Soo Obsessed

Soo obsessed

Poor Steve lost a bet and thought paying with 30 bites instead of money was a good idea.

(INPRNT)

We Tried The World CH4.

THE MASTERLIST THUNDER LAKE, COLORADO.  1227 MILES FROM HOME. 

The world around you changed as Steve drove you both out of Kansas. You packed up the car and drove through the night, bikini still on underneath a sundress, hair damp and skin smelling like chlorine. 

Steve sat next to you, tired, happy, sipping coffee and looking like he’d just leaped off of a cliff. His eyes were bright for the late hour, his hair wild from a day spent mostly underwater. 

He seemed lighter since he’d told you his secret, whispered it into the reflections off the pool, letting the silence and the sinking sun soak it up. You’d dressed on the edges of the water, both smiling, both blushing, avoiding too much eye contact as you dragged towels over bare skin. 

He’d opened the car door for you after you both scaled the fence and you wondered if his secret had sunk to the bottom of the pool, if it was supposed to stay there, never to be spoken of again. But by the time you’d driven out of Wichita and hit the back roads, the sun was gone, the moon was high and Steve stopped at some traffic lights and they lit you both up in scarlet light. 

The boy let out a breath, like he was readying himself and you’d turned at the noise, a question on your lips you never got to say because Steve leaned over the console, just a little, hand outstretched. His fingers were surprisingly warm when they grazed over your cheekbone, just underneath the line of your lashes. You’d blinked, almost gasped, and then Steve was pulling back and whispering “eyelash.” 

You slept for a while, tried your best to stay awake to keep the boy company as he drove but after the second stop for gas and another coffee, Steve was pulling one of his sweaters from his bag, coaxing it over your like a makeshift blanket and you couldn’t help it. 

It smelled like him, like the forest, like sunscreen and faded cologne. You closed your eyes without meaning to, lashes fanning over sunburnt cheeks and Steve turned the music down low, until whoever was singing was whispering to you, lulling you to sleep under Steve’s sweater. 

When you woke up, it was still dark, the land outside looking a little rockier, a little more up and down than before. The moon was high, a pale yellow that cast some light into the front seats of the BMW. Steve had pulled over, into a dirt parking lot off the side of the road and he slept upright, arms crossed, lips slack, head nodding off in every direction. 

 So you woke him up with your hand pressed to his forearm, squeezing softly to him to stir. He looked at you, bleary eyed and sleep mussed, leaning into your touch like he needed it to wake up. Steve didn’t fuss too much about handing over his keys, all previous arguments about you taking turns to drive out the window. 

Sure you knew how to drive, even a stick shift. You just didn’t have your licence. But that didn’t seem to matter all that much at three in the morning, in the dark and in the quiet of nowhere, Colorado. 

The world was asleep, letting you do what you wanted, what you pleased. It shut its eyes and gave you the moon, a long open road and only a hint at where you were driving to. Steve said ‘thanks, sweetheart,’ as you passed each other in front of the headlights, swapping places and sleepy smiles. 

If you reacted to the term of affection, you didn’t show it. And if Steve grinned when you slipped his sweater over your dress before settling behind the wheel, he hid it well. He fell back asleep quickly, an almost undeserving amount of trust given to you as he shuffled into the corner of the seat and the window, the keys to his most beloved possession in your hands. 

So you drove until the sun started to come up, a whole new picture in your windscreen. Mountains, canyons, valleys. The land turned rusty, oranges and reds and patches of green and wildflowers. The road went up, up, up and you climbed with the sun. Peachy skies greeted you, made Steve stir and wake up with a smile because the warmth of a new day was creeping into the car and you had the sleeves of his too big sweater curled around your hands as you held onto the wheel. 

Your ears popped and so did Steve’s, a quick sting that told you both you were higher than before, the roads still climbing, twisting and turning between mountains, overlooking lakes that seemed to appear from nowhere. Everything was pink when the sun came out, the sky, the rocks, the land, the water. 

Even Steve, who was looking at you with the softest smile, his hair mussed from where he’d tan his hands through it, the crease of his seat belt cutting across cheek. The bruise around his eye was completely gone now, skin unmarked except from the evidence of a good sleep. 

He watched you change gear, tongue peeking out from between your lips as you concentrated and the boy was laughing, turning the radio up as the new day started, a new song, a new state, a new kind of buzz between you both. 

Synths, drums, building, rising, getting faster and faster, and then you rounded a corner on the quiet road, burst out from between the tall trees that grew on either side of the tarmac and then and then and then—

A picture perfect view, a rolling mountain, rose coloured in the rising sun, dusted with greenery, with trees that looked like matchsticks. It led down to a lake, almost too blue to be real holding a mirror image of the scene above it. 

The sky was like silk, washes of pastels, clouds coming in from the horizon that promised a bright and warm day. And then you were laughing and so was Steve, a burst of noise that said ‘holy shit, can you believe this?’

The boy was grinning back, leaning forward on his seat, hands on the dashboard, eyes fucking shining and he looked at you like he knew, like he agreed, like he was telling you, ‘I’m so fucking happy I’m here. With you.’

I’m so happy it’s you. 

You pulled off the road, tires kicking up clouds of orange dust and you were still laughing, eyes a little glassy, overwhelmed. Steve seemed to understand because he didn’t question you, he just got out of the car too, walked around the front of the bumper and joined you at the metal barrier that separated you both from the drop below. 

The world was still waking up, birds barely calling out, the low buzz of insects seeming too far away and the heat in the air still felt fresh. Steve’s shoulder brushed yours and together you took a big breath in, held it and let it out on another huff of laughter. He let you lean into him, tears brimming at your lash line because it was all so pretty and it had been ten days since you’d left Hawkins. Ten days since you left the place that was supposed to be home and suddenly it hit you that you didn’t really miss it.  

Not your aunt's house, or your bed, or even the way the neighbours cat sat on your windowsill each morning.  

Because it had only been ten days but suddenly Steve Harrington was the closest thing you had to a best friend, the closest thing to a home, something that made you ache with warm familiarity. 

You sniffed, sighed, scrubbed the back of your hand over your watery eyes and then Steve was there, laughing softly, not unkindly, just amused. His hands curled around your shoulders, squeezed at you and tugged you back a little, just enough that your back bumped his chest and he let you stay there, leaning, supported. 

His chin hooked over your shoulder and it felt a little like a hug. 

“Y’okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little silly at your outburst of emotion. You felt entirely vulnerable, more exposed than you ever had, feeling more naked than the times you stood before the boy, wet and in a bikini. 

“Yeah,” you tried to whisper back, but it came out in a little gasp. “M’fine, shit, it’s just— it’s just pretty, y’know?”

Steve’s gaze flickered from the view to your face, lips twisted in conflict as if he was trying to decide what he wanted to look at more. But your eyes were shining, unshed tears clinging to your lashes like glitter, lips parted in awe. He could see the summer in your skin, in the glow that wasn’t there when he first picked you up that morning, just outside your house. 

His stare settled on you, close and steady, your back still pressed to his chest and for a second, he wondered if he’d be allowed to reach out and hold your hand, I’d you’d let him, if it would make you smile. But he didn’t feel as brave as he wanted to, not yet. So he cleared his throat and nodded, his cheek brushing your hair and said:

“Yeah, s’real pretty.”

He was still looking at you.  

—————

Steve took back over driving duties. It went like it always did, windows down, music up, his sunglasses over his eyes and his hair a little wild. Seeing him like that made your stomach flip, like you were the only one that got to see this version of him. 

Maybe you were. Maybe this Steve was yours. 

You sang to him, he sang back, voices louder and crazier as the wind whipped through the car and the sun made everything so much warmer than you’d ever felt before. 

It made your cheeks hurt, smiling at it all. It made you feel like a teenager again, the way Steve looked at you. Tongues pressed to cheeks to stop yourselves from grinning too much, eyes dancing over the other, gazed hidden behind Ray Bans and tangled hair. 

Steve drove you both into a town, cheeks burning as you passed signs that said “Loveland” and it seemed like easy to follow each other around the streets. The place was a big city, but it had a small town feel that felt a little like home and it eased you both as you walked around parks and lakes, trying to find a store. 

It was easier to touch each other more too, ten days in and a few nights tangled together, legs twisted, ankles hooked around calves and cheeks pressed to chests. So you didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t think too much of it when Steve pointed to a supermarket across the road and grabbed your hand. 

He held it as you navigated through the traffic, jogging a little to keep up with him and as you walked through the doors he didn’t let go. It was hardly a thing, palms barely touching just fingers twisted together like you were scared to lose the other. 

He only let go when he grabbed a cart and the boy rolled his eyes and grinned when you hopped inside of it. So it went like that, Steve pushing you around the store, your sundress and his sweater riding up your thighs as you let your dust covered shoes hang out over the side. 

He passed you snacks, bottles of water, some cans of soda and even a new blanket as you read out loud from the little book you’d bought way back in Illinois, telling Steve all about the Rocky Mountains and the Continental divide. He even threw a disposable camera on your lap as you neared the checkout, a roll of film loaded and ready to go. So it was settled, because you asked and Steve said yes, and suddenly you were planning for a few days in the wild, with creeks and lakes and canyons and the chance to see stars in the sky again. 

You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you loaded up the car, his sweater still swamping your frame, the hem of your dress peeking out from underneath. He hadn’t asked for it back and although the day was getting warmer, the temperature creeping upwards, the soft material smelled like him, like mint and boy and summer and Steve, and you didn’t want to take it off. 

Not yet. 

The drive out of town made your body buzz, that same feeling of anticipation you felt when you had travelled towards The Ozarks. It happened the same way, with the skylines and brick buildings falling away from you as you ventured further away from the city. The road led you back into canyons, made you both feel like ants in a toy car and it was brand new, it was different, it was a little bit magic. 

