, but it's getting harder to ignore how worried you are. Your gaze drifts to the open doorway, the hallway beyond is swallowed in darkness.
You think back to when you were a kid, afraid of the dark. You've grown out of that now, but your mom would always leave a light on in the hallway for you, allowing the light to spill into your bedroom so you wouldn't panic when you woke.
You look back over to Steve. He's out, but something in your chest tells you it won't last. The darkness stretches too far for him.
You feel a little silly. You slip quietly from the bed and tiptoe into the hallway, flicking on the light switch. A soft glow spills into the room, warm and steady, pushing back any shadows.
Feeling mildly satisfied, you return to bed and close your eyes.
It's not long before there's a sudden thrash beside you, Steve jerks upright, blanket tangling around him. He gasps, his fingers clawing at the sheets.
Your heart spikes. "Steve?" you whisper, reaching for his arm.
He turns towards the darkness beyond the bed. His breathing is staggered, muttering something incoherent about the cold about... some particles, something out there. Vecna, whoever that was.
His voice trails off as his eyes catch the soft glow of the hallway light pouring into the room, stopping the shadows from stretching endlessly. The cold still lingers beneath his skin, but tamer. His shoulders slump, and he falls back against the pillow.
Your fingers trace along his arm, his breath his shaky, "the light's on."
"Yeah," you whisper. "I know. Left it on for you. Thought it might help."
He nods faintly, swallowing hard. His breathing evens out, inch by inch, until the tightness finally loosens. Just enough.
You trace circles on the top of his hand, until his eyes drift shut again, sleep pulling him under once more.
The night is still long. Sleep is still fragile.
But the hallway light is on, and you're there next to him.