The road started winding, the land around you growing and when the sun reached its peak in the sky, what little clouds had been there slipped away and you were left with blue, blue, blue. Everything around you got taller, jagged rocks lifting up from the ground until they became cliff faces and mountains grew in the distance, breaking up the skyline with peaks of snow that seemed so far away. 

You passed campsites, cabins and people walking with backpacks heading towards trails, cars with canoes on their roofs, signs warning you about mountain lions. It was a new world, something else entirely, and Steve seemed as mesmerised as you were. So you stopped at a little information centre, took turns in the tiny toilet and grabbed a map of the trailheads and some chips from a vending machine that needed a shove from Steve’s shoulder to rattle loose.

The parking lot cleared as you walked back to the BMW, kicking up dust as you stared up at the mountains in the distance, the canyons that closed you in from both sides. Trees littered the cliff faces, patches of green that broke up the rock, the roads, the wooden cabins that were selling hiking equipment and camping gear. 

You turned to Steve as you reached the car, sundress skimming your thighs, Steve’s sweater trailing past your fingertips, your hair a little wild from the way the wind had whipped through it during the ride here. You found the boy a few feet behind you, sleeves rolled up, all tanned skin and hair messier than yours. He held the little camera he’d bought up to his face, eyes squinting as he looked through the lens at you.

“What’re you doing?” you laughed, embarrassed at his blatant attention.

“M’takin’ a photo of the mountains,” Steve grinned, pressing the button until the camera clicked and whirred. He was still pointing it at you. “You can draw me, but I can’t snap some pictures? Rude.”

He was still grinning when he brought the camera away from his face, rolling his eyes and passing it to you when you wiggled your fingers at it. The boy hopped up onto the closed trunk, knees on his elbows and squinting into the sun but you clicked the camera, capturing Steve and the mountains, the burgundy of the car, the glare of the sun.

It was quiet when you let the camera fall to your side, memories already locked inside of it, both of your smiling faces, surrounded by a world that looked a little alien to you. Steve nodded towards the hills and valleys in the difference, the road that wound around a bend and disappeared into the wild.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Always,” you replied.

So you both drove out towards the mountains, climbing higher and higher again, cars becoming less frequent the further into the national park you ventured. You passed campgrounds, signs for cabins and tent pitches and Steve turned off onto a smaller trail, dirt road kicking up dust as you turned the music up a little louder, smiling as you sang. 

“Maybe you wonder where you are, I don't care,” you were louder than ever, unashamed, eyes shining, windows down and Steve’s eyes flicking from the road to you. 

“Here is where time is on our side, take you there, take you there,” Steve finished, and god it all felt a little cosmic, like the world meant for you both to be there. 

You stabbed a finger to the map, declared your destination to be a blue spot on the paper called ‘Thunder Lake’ and Steve made a joke about you always leading them to water, like some sort of make believe creature, something from a fairytale. But he listened and obeyed when you pointed this way and that, yelling left and right through laughter and new songs. 

The road opened up for you both when the trees on either side of you cleared and a rocky beach led down to a crystal blue shoreline, mountains surrounding the water, closing you in. The lake felt like it belonged to you and Steve, it felt like a new secret to share. 

You stepped out together, wonder on your faces, smiles curling into grins and it was like the air glittered, like the sun got a little warmer when you stepped into its light. 

The car was left on the gravel, the air not as warm as it was back in town, so you kept Steve’s sweater on, ducked your head and bit your lip when he plucked at the material and grinned at you. You had lunch by the waters edge, the surface glassy and unspoiled, mountains for friends as you shared a packet of chips, broke apart sandwiches and took a half each. 

It was the nicest kind of quiet.

And when the run had passed its highest point in the sky and the world started to glow a little pink, a little more peach and orange as evening rolled in, you lay on your stomach on a grassy patch, sketchbook opened and a pencil sucked between your lips. Steve was a little away, balancing on one foot on a rock in the shallows, arms outstretched, an old flannel hanging over his t-shirt. 

You were finishing up drawing the rip in his jeans, just above his knee when he came wandering over. He’d caught you drawing him enough times now that you didn’t immediately hide your page, but the flush was still evident on your cheeks when he plopped down beside you. He was close, closer than he used to dare, thigh pressed to your ribs and his face hovering over your shoulder.

He smelled like the mountains, fresh and like pine needles, the last of the sunscreen and passionfruit iced tea. 

“Does my hair really look that bad?” he complained, but there was a smile on his lips, a shine in his eyes when you snorted and nudged at him.

“Shut up,” you told him, fonder than ever. 

“Can I?” he asked, nodding towards your book. 

You nodded, swallowing hard. Your hands felt empty without it, but Steve kept it close between you both. 

The cover was frayed, stained, the pages curling and dog eared, some ripped, some missing. The book held a little of everything, scenes from Hawkins, some self portraits, your aunt cooking soup at the stove. The most recent pages were filled with Steve.

Profiles of his face, strong jaw, full lips, furrowed brows. Steve lying in the sun, Steve driving the car, head tipped back, sunglasses hiding the way his eyes glittered. You’d drawn the car, muddy, dust covered and loved, the lake from the Ozarks, a bird's eye view of the winding roads that took you out of Kansas. You sketched the outside of the motel from Illinois, wrote the room number underneath the lines of ink like a signature, and drew two floating figures in a big, wide pool.

You were holding your breath. 

“I like these,” he murmured, trailing his touch over the lines, a finger pushed to the figure that was supposed to be you, floating on your back in water. “They’re really good.”

You ducked your head, tried not to smile and whispered a thank you and grinned anyway when he poked at your cheek. 

Then you were squealing, laughing, tugged clumsily onto your back as Steve fell back with you, his hands on your shoulders as you both dropped back into the long grass. The camera flashed above you, a click and whirl as Steve captured the scene. 

The pair of you, shoulder to shoulder, cheeks touching, lips split with wide smiles and eyes bright. Your hair mixed with the boys, with the blades of grass, skin painted apricot in the setting sun. 

“We were definitely only half in the frame,” you snorted, your hand pushing at Steve’s side as he scoffed in protest. 

“What d’you mean, I’m practically a professional.”

You laughed again, softer this time, because Steve was pushing himself up, turning to hover over you and he was grinning, backlit by the sunset and you were suddenly reminded of his favourite colour. 

He was sunset yellow, gold and peach and tangerine, coral coloured cheeks with hair that suddenly seemed caramel. He was sunkissed, freckled, stubble on his jaw that had grown since the last motel stop, his hair a little more curled at the ends from being outside. 

Clouds had started to roll in over the mountains, burnt orange and indigo, bringing in the threat of rain but you couldn’t find it in you to care when Steve was looking at you like that. 

Like the same he had on the Fourth of July, right before he kissed you. 

But then he was sitting back, clearing his throat and tugging at his hair like he needed to give his hands something else to do. In case he felt like he was going to do something stupid. 

Like touch you. 

So Steve handed you back your book instead, pages slipping free that you’d once torn out but decided to keep, half finished sketches, lists and a photo that was lined with peeling, old tape, yellowed and dog eared. 

“What’s that?” Steve picked up the photograph, gentle with a finger and a thumb, like he knew it was something special. 

You sat up and looked, heart skipping a beat. It was an image of a house, white wooden slats, a blue roof and matching shutters, a buttercup yellow door surrounded by hanging flowers. The house sat on a hill, sand covering the path leading up to it, long grass on its edges, like nature itself built it. The photo looked old, like the photo had seen some water damage, some wear and tear and a lot of love. 

“Uh,” you started, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears that you didn’t want, didn’t expect. You sniffed, shrugged, feeling silly. “That’s my grandparents house.”

“Oh,” Steve looked at you, unsure whether to reach out and touch you or not. He placed the photo on the open pages of your book and nodded. “S’really lovely. The house- it’s pretty.”

You smiled and nodded too because it was. 

“Did you go there a lot?” The boy asked and he sounded so earnest, so sincere. “Is it in Virginia too?”

You shook your head, smile slipping into something sad and you picked up the photo, ran a thumb over its work edges and glanced back up at Steve. There were four of him, his pretty face split into fractures with the tears that made your eyes a little glassy. You blinked, felt stupid when wet hit your cheek and surprised you. 

“No, uh, I’ve never been,” you told him. “I met them once or twice, I think? I was young. They were so mad at my mom and they were really old when she left. They couldn’t travel a lot and by the time they got sick I knew my mom was never coming back and my aunt couldn’t afford to fly us out.”

You left the rest unsaid, the obvious outcome lingering in the air like the end of a movie that never got a happy ending. 

“Oh,” Steve whispered and you nodded again, like you agreed with him. 

“It’s silly,” you said because maybe it was. “I’ve never been but I look at this photo and it feels like the closest thing I maybe would’ve had to a home. I remember my grans baking; scones and the best meringues you could ever taste.”

Steve smiled when you did, your face lighting up with a memory and he watched your eyelashes flutter like you were trying your best to remember it all. 

“My aunt said my grandad called me ‘duck,’ said he loved quiz shows and toffee.” 

You sniffed again, rolled your eyes at yourself and leaned against Steve when he let himself fall into your space again. 

“I remember him bringing me a bag of it when he last came to Hawkins, told me to hide it and not tell my aunt,” you huffed out a laugh. “I still have the last piece of it.”

You thought of the chew, still twisted in its shiny gold wrapper, hidden in a little tin in the bottom of your bag, mixed with jewellery and loose coins. 

“That’s nice,” Steve said and he whispered your name, caught your attention and smiled all sweet, nodded encouragingly at you like he was saying it was okay that you told him. “S’really nice that you have those memories.”

“Yeah,” you smiled, watery, wiped the back of your hand roughly across your face and nudged your shoulder into Steve’s, a solid and warm comfort. “My aunt said I looked like my gran. Not my mom, she always said I looked when my gran when she was young.”

Steve let his knee knock against yours, smiled at you a little wistfully, glanced at you from the corners of his eyes. “Oh yeah?” He said, “your gran must’ve been real pretty then, huh?”

You scoffed, burned with embarrassment, but more than a little pleased with his words and you were quiet and insincere when you mumbled, “shut up.”

He knew you didn’t mean, Steve could see the pink on your cheeks and the shin in your eyes but you were hiding your smile and he decided it was a very pretty look on you. Pleased, maybe even a little overwhelmed by him. 

“Do you miss home?” You asked him, breaking the quiet that settled over you both for a minute or two. You were both staring out at the water, the reflections of the blue mountains in the lake. “Your friends?”

Steve shrugged, smiled a little sad like you had done and let his fingers run over the grass, searching for stones to skip across the shore. 

“I think,” Steve replied, “that if this trip has caught me anythin’, it’s that I don’t think I really had a home, y’know? A house, sure, a real nice house too.”

He found a stone, threw it into the lake and you both watched it splash and sink. The skies were darker, clouds rolling down the canyons, settling in the skies above you, dark and heavy.  

“But I miss my friends,” Steve nodded, staring at his hands. “Miss them a lot, yeah.”

“D’you wish they were here?” You asked, “Robin? Eddie, Dustin?”

“Sometimes?” Steve squinted at you, like he wasn’t really sure of his answer, like he felt guilty if he said otherwise. “We’re always with each other- and I love that, I love them. They’re my family, y’know?”  

“But we’ve been through a lot together and sometimes it’s too much, and I just… I just-”

You sighed, nodding as if he’d already said the word you were both thinking. “Need to breath?”

Steve laughed, a little humourless, a little relieved and he nodded, thankful for the way you seemed to know what he wanted to say, what he needed to hear. 

“Yeah, that,” the boy agreed. “But, hey, I’ve got you with me, right? And you’ve got me.”

You smiled at that, because the boy’s words lifted at the end, a little more lightness and warmth returning to him, despite the way the wind had picked up, pulling more of those dark clouds closer. You wrapped your arms around you, leaned closer into Steve’s side. 

You didn’t look at him when you next spoke, felt like you couldn’t because god, you felt painfully shy, like a teenager with her first crush, like you were talking to that boy next door who seemed too pretty to be real. 

“We’re friends?”  

Steve looked at you then, turning and holding in a little noise at the realisation of how close you both were, shoulder to shoulder, noses only inches apart. He was looking at you that way again, like he had in the kitchen, with fireworks in the sky. Maybe you were looking at him the same way too. 

His grin was achingly soft and he cleared his throat, nervous, nodded and tried his best not to look at your lips, the way the corner of them tilted upwards in a shy smile. You wondered if he’d crack a joke, if he’d say something stupid.

But he didn’t. Steve just gave a little half shrug, tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and tried to hide his blush. But he kept gazing at you, nodded and said, “yeah, sweetheart, yeah… we’re friends.”

It was lovely the way he said it, like you’d both earned the title. Like travelling through four states had been enough time for him to be able to look at you and realise you were no longer a stranger. Steve knew your favourite colour, your favourite animal, your favourite movie. He knew how you liked your coffee and that you preferred the right side of the bed. 

It warmed you to realise that you knew the same. You knew that his hair was a wonderful riot in the morning, that he hated apple juice, that he always mumbled to himself when he was trying to figure out a problem.

You hadn’t realised you’d been staring, or that Steve had been staring right back, still too close, his hair tickling your cheek when the wind lifted at it. 

And then, rain. 

A lot of it, loud and fat, huge droplets that hammered down with a dull roar, soaked you both to the skin almost immediately. You both jumped with a yelp, a few choice curse words and a shocked laugh that sounded more like a gasp. The sky had turned darker than ever, a moody violet that blended with the canyons, madee your little slice of the world turn into a glittering snow globe that held nothing but inky colours and the roll of thunder.

It was freezing, a stark contrast to the July weather that you’d experienced in every state; humid air, hot sun and cloudless skies. You couldn’t see one patch of blue above. But Steve was in front of you, grinning, laughing, grabbing at your cold hand and dragging you back to the car. You were sodden, the boy's sweater a water logged weight on your shoulders and it hung too low, dragged cold and wet at your knees and holy shit, it was comically heavy.

You tried to lift at it, yelped when it clung to your dress and brought that up your thighs with it and Steve tried not to look, tips of his ear tinged pink as he unlocked the car door and turned back to you, motioning to help.

His hands grabbed the hem, a sharp burst of laughter leaving his lips as you squeaked and together, you both tried to wrestle the sweater off of you. It came off with a slow drag, a heavy thud as it hit the roof of the car and you were unsteady on your feet, knocking into Steve so he had to catch you, hands gentle around your wrists so you didn’t fall into him.

The rain was so loud, you could hardly hear the way his laughter faded into purposeful breaths. The roar of it all matched your heartbeat, a constant thudthudthud that rattled your insides. 

Steve was really close. 

His hair was soaked, curling at the ends, dripping water down his cheeks, drops of it caught on his lashes, spilling over his cupid's bow. He looked unfairly pretty, like a painting, a watercolour that was all muted tones, trapped sunlight behind a glass frame. 

Steve was staring again, unabashed, unashamed, but fuck, so were you. You watched him lick the rain from his lips, tracked the movement with a gaze that felt too greedy, too wanton. 

You heard him say your name, a hardly there sound underneath a roll of thunder and suddenly it didn’t matter that you were both soaked to the bone, that you were freezing in a wet sundress. Steve’s t-shirt was almost translucent and the lake looked angier than when you’d both arrived, like it was tired of waiting for something to happen.

Something. Anything. 

Then, it was like a dam burst.

“Can- can I kiss you?” Steve called out, an almost yell to be heard over the din, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so unsure and god, fuck, shit-

You nodded, licked at your own lips, tasted rain water and leftover peach ice tea, watched Steve’s face light up like the sun had come back and then as he moved in, head bending down to yours, your hands shot out, grabbed at his shoulders and you shouted, “wait!”

Steve froze, eyes wide, panicked, rain still pouring over him and you shook your head, stumbled over your words until you got them right, and shit, you had to lean in close so he could hear you. Thunder rumbled above, echoed around the canyons and it felt like your chest vibrated with it.

You held onto the boy, felt the heat of him through his wet shirt, the soaked flannel that drooped open on either side of his chest. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart beat, if you could see the thumpthumpthump of it under his clothes.

You had to take a breath before you spoke, inhaling summer and rainstorms and Steve. 

“I wanna- shit, can I? Can I kiss you this time?” You were wide eyed and breathing too hard, fingers curling around his shoulders, pushing onto your toes like you were waiting for it. “I wanna kiss you this time.”

You sounded braver at the end. Resolute. Determined. 

Steve thought you’d never looked prettier. He laughed, a bright burst, his gaze trained down on yours and he nodded, so sure, his own hands finding your waist and his fingers dug into your sides, made 

fistfuls of your sundress and then and then and then-

When Steve first kissed you over a week ago, it was with confidence that only tequila could bring. 

This was different. It was sweet, it was lovely and then it was more.

Your lips slid over Steves easily, both of you wet with rain, tasting like a storm. It was easy to push yourself into him, to let him catch you and hold your weight. It was a pretty give and take, slow and soft presses of your mouth to his and then your tongue licked into his mouth and you felt his groan, a whisper under the roar of the world around you, but fucking christ, you felt him vibrate against your chest, a rumble that seemed too good to be true.

But Steve opened his mouth for you, let you lick in and slid your tongue over his and you couldn’t help the way you surged up, onto your tiptoes and into him, pushing the boy against the doors of the car and that was it.

His hands were everywhere, stuttering over your sides, over your wet sundress, scratching at wet skin, damp cotton, swallowing the little gasps that you gave him. And your hands were in his hair, pulling and tugging, almost a little mean but the boy kept moaning for you, whispering your name into your own mouth like he was telling you a whole other secret. 

Your noses were pressed to each other's cheeks, teeth dragging over swollen bottom lips, panting into open mouths, hands pressed to dips and valleys, lines of muscles, the pretty slope of each other's jaw. The rain didn’t matter, not anymore, or the cold. Nothing really did.

Because Steve tasted the same way he looked, like he’d swallowed summer and held the sun inside of him.

Neither of you stopped until lightning struck. 

We Tried The World CH2.

THE MASTERLIST THE OZARKS, MISSOURI, 602 MILES FROM HOME.

You woke up early the next day to the shrill, digital beep of the cheap motel alarm clock and Steve’s bare chest. 

The day had hardly started, the morning bringing in a new kind of heat, an immediate warmth that only grew stronger when Steve pushed open the sage green curtains and let in the sun. It was already unforgiving, the blue sky hazy in the early morning hour, still tinged with the leftover colours from the sunrise. 

You were both quiet as you moved around each other, comfortable but barely awake, last night’s secrets lingering in the air between you. There was the smell of coffee and toast coming in from under the motel door, Steve’s mint body wash riding on the steam from the bathroom after his shower and you were so very aware of the sound of his pyjama shorts hitting the tiles behind the privacy of the thin door.

His bruise was beginning to fade a little, turning shades of green instead, still mottled around his brow bone. After his admittance, you wanted to run your fingers over it, kiss it better, tell him that he didn’t deserve a father like that, that any man who could that to their son wasn’t really a father at all.

Instead, you turned to let him dress, facing the wall with warm cheeks because the boy had come out of the bathroom with wet skin and a towel around his waist, murmuring shly about forgetting his clothes. Steve tapped your shoulder once he was dressed, the same worn jeans from yesterday and a shirt that was yellow and white stripes.

His hair was still a little damp, messy across his eyes and he had a flush to his skin from the hot shower, the sun from yesterday. Steve Harrington looked like summer, bruises and all, and he quirked a brow at you as he headed for the motel door, asking:

“Coming?”

You crossed the Mississippi River with coffee in takeaway cups that burned your hands, a too big cinnamon roll that you shared with Steve, holding it between you both as he tore chunks off of it with his free hand whilst he drove. 

The roads out of Illinois were just as long and empty as the way in, more green fields and farms, the smell of sunscreen, coffee and Steve trapped in the warm car with you. The Champ Clark Bridge took you into Louisiana, a small town with too many tobacco shops and roads that were a little uneven. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the open window to catch some fresh air, the music low, the day just starting. 

Small towns rolled by like dollhouses, wooden framed homes and too big trucks in their driveways, green and gold pastures in between, blues skies above and muddy ponds on the sides of roads. Four hours in and lunch time had passed, stomachs rumbled and the day was getting too hot, so Steve rolled into a small parking lot, a tiny supermarket next to a dentist's office and an off-licence that was opened earlier than it should’ve been. 

There was something so entirely domestic about the whole thing as you pushed a shopping cart around the aisles, Steve by your side, shoulder’s brushing, a hand on the cart to help you steer. You both loaded it up with snacks, stuff for sandwiches, a hummus dip that the boy wrinkled his nose at and when you got to the candy aisle, you argued with him until he relented and grudgingly put the extra two bags of red vines back on the shelf. 

It felt familiar, like a scene from a movie, from a book you’d once read. Like something you should’ve done before now, with a friend at your side, a lover, a partner. It made your chest ache with a nostalgia for something you’d never had and suddenly you were overcome to know this boy a little bit better, to make him your friend, your something.

Steve Harrington deserved to be known as more than the boy from Maple Street. 

“Hey,” you said, turning to Steve as you both lingered by the freezers, hoping to catch some cool air before walking back out into the Missouri heat. “What’s your favourite colour?”

You thought, for just a second, that the boy was going to laugh at you. But then Steve’s confused face smoothed out into a smile and he titled his head to appraise you, taking his time to think about your sudden question seriously.

“Yellow,” he said after some consideration, “but not like highlighter yellow, more like sunshine yellow, like when it starts to set and it goes all golden, y’know?”

You grinned, nodding, suddenly feeling so shy and Steve was blushing, cheeks a pretty pink as he coughed and waved a hand to you in return. “What about, uh, what about you?”

“Green, I think,” you mused, eyes set on the cart as you pushed it, wheels rattling, Steve just behind you. “Like forest green, a deep shade.”

“Oh,” Steve replied, and the surprise in his voice made you stop and turn. 

“Oh?”

“Well,” Steve started, moving into your space for a second as a family passed by with an overflowing cart and two screaming kids. His hands were on your waist for just a second, but the skin he touched burned for so much longer. “I guess I thought you were gonna say blue, like the ocean? Carmel, y’know?”

It made you smile, the way he mentioned the town, your destination, some sort of shared goal. Like the ultimate show of the new found friendship. And you nodded again, understanding but you shrugged your shoulders, head tilted to him as you both started to walk again.

“I’ve never seen it, remember?” 

Steve clicked his tongue and grabbed some bottles of water, throwing them into the cart. “Right.”

“But hey, maybe I’ll change my answer when I do.”

You gave Steve another smile then, all soft and warm, and he nodded, smiling back. Unbeknownst to you, the boy decided there and then that he wanted to give you every ocean you wanted. He’d flood the world to keep making you smile at him like that.

----------

The world got a little less flat as you drove further towards The Ozarks, the land around the roads lifting into small rock faces, dipping and rolling into green hills, valley’s of trees, raised land that was painted in red clay. Steve kept the windows down, the smell of pine and hot asphalt flying in with the unmistakable smell of fresh water, that clean, light feel in the air that made your stomach flutter.

And then the boy was rolling off of the highway, down winding roads that were smaller and less busy, framed with green and trees and startling blue skies. You couldn’t see a cloud above you and it made your chest thump, like something special was about to happen. 

Water came into view when Steve took a sharp corner, the flash of navy blue between trees and road signs and you gasped, you actually gasped. The sound made Steve grin, no, beam,  and he was driving a little faster, laughing when you did. He drove you over Bagnell Dam, the lake closer than ever, shimmering like something out of a movie, the sun dancing off of the surface until it hurt to look at it for too long.

The roads got smaller as they took you both through tiny towns and then patches of land, water on the edges and houses bigger than Steve’s scattered between bridges and beaches. Summer homes on the lake gave way to fish shacks and run down diners, a Taco Bell that Steve groaned at appreciatively but kept driving. Everything turned green and blue, trees and the sky, lakes turning bigger after every winding turn. 

You passed summer camps and small marinas, docks lined with boats, leftover oars on the grass edges and then the road turned to gravel and dirt. Steve drove you into the forest and you would’ve cracked a joke if you weren’t perched restlessly on the edge of your seat, belt pulled tight across your chest as you desperately searched for that patch of sparkling blue through the woods. 

You passed signs for lodges and campgrounds, wooden a-frames that had the smell of smoke lingering around them, burgers and something else that smelled sweet. Creeks broke between the shrubs and everything around you got a little wilder, but Steve kept driving, only grinning when you looked at him, puzzled. He took you through more trees, cedar and pine and oak and finally, eventually, the forest broke out into a clearing.

Sand and dirt lined the edges of the lake, that dazzling blue that made your eyes hurt, your chest swell, perfectly framed by tall, tall trees, flat rocks in the water that looked like makeshift floats. There wasn’t anyone else around and when Steve cut the engine, you could only hear birds, the soft buzz of a cricket or two nearby.

“Did you know this was here?” you whispered to the boy, already knowing the answer. The map was tucked into the front of your sketchbook, so far unused.

“Nah,” Steve murmured back, both of you too scared to disrupt the peace. “Someone just told me that I should always take the scenic route.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, flushing at hearing your own words parroted back to you. But it seemed so worth it. You both clambered out of the car together, into the heat and the sun, the slight breeze that came off of the lake and you couldn’t get over the sight of the lake before you, blue stretching for miles, the wooden huts and boats in the distance seeming toy sized. 

Your head felt empty for the first time in years. 

The quiet felt like a pillow, like someone had pulled a soft blanket around you and this part of the world. Your footsteps were even cushioned by fallen pine needles, the soft scrape of your shoes against the forest floor hardly heard. 

But then Steve took a step forward and then another, and another and all of a sudden, he was running towards the watersedge, shedding his shirt as he went and letting out a whoop. 

You laughed, taken aback at his sudden outburst, snorted when he tripped over his jeans that he was trying to climb out of, his shoes tangling in the denim as he toed them off at the same time. You burned, turning to stare at a tree trunk when you realised too late that the boy was only left in black boxers, the cotton tight and cut around the muscles of his thighs. 

There was a splash, silence, a burst of water on the surface along with a gasp and then:

“You’re not gonna leave me hangin’, are you?”

You turned back, eyes a little wide at the sight of Steve a little ways out from the waters edge, arms circling the surface. His hair was a mess, soaked and darker than it was supposed to be, dripping water into his eyes, across his cheeks.

He glittered like the lake, like the sun was made just for him and god, he was grinning at you like this was the best day of his life. Maybe it was. Maybe it was yours too. 

You shuffled your feet, nervous, hands hovering at the waistband of your shorts. 

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath and you tried your best to seem calm, collected. Fucking normal. “Hey, turn ‘round, would you?”

Steve obliged without any comment and you were greeted to the sight of his bare back, all strong lines of muscle, broad shoulders, tanned skin, a collection of freckles that you wanted to play join the dots with. You swore again, feeling stupid, feeling like you were sixteen and without overthinking it, you shucked off your clothes and left them in a patch of grass on top of your shoes.

Your underwear didn’t match, ‘cause Jesus, when did it ever? You were a clash of red and baby blue, tiny dots printed over a bra that turned scarlet in the water and you dove straight in, head under to avoid Steve’s gaze, just for a few seconds more.

You broke the surface a few feet away from him, gasping a little at the chill of the water as you slicked your hair back from your eyes. Steve was already watching, a small smile on his face. The world seemed to go quiet as you both tread water, staring at each other in the sun, like you were both waiting for something to happen.

It felt a little magic, floating out in the lake like that, under the sun, the cool water lapping at way too much bare skin. It left you exposed, like Steve could see right through you, the beam of sunshine you were swimming in left you translucent.

Maybe he could see your secrets like this, maybe you could see his. Maybe that’s why you dunked your head under the water to escape his gentle stare, swimming through the sun that broke though the surface, hands out in front of you like you could swim all the way to California.

It was a little later when Steve joined you on one of those flat rocks, the smooth surface of it big enough for both of you to stretch out on. It was warmed by the sun, drying you both on in little time and you lay there, your head by his toes and vice versa, until the sun started to dip and turn your little patch of world golden.

The heat lingered, like it always did in July, making the air sticky and sweet. Neither of you had been back to the car since you’d jumped out of it hours before and you have a fleeting image of the inside being overtaken by bugs, maybe a rogue squirrel, both windows still down. 

“Hey,” Steve said, nudging a knee to yours and interrupting your thoughts. “What’s your favourite movie?” 

You grinned, sudden and like you couldn’t help it, ‘cause the question made you feel like maybe Steve wanted to be your friend the way you wanted to be his. Like he was trying to work you out too.

You kept your eyes closed as you hummed, thinking his question over. You felt him fidget next to you, bare legs brushing your own in a way that felt deliberate. He felt warm like the sun, like the summer.

“Uh, The Princess Bride,” you told him, smiling to the sky. You heard him laugh softly, a little harder when you nudged at his shoulder with your toes and you sat up, leaning on your elbows. “What’s so funny?”

Steve peered up at you from behind messy hair, the strands a little wild from the lake. He was smiling, not unkind, eyes honey and soft. He patted at your knee in what you thought was meant to be a reassuring way but it set your heart thumping, blood racing full throttle and you hoped you could blame the heat on your cheeks on the sun.

“I’m not, sorry, I am,” he was grinning still, dimples on show, “it’s just that’s my friend Max’s favourite movie too. Except she won’t admit it ‘cause she likes everyone to think she’s tough.”

Steve sat up, mirroring your pose. “Even though she’s like, one of the most badass people I know.” He sniffed, looking off to the water. “Kinda miss her, all of them.”

You smiled, heart softening at his admission. Steve had made it clear that he wasn’t too concerned about leaving his parents behind as he jumped over state lines with you, but you hadn’t really thought to ask about his friends. It was hard to miss them around Hawkins, a mismatched bunch of kids and almost adults, a squadron of bikes and the crackle of walkie talkies following them wherever they went.

It was even more difficult to miss the way some of the kids looked at Steve, like a brother, like a lifeline. You cleared your throat, garnered his attention and twisted your lips in a sad display of sympathy for him. But he merely shook his head and smiled back.

“S’fine,” he told you, “I’m gonna call Robin soon, check in with them all. Make sure they haven’t killed each other.”

You snorted and nodded like you knew what he meant. You didn’t not really, because the ache of missing someone the way Steve missed his friends was foriegn to you. You spoke to Robin, sure, had even turned down a few invitations to a movie night you were sure was held at Steve’s house. But you’d always felt like you were intruding on something that didn’t belong to you.

So instead of telling him that you had no one to call, no one back ‘home’, you tapped your foot into his bare hip and set him with a questioning gaze.

“What’s your favourite movie, then?” You grinned, teasing, “Top Gun, right? No, no, wait, Die Hard?”

Steve rolled his eyes at you, good natured in the way he scoffed and leaned back into the lake to splash water on you. He smirked at your squeal, huffed out a laugh when you pushed at him and shook his head. 

“No, actually, you presumptuous ass,” he licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders. “It’s Stand By Me.”

There was something about his choice that made you pause. That found-family feeling, the sense of leaving home and going on an adventure. You gazed at him, still smiling, knowing that your grin was softening on your lips, a sense of warmth and understanding washing over you.

But it seemed too heavy to talk about, to ask if he felt the same way as the characters in the movie. Did he feel scared of growing up like Gordie? Did he wanna run away from it all like Chris?

So you hummed a noise of approval, looked out to the sun that was setting over the lake, turning the sky shades of peach and red. “That’s, uh, that’s a good movie.”

It was over a dinner of turkey sandwiches and chips that you both decided that it was too late to drive back out to a town in order to find a motel. The day had quickly turned to evening, twilight making the forest look a little magic, the lake inky, the forest floor lit up with the yellow green glow of fireflies.

You stood by Steve’s side when he popped the trunk, faces set in matching expressions of concern when he managed to source his one pillow he’d taken from home, a bundle of crushed clothes and a blanket from underneath an old gym bag.

He held up his finds with a wary smile. “You can take the back, I’ll stretch out in the front.”

It seemed silly, the idea of his tall frame in one of the front seats. No matter how far back they reclined, you knew it wasn’t going to be a comfortable night for him. For either of you, probably. Which is why you wanted the ground to swallow you whole when you said:

“Just sleep in the back with me.”

The slow hoot of an owl was the only sound for a second or two. It seemed a little mocking, taunting, as if a tumbleweed should’ve rolled by your feet at the same time. But then Steve was scratching at the back of his neck, looking at you through his lashes. He didn’t say anything when he shrugged a hoodie on, the air finally dropping temperature now that the moon was in place of the sun.

You held your breath when he opened the back door, threw in the pillow and blanket and gestured to the back bench with a wave of his hand. He seemed nervous, a little shy but he cleared his throat and told you, “ladies first.”

The forest was even quieter at night, the dots of light from summer homes and camp sites a blur in the distance across the shore, and when Steve slid in behind you and shut the car door, it was fucking silent.

He followed your lead when you tugged off your shoes and dumped them in the front seat and there was a breath or two when no one said anything. But then the boy was shuffling around with the blanket, his shoulder brushing your own. 

“How’d you wanna do this?”

You looked around, body burning as you stupidly realised there wasn’t that much room in the back either. Of course there wasn’t, it was a fucking car. A shiny BMW that hardly had any leg space but the leather of the seat was cool against your sunwarmed skin and you swallowed hard, turning to face the boy. 

“Uh, I don’t know.” Another awkward cough, a flinch when his hand met your bare thigh by accident.

“Shit, sorry.”

“No, god, it’s fine, I-,” you waved a dismissive hand, grabbed the boy’s pillow and shoved it at him. God, it smelled like Steve. “Here.”

“No, no, you take it, m’fine.” 

Steve was not fine, his head angled awkwardly against the hard wood of the door, neck crooked, eyes narrowed in discomfort. 

“Jesus, Harrington,” you huffed, pushing the pillow under the boy’s head. “It’s yours.”

After a few more minutes of tense fumbling, hands pushing up against places they weren’t supposed to touch, you were a tangle of feet and legs, forearms pushed to ribs, the blanket a mess between you both. Tiredness made everything more difficult, patience wearing thin and the croak of one lone frog was making Steve’s eye twitch.

“Okay, right!” he didn’t yell, not really, but his sudden outburst in the small space made you jump and he looked apologetic as he lay himself back against the door, pillow fluffed underneath him. He seemed to take a second to gather himself, or maybe it was courage? “C’mere.”

He waved a hand at you, patted his chest like you were supposed to know what he meant and when you simply stared at him, still perched awkwardly on the edge of the seat, he curled a hand around your arm and tugged gently.

Steve didn’t stop until you got the hint and slid down the leather with him. It was a close squeeze for both of you to fit on the seats and your face was burning when he coaxed your knee between his own, legs slotting between legs and there was nowhere to put your head apart from on his chest. 

You were practically on top of him.

Fucking Christ, you were practically on top of him. 

The sounds of both you and Steve’s slow breaths mixed in with the noises of the forest, the night. Neither of you moved, not an inch, the tension making your shoulders hurt. But then Steve shifted just slightly, and you slipped further into his side, his arm coming round to rest across your back, keeping you on the seat and by default, holding you closer to him.

Your cheek was pressed to his hoodie, to his chest, breathing in Steve’s cologne, the mint body wash he’d used at the motel in Illinois just that morning. You’d only left Hawkins three days ago and now you were pressed against Steve Harrington in the back of his car like a pair of teenagers after a first date.

It took some time but you let yourself relax, body melting to Steve’s, bones lazy, sleep tugging at you, the sun and warmth from the day making you more tired than you have even realised. The boy’s breathing evened out underneath you, chest falling soft under your cheek and he mumbled sleepily when you turned and pushed your nose into his hoodie, curling into him in a way that you didn’t dare do when you were more awake.

You both slept like that through the night, no room to toss and turn. Steve kept hold of you, making sure you didn’t slip from the bench, the blanket shared between you both like it was the most natural thing in the world. At some point, Steve’s head grew heavy and he nodded to the side, shifting from his pillow to lean his cheek against your hair, lips breathing out soft puffs of air.

He stayed like that until dawn broke, when the sun and the sound of the world waking up stirred you both. Neither of you said anything as you untangled yourselves, stretching out arms and legs, rubbing at stiff necks as the lake and the inside of the car glowed pink.

The sky was lilac when Steve went to the trunk, pulled out some bottles of water and a few cereal bars, shuffling across the grass to join you at the edge of the lake. You ate breakfast shoulder to shoulder, suddenly not as shy as you’d been before when it came to touching.

It was in the burst of blue sky, that first proper shine of light from the sun that made the day seem new, that Steve turned to you and asked, “wanna tell me a secret?”

It seemed unfair to pull out something heavy like the last time you decided to swap something no one else knew. You didn’t want to sully the morning, the warmth of the sun over your skin. Steve’s eyes looked like honey in the light, pretty and soft and you wanted to keep that.

So with a small smile, somewhat self-deprecating, you told him, “I headbutted the first guy I kissed.”

Something told you that the boy wasn’t expecting that kind of secret, because he choked on his water, spraying his jeans with drops of it as he tried to quieten his laugh. When he looked at you, his eyes were sparkling, full of surprise and warmth. 

“You what?” he gasped, wiping at his lips and chin with the back of his hand.

“It was an accident!” you exclaimed, indignant. “I didn’t mean to, it was all just really bad timing and like, sheer lack of experience.”

Steve stared at you until you cracked, lips pursing to hide your grin before you were laughing with him, the sounds of both of you mixing with bird calls, the water that lapped at the toes of your shoes.

“God,” he muttered, brushing his hair back from his face. “You’re trouble.” There was something about the way he said that that sounded like a compliment, like an affection. It made you warm.

“Your turn, Harrington,” you whispered, shoulder nudging him, your cereal bar forgotten in your hand. Who needed breakfast when a pretty boy was sharing secrets with you?

He decided to keep with the theme you noted, but he didn’t seem all that embarrassed when he told you, “I didn’t have my first kiss until I was sixteen.”

You tried not to let your surprise show, you didn’t want to be rude. But it still seemed like it was apparent on your face because Steve took in your wide eyed stare and parted lips with a shrug and smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“But you were King Steve,” you mock gasped, laughing when he scoffed and flipped you off.

“Let’s just say I made up for lost time,” he told you lowly, and it shouldn’t have been as hot as he made it, but he was looking at you from the side of his eyes, from beneath thick, dark lashes. 

“Who was it?” you enquired, far too invested in knowing everything you could about this boy. “Your first kiss?”

Steve sighed, maybe a little wistfully, stretching his legs out across the dirt and sand as he leaned back onto his hands. “This girl that used to live on my street,” he told you, squinting at the sun. “She only lived there for the summer, I think her dad was in the army or something - she was called Ruby. She let me take her to the movies one night after I got my licence. Kissed me in the back row ‘cause I was too chicken shit to make the first move.” 

You grinned, feeling a little warm from the heat of the sun and the boy beside you and you couldn’t help but think of the fourth of July, the kitchen, the kiss.

“Are you still?”

You remembered the way the boy had moved into you, all smooth and full of confidence, smelling like smoke and boy, tasting like alcohol and bad ideas. You’d liked the way he’d cupped your chin, held you with finger and thumb and moved you the way he wanted you. Steve was all soft lips and firm touches, it was hard to forget.

“Still what?” he asked you, brows furrowed, puzzled. 

He’d looked a little dazed, you recalled, when he’d pulled back from you, just enough that his nose bumped yours and you could still feel his fingers ghosting over your jawline. It’d been so nice having him so close, a kiss in a stranger’s kitchen from a not so stranger, a boy you wished you knew better.

“Still chicken shit?”

Steve bit his lip at your words, maybe to hide his surprise, maybe to hide his grin. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t let on about remembering the same kiss that you thought about too much. But he scrunched his nose and shrugged all lazy, as if to say, ‘maybe we’ll find out.’

—————

You spent the next few days at the lake with the boy, neither of you ever very far from the other. It stayed quiet, the little spot that Steve had picked, just the two of you and the car, the lake, the sun, the stars and the trees. 

When it got too hot, you shed your clothes, dipped back into the water with less shyness, almost daring Steve to look at all the bare skin you put on show. You liked it when he joined you, legs brushing under the water, the sun bouncing off the surface, reflecting rainbows onto both of your faces. 

You liked it even better when he watched, shirtless and on the shore, sometimes sitting on the hood of the car, stretched out with his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, eyes hidden like he could get away with staring. You always felt his gaze, warm on you like the summer, a boy full of sunshine who was never far away. 

And when it got colder at night, Steve lit fires, small things that burned on pine needles and twigs, bright flames that sent smoke to the sky and seeped into your clothes, your skin. You could still smell it on Steve when he let you clamber over him when it was time to sleep, the two of you curled in the backseat of the BMW, like you’d been having sleepovers together for years and years. 

It was dizzying the way your head fit on his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone, the mess of your hair tucked under his chin. Hands stayed safe, away from bare skin but there was a crackle in the air every time you moved into each other, bathed in darkness, chests tight with what ifs and remember when we kissed?

It went like that for the next day or two, a peaceful harmony between you, Steve and your part of the Ozarks. Something lingering, something unsaid, but it felt nice, it felt new, it felt like the beginning. 

“What’re you drawing?”

Steve flung himself down on the grass across from you, sprawled out lazy in the patch of sun, letting it light him up in shades of gold and honey. You were crossed legged and barely dressed, unbuttoned shorts and a red bikini top you’d finally pulled from the depths of your bag. 

Your pen stalled on the page, your hand covering the barely there lines as you tried to pretend your heart wasn’t hammering. 

“Nothing,” you told him and you hated that you sounded like a petulant child, a little shy, a little scared of Steve seeing the ink on the paper. 

“Is it me again?” He grinned, knowingly. His fingers threaded through the long grass, plucking a stem of a wildflower, a pretty violet thing with butter soft petals. The boy held it out to you, placed it on the page of your sketchbook like an offering. “Can I see? Please?”

You groaned, cheeks hot, chest flushed, but you didn’t protest when Steve curled his hand around your wrist and pulled gently. Your hand fell away with his, the pen trapped between your fingers as the black outline of Steve’s face appeared. You’d started when he’d been sitting on a rock in the lake, shorts wet, hair damp and messy, falling into his eyes. 

You could feel his gaze on you, even as you stared at the grass by your knee, body feeling too heavy with the weight of his attention. 

“S’really good,” he told you with a hushed voice, “no bruises?”

You glanced back at him at that, eyes flirting over the lines of his face, the skin at the corner of his eye, the high of his cheekbone. The marks were fading, barely there unless you stared, unless you caught him under the bright afternoon sun. 

You shook your head, smiling. “Almost all gone.”

He seemed to like that, knowing that whatever was left with his father had disappeared, like the lake and the sun had washed it away. There was still a small cut on his lip though, thinner than ever and no longer angry looking. A paper cut split on his skin, nothing more. But he licked at it, whether he meant to or not, eyes darkening like he was remembering. 

“Hey,” you nudged your bare foot to his thigh. “What’s your favourite song?”

It was a distraction, Steve knew that, one he was thankful for ‘cause he smiled and let his body fall back into the grass, his head dangerously close to laying in your lap. Your fingers itched to comb through his still damp hair, the strands around his forehead messy and untamed. It suited him, like the new tan on his skin, the freckles on his nose earned from a full afternoon in the water.

“Right now?” He asked you, lips pursed as he thought. “Probably ‘This Must Be The Place.’ You know it?”

“Talking Heads, right?” You asked him, and he smiled when he nodded. He hummed the opening bars, his voice a little rougher than the usual soft tune but it was just as nice, just as sweet. 

An ironic choice you’d thought, singing the lyrics in your head, the very first line a stark contrast to where you and Steve were sitting now. 

“Home is where I wanna be, pick me up and turn me ‘round.”

Steve must’ve known what you were thinking, cause he sang it, voice hushed, scratchy, eyes on yours with a sick smile on his lips. You huffed out a laugh, put your pen back to paper and wondered if he’d stay still enough for you to draw him like this. 

“Where’s home?” You asked him, way too nonchalant, a coy smile on your face as you started to sketch out the strong arm he’d thrown behind his head. 

“Are you drawing me again?” He answered instead, but he was still smiling, eyes closed, the sun on his bare chest and his face, more violet flowers clutched between his fingers. 

“Maybe.” Steve hummed at your lie, a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “Stay still,” you ordered. 

He whispered your name when you were sketching out the dip in his Cupid’s bow, eyes fluttering, just to see if you were listening. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t know why that made your stomach tumble, something inside of you dipping, rolling in nervousness. You swallowed, kept your eyes on your paper and said, “sure.”

“How old were you when your mom left?”

It should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face that left you with whiplash and the awful ache of having to remember the day your mom didn’t come back for you. 

But Steve said it so softly, the sun turning his brown eyes into caramel as he looked at you from a line of thick lashes. He didn’t sugarcoat it, he didn’t apologise. He just looked at you with such genuine interest, a soft need to know about that part of you. It made your heart thump for a different reason. 

“Um,” you tilted your head, recalling that time, remembering how small you were, barely to your aunt's knees. You were clumsy, all grabby hands and eyes that never seemed to stop tearing up. “Three I think, almost four.” 

You scratched the nib of your pen to the paper, scored in the shadows underneath the boy’s jaw and your eyes flicked to him once, twice, memorising the cluster of freckles there. He was staring right back, gaze still soft, lips a little parted but he didn’t say anything, he just let you keep talking. 

“She wasn’t good, you know? Not bad. Just… not made to be a mom, I think. She was young, all alone ‘cause my dad left before I was born.”

You sighed, dragged the ink across to make the slope of Steve’s nose, strong lines on the sun soaked page. “We lived somewhere in Virginia, I don’t even know what town, isn’t that sad?” The question was rhetorical, because you didn’t pause to let Steve answer. 

“She didn’t do drugs or anything, nothing bad bad. I think she drank a lot though, left me with a neighbour on the weekends and I just remember always crying. All the time. Must’ve been a headache to take care of,” you laughed, humourless. “That’s what my aunt told me anyway, I was such a whiny baby. She told us she’d come back and don’t think either of us believed her but… it was nice to pretend for a while.”

Steve’s hand fell from where it rested in his chest, laying in the grass and the flowers, close to your ankle. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out, maybe curl them around your leg, a little bit of comfort. But he wasn’t brave enough, not yet. 

“Have you seen her since?” Steve asked quietly, barely heard over the rush of the breeze across the lake, through the trees that sat behind you both. 

You shook your head, kept your glassy eyes on the paper and kept drawing. 

“Nah. She called once on my birthday, my seventh, I’m sure.” You shrugged, uncaring. “I didn’t even know who it was at first, I didn't recognise her voice. But I remember my aunt yelling at her after she sent me into the garden, tellin’ her that it wasn’t fair.”

The tips of Steve’s fingers touched your ankle then, just when your first tear rolled down off your cheek and onto the paper on your lap. It was soft, a gentle push of his pads to the bone, barely there warmth but it made you sniff. 

You huffed, lips twisting as you watched the inky shadows on Steve’s neck blur and smudge but you just shrugged. “It’s fine, I knew she wasn’t coming back for me. Even then.”

And then - with a finality that told the boy you were done talking about it - you dropped your book into the grass and stretched yourself out alongside him. 

You lay on your tummy, flowers pressed beneath your skin, sun warming your back and your head pillowed on folded arms. Your gaze met Steve’s and he smiled, warm and soft and a little sad. He mirrored you, head tilted to the side, resting on the arm he’d thrown behind his head, the tips of your noses not all that far away. 

“Why did your dad hit you?”

If you weren’t already looking at him, you wouldn’t have caught the way Steve shrugged. He hadn’t told anyone, not really. Robin knew, Eddie knew. The kids were scared to ask, old enough now that they saw through his lies. No one had outright said the words so he’d never really had to confirm it. 

It felt more freeing than he thought it would’ve been. “Why?” you didn’t mean to sound as angry as you did, your voice coming out a little biting, frustration and upset colouring your tone. “Why’d he do that?”

Steve sighed, eyes downcast and he didn’t answer, not for a second or five. He picked more wildflowers, let the petals fall onto the slope of your back, greens, whites and lavenders dotting along your spine. They settled in the dip above your shorts and the feeling made you smile, it made you feel warmer than the sun did. 

And then:

“My dad doesn’t like me,” Steve told you, his gaze carefully focused on the flowers on your skin. “Doesn’t like who I am, who I wanna be, the way I turned out.”

God, that hurt. It hurt to hear, to listen to the way Steve sounded, tired and burnt out. 

“He wanted me on the basketball team, so I did. Tried out and tried hard, made captain. Swim team, too, worked at the pool at the weekends. But then my grades weren’t good enough.” The boy scoffed, let his hand pick up a petal that was tumbling down to the denim of your shorts and he dropped it again, watching it roll down your shoulders. 

“So I quit swimming, tried even harder. Got a tutor, got my marks up, managed to graduate without throwing myself off of the water tower.”  

Steve sniffed and tilted his chin up to the sun, eyes clenched shut and jaw jutted. He looked like a Greek god, bathed in gold, too bright, like the boy who flew too close to the sun and fell from the clouds. 

Fuck. 

You wanted to catch him. 

“Still wasn’t enough.” Steve told you with a grin that had the same sharp edges it did in the diner that first morning. “You should’ve seen him when I told him I didn’t wanna go to college. M’surprised he didn’t sock me then.”

“What about your mom?” You whispered, eyes frozen on Steve, the outline of his features, strong jaw, strong nose, full lips, all backlit by the sun bouncing off of the lake. 

“She does what he says, agrees with him, stays quiet, walks away.” Steve frowned at the last part, like he was remembering something that hurt. “She’s never home, never really was. Neither of them were. Business, y’know? The same one I told my dad I wasn’t interested in that night.”

The boy cracked an eye, golden honey staring back at you, holding less sadness than you expected. 

“Was the last straw for daddy dearest,” he snorted. “God forbid Michael Harrington’s son works at Family fuckin’ Video. He had me against the fridge before I could blink. Knew it was comin’ though, y’know? Like the way you know a storm is rolling in?”

You nodded. 

“Figured I’d just get in the car and drive,” he whispered, looking at the sky, the white clouds that floated by. “Drive and try and find something that might feel like home.”

Your lip twitched at that, such a sweet sentiment off the back of a cruel story. 

“Have you found it yet?”

The boy turned to you, gazed straight at you for almost a little too long, a little too soft before he looked back to the trees overhead, the blue above that. He shrugged, closed his eyes and smiled. 

“Maybe.”

It’s August ‘85, when Steve Harrington cuts his hair.

Starcourt had burned down, Billy had died, a piece of Max had gone with the smug bastard. El didn’t have her powers anymore. The kids were exhausted. Hooper was fucking dead, his rock, the only father he’d ever really had.

Steve had been blessed, he had gotten Robin out of the whole ordeal. How good of a friend was he really though, while she had gotten him, she’d also gotten the nightmares, the terrors, the sleepless nights bleeding into morning. She stayed at his house most nights, they slept, or stared at each other in his king bed. He would never stop feeling guilty for getting her involved, but fuck if he didn’t love his girl.

This morning was one of the few moments he watched the sunrise alone, the second day of August. Things were calming down, El was healing a little, the kids were broken but they were gearing up for school. They were going to be okay. Robin had stayed at her parents house in preparation for her senior year. And Steve was here, sitting on the edge of his window in his three story home watching the fucking sunrise alone. He had work at 9, glancing over at his alarm clock he saw it blinking 5:30 AM, he had time.

Steve glared at his stupid hair in his stupid mirror in his god damned fucking ensuite bathroom. This hair, the fucking perfect coif had been a staple to him because Martha Harrington had made it so. But where the fuck was Martha Harrington today? His father? Fuck if he knew. Alaska? Aruba? Alabama? Fuck if he knew. Steve bent down ruffling under the cabinet and pulled out his electric hair clippers. He only used them to tidy things up, helped Dustin and Lucas with their hair if they asked. But today? Today he wanted his stupid fucking hair off his bullshit head.

Steve found himself pacing frantically behind the desk at Family Video. Rob was due to show up to close and swap out with him. Keith was transitioning her to later shifts as she was preparing for school. He was happy with his hair, he had taken the shaver to either side; left the center long. He figured the Steve of late ‘85, deserved to have a flair for the dramatic. Maybe he’d pierce his fucking lip or something. Who the fuck cared anymore. Anyway, he was happy and frankly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought, but Rob. Robin mattered.

He ceased his frantic wandering when he saw a beat up van peel into the parking lot, Robin hanging out of the side laughing in the wind. Who the fuck was dropping her off? Steve stepped out from behind the front desk and opted to just sit his ass down on top of it arms folded, as he watched Robin hop out of this strange ass van. “Cmon doofus!” She yelled at the driver, “I want to introduce you to my summer fling!” Okay what the fuck Robin? She was a lesbian, they had confirmed that on the floor in that spinning bathroom of Starcourt. It was only a week later that Steve had told her, he wasn’t as into women as initially planned. “I don’t know Rob, men with long hair kind of do it for me.” She had accepted him as quickly as he had, her. That solidified everything between them. Soulmates.

Honestly he wasn’t even sure she had had many other friends who the hell? He cocked an eyebrow as Robin came barreling in through the door. Driver of the strange van left behind, maybe they weren’t coming in, “Dingus! I have to introduce you to Doof—Steve what?” Robins eyes looked like they were going to fall right out of her skull, “Steve oh my GOD!” She took two large steps to cover the space between them and grabbed either side of Steves face, eyes darting from his, to the bald sides of his head, the hair he had left on the top stylized in some makeshift Mohawk, he figured he would have time to figure it out.

“I needed a change, Rob.”

She offered him a soft smile, chaotic energy calmed from earlier as the bell above the door chimed and in tumbled Steve’s personal bisexual awakening. He’d kept it under wraps since his freshmen year, his friends were not kind to the boy he had had secret heart eyes for. He hadn’t ever participated in the back and forth between Tommy and the other boy, but he hadn’t stopped it either. God, he was stunning as ever though.

Eddie Munson, stood under the entry to Family Video, mouth dropped open. His stupid long curls, and his dumb tight pants and hot ass beat up boots. He had on that vest he always wore, Steve always wished he had the balls to be as unapologetic as Eddie Munson was, “What the fuck, Harrington?”

It’s August ‘85, when Steve Harrington decides to shoot his shot with Eddie Munson.

Part Two

Pretty Boy

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.1k] that nick millar line that's like "stop being mean to me i'll fall in love with you." scoops!steve, record store!reader and some weird drabbles about how steve gets flustered i don't like this i'm sorry

Steve knew he was a goner when he spotted you stacking shelves at the record store. He’d asked Eddie your name and the boy had cackled, slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Harrington, she’d eat you alive.’

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Steve had answered. 

You wore boots with laces that were never fully tied, fishnet tights, bike shorts and too big T-shirts that served as dresses, gold rings on your fingers and ruby red lipstick on Saturdays. 

You looked like trouble, like a whole lot of fun and Steve took Eddie’s warning as a personal challenge. 

The first time he spoke to you, it was on his day off and he shoved some dollar bills at Dustin, Lucas and Max, told them to go to the arcade and stay in the arcade. 

He found you behind the register, perched on a tall stool and flicking through records, cassettes littering the desk and your foot tap, tap, tapping against the wooden legs. Your store was quieter than the rest of the mall, so Steve tried to act casual, thanked everything holy that he wasn’t wearing his scoops uniform and browsed the boxes of music. 

He kept letting his eyes flicker to you, the store dimly lit and smelling like old books and smoke, a stark contrast to the sweet sugar and bright lights of Scoops Ahoy. 

It was nice, Steve noted, cosy, warm, a strange kind of quiet despite the music that played overhead. He didn’t even own a record player, not anymore, not since he’d been gifted a shiny new Walkman for his Christmas after his parents were out of town on his birthday. 

But still, there was something calming about thumbing through the sleeves, some pre owned and fraying at the edges, arranged in their own box that was labelled ‘already loved.’ The handwriting was neat and romantic looking, big swirls and loops in the L’s and Steve wondered if it was yours, if you were sweeter than your big doc martens suggested. 

But then he took his choices to the cash desk and you looked up from the price labels you were sticking to each record, a smile that was like sunshine and sin on your lips. You looked him up and down, one eyebrow raised and now that he was closer, Steve could see a gold hoop in one nostril. 

He swallowed, tried to say something cool, something flirty, something alluring, but his throat was sticky like honey and he was suddenly speechless.  Steve Harrington had lines, he knew how to flirt - sometimes it didn’t work, he could admit that now - but not a single word came from his mouth. 

You were really something. A smirk rather than a smile, jewellery making you glitter, eyes lighting up at the sight of him and Steve felt like he had a neon sign above him, a shiny big arrow saying ‘fresh meat.’

He suddenly knew what Eddie had meant. He was out of his depth. 

“Hey, pretty boy.”

God, scratch that, he was drowning.

Your voice was sweet, lined with a laugh, like you knew something he didn’t and Steve Harrington had never been shy in his life but your words had his cheeks tinted pink and he could feel the same heat at the tips of his ears. 

“Did you find everything you needed?”

He stuttered, stammered, licked his lips and nodded instead. It was that magic kind of flirting, the kind where no one really spoke but the idea was heavy and thick and tension in it made your head spin. And maybe you weren’t as affected as Steve was, but the boy felt a little giddy with it, eyes nervously dancing between yours and your hands, watching the way you bagged up his records. 

He didn’t even know what he’d bought. 

But he took the bag from you with a smile that made him look really soft, hand warm as it brushed your own and he didn’t even wait for his change, he just backed out of the store with a dazed look in his eyes and the sound of your laughter following him. 

—————

The second time Steve saw you, was half way through his lunch break, his hands full of soda cans and wrapped up sandwiches for himself and Robin, ‘cause there were only so many tubs of rocky road he could have instead of real food. 

You were rounding the corner the same time as he was, barely managing to avoid colliding, shoulders bumping and a can of Dr. Pepper falling to the floor and making a break for it. It rolled enough for Steve to deem it a lost cause, telling himself he’d share his drink with Robin instead of trying to juggle it back into his already full arms. 

But then you were catching it, wiggling it at him between a finger and a thumb as you carefully tucked it in the free space under his chin. He gaped, realising who he’d bumped into too late. You were a pretty painting, black lines above your lashes all cat like, lips coloured in a soft rosy shade. The sweater you wore was too big, bike shorts barely peeking out from the hem and you made music as you moved, necklaces catching against each other. 

You were lovely. But your smile was dangerous. 

“Thanks, uh, thank you- for that,” Steve managed, trying to gesture to the soda but almost losing two sandwiches and a bag of chips in the process. “Shit.”  

“S’alright,” you told him softly and Steve had almost forgotten what your voice had sounded like, because after the first visit to the record store, he’d been too embarrassed to return. 

He’d kept watch from behind the ice cream freezer, sighing over you as he refilled mint chocolate chip and scattered more sprinkles on floor than he did atop of cones. Robin thought it was disgusting. 

“Lunch time?” You asked and it was obvious, the way you were making conversation, seemingly actually wanting to talk to him but Steve couldn’t wrap his head around why. 

He nodded, too fast, hair flopping into his eyes and he had no free hands to smooth it back. Was he red again? He felt warm. You were smiling, eyes on his, scanning his face, taking in each of his features without any shame, bold in each of your actions. 

Fuck. You were really pretty. 

“Uh yeah, yeah,” Steve managed, “for me and uh,” he looked back, saw Robin leaning over the cash register with a grin on her lips as she watched on, more than amused. “And uh…”

“Your girlfriend?” You prompted. You sounded intrigued, voice still soft. “The pretty one in the hat?”

“Oh no, god no,” Steve replied and you grinned at how quick he spoke. He shook his head, fumbled another sandwich was still gazing at you from behind his messy hair. “I mean, fuck, she’s pretty and yeah, she’s wearing a hat but— no, not my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” you were smiling, arms crossed as you tried not to full on grin at the way the boy was floundering, trying his best to assure you that his co-worker was definitely not his girlfriend. 

“I mean, we’re friends,” he was telling you, “best friends but like, super platonic. So platonic. I’m single.” Steve swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “So single.”

You didn’t miss the little ‘fuck,’  he whispered into the lunch he was still clutching to his chest and his cheeks went from rosy to ruby, a flush across the high points of his face that you would adorable. 

You didn’t say anything, not yet, but you leaned a little closer and pushed yourself onto your toes so you could sweep a hand through the front of his hair, pushing back the locks that had fallen into his face. 

Steve wondered if he had stopped breathing. 

“That’s better,” you hummed and you couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at his stricken expression. He looked panicked in the best way. 

Steve nodded and you took it as a thanks because his lips were parted and his brown eyes were turning into honey and he looked a little wrecked. It was fun, you realised, watching the way he reacted to you. 

“It’s Steve, right?” You tapped at his name badge, still standing too close for what some people would consider polite but Steve smelled like sugar and mint and the forest, like cedar or pine. 

Steve cleared his throat, tried not to stare at your lips when you said his name and he nodded, “yeah, uh— Steve Harrington.”

Another grin from you, wide and bright and fucking magical, because Steve decided that every time you smiled at him he felt like he was turning inside out. 

“Okay, Single Steve Harrington—” he cut you off with a groan and it was suddenly your new favourite sound. “—I need to get back to work, enjoy your lunch.”

“Right, yeah, shit,” he winced at the way his voice cracked and Jesus Christ, he thought to himself, what was he? Sixteen again? “Uh, do I get to know your name?” It was a lie. He knew your name. He’d asked Eddie weeks ago. 

And you must’ve been thinking the same because you laughed, reallt fucking cutely, Steve noticed, nose scrunched and eyes bright as you said, “don’t play coy, pretty boy, I know who your friends are.”

You left him standing there, cheeks still flushed, soft hair perfectly rumpled from how you’d pushed it back and you couldn’t help yourself. You turned, a head over your shoulder, lashes lowered as you looked him up and down, doing the least you could to try and hide it. 

“Hey Steve?”

The boy's head snapped round to you, eyes wide as ever. His pretty face was a question mark. 

“Nice shorts.”

—————

The third time, Steve was almost confident enough to say you sought him out. 

Because it was a slow Tuesday and the summer outside had reached its peak, the sun warming the mall through the glass roof like a greenhouse, the air stifling and hazy. It was too warm for even ice cream, most of Hawkins had seemed to decide, and even the kids had passed up on free samples in favour of spending a day at the pool. 

But there you were, record store lanyard missing from your neck which told Steve it was definitely your day off. And besides, if he happened to have remembered your shifts, well, that was just a coincidence. 

You swaned into Scoops with your usual confidence, a glint in your eye and a surprisingly bright sundress on your frame. You were still glittering with jewellery, chains and trinkets on your neck, delicate rings on each finger, tiny gold daisies hanging from your ears. Your dress was a startling red, cherry coloured and all the bare skin on show meant that Steve could see fine black lines of ink peeking out from beneath the cotton. 

He smiled at the way you still wore your boots, laces undone and rolled socks peeking out the top. You had spent some time talking between shifts now, “accidentally” bumping into each other when the mall was still closed, early morning starts spent standing in line together for a coffee as Steve tried his damn hardest to remember how to speak in your presence. 

It got a little easier and Steve could hold a conversation without his voice cracking, but every now and then he’d spot you already gazing at him and you had a look on your face that could take a man down to his knees. 

And god, did you know how good you looked in that dress? Did you understand what you did to him? Steve thought that maybe you did because you were leaning over the counter on your elbows and invading all of his personal space with the smell of your perfume and cocoa butter body lotion. 

You tapped out a beat with your fingernails, Ruby red to match your dress, hands dancing in gold, rings that Steve knew woild look so fucking pretty wrapped around his—

“Hey, pretty boy.”

The boy dropped his ice cream scoop and from an empty table behind you both, Robin snorted. 

“Hey, hi… hi,” he settled on, ducking behind the counter to retrieve his scoop and he tried not to wince at how decidedly unsmooth he was around you. 

He’d panicked to Robin more than enough times about it. How he managed to trip over his words, even his own feet, when he was around you. But, despite his friends usual teasing and unsupportive behaviour when it came to his dating like, she’d surprised him with:

“Well shit, Steve, she keeps coming back, doesn’t she?”

“Hi,” you repeated, grinning. “How’s it going?”

Steve smiled back, wider than he’d have liked, too happy, too pleased that you were here on your day off, in his store, standing talking to him whilst you looked like that. 

The hem of your dress swung at your thighs as you tapped your foot to music only you could hear and you were looking up at him with the most wicked expression. Steve had realised you seemed to save those looks for only him, the rest of your time spent in the record store ignoring the boys who tried to chat you up with cheap lines and shit chat. 

Steve sighed and looked around the empty store. “It’s going,” he replied. “What’re you doing here? Aren’t you… off today?”

“Keeping tabs?” You grinned and Steve flushed. 

It was your favourite thing. 

“What? No, no I—” if Steve could get away with volleying a ball of raspberry ripple at Robin right then, he could’ve. She was hiding her face in the pile of delivery notes but he could hear her laughter. “I just— yeah, shit, maybe I am.”

His admission made you preen, straightening up to catch the ends of that stupid, little sailor scarf between your fingers. You lifted one brow, looked at the boy through your lashes and wondered if you listened carefully enough, would you be able to hear the thumpthumpthump of his heart. 

Steve was almost certain you would. 

“That’s cute,” you mused, sighing dramatically, wistful almost, as you tugged at the scarf. Steve jolted closer, lips parted, eyes hooded as he tried his best to keep his gaze on yours. But your lips were right there. And so were your tits. “It’s a real shame you don’t use that knowledge to work out when to take me out on a date.”

Even Robin stilled. 

“A date?” Steve asked and you were so close, closer than you’d ever been ‘cause he could tell your lipgloss was cherry flavoured, he could smell the artificial sweetness, could count the freckles on your nose. 

You nodded, smiled, let your eyes flicker down to where he was licking at his lips and you felt the way he sighed. He had a knuckle white grip on his side of the counter, arms flexed as he leaned in, letting you hold him as close to you as you dared. 

“Y’know… dinner, maybe a movie, a hot little fumble in the backseat of your car before you kiss me goodnight and go home to take a cold shower?” 

“Christ,” Steve breathed and you watched the way he flushed, eyes drooping prettily as he seemingly thought out your scenario. “Yeah— yeah, I can do that, fuck, we can do that.”

The grin that took over your face was more than pretty and Steve was about done for when you finally let go of his sailors scarf, only to reach up and brush back his hair again. He let you, eyes full of sticky fondness,  a little awe as your fingertips brushed across the top of his forehead. 

“Great,” you told him, backing away, boots scuffing across the parlour tiles. “You can pick me up at eight on Saturday.”

—————

Steve had never been so nervous on a date. 

The good kind, an excitement he’d almost forgotten about and he revelled in the way his stomach tumbled, cheeks flush and lips bitten as he waited for you to appear from your front door. 

You’d smiled at his shyness, ducked your head in a similar fashion when he told you how pretty you looked and then it was a night of feet touching under the diner table, stealing the crispy fries from his plate and Steve pretending that he cared. 

He eventually calmed down enough to talk about everything and anything with you, his job, education, his parents, his friends. And when he’d finished making you laugh like it was his new hobby, you both realised too late that you’d missed the movie. 

But you didn’t seem to care, happy to walk shoulder for shoulder with the boy through the emptying mall, watching him with a smile as he worked up enough courage to hold your hand. 

You let him, hands tangling, a finger gently prodding his pink cheek and he swatted at you with a smile, a fond roll of his eyes and then that was it. 

You didn’t leave his side after that. 

The windows of his car were rolled down as he parked up near the water tower, wheat fields and the forest hiding you both from the rest of the down. The summer air smelled sweet, like leftover barbecue smoke and wet grass and Steve had the radio on low as you teased him about his music taste, the way he’d bitten his bottom lip raw from being so close to you. 

He could take it better now, your little mean streak, the one that liked to push his buttons and turn him pink. He still flushed when you called him pretty boy, heard his breath hitch when you stretched your bare legs over his, back pressed to the passenger door as you let the wind pick at your hair. 

But he got a little braver and let his hands smooth over your shins, eyes flickering from yours to the way your sundress was played messily across the tops of your thighs. Steve was a gentleman about it though, listened when you spoke, asked you questions and got to know you, making those eyes at you, even if he didn’t realise. 

“Did you come in that day just to buy those records?” 

Steve snorted, let his cheek turn and press against the headrest so he could look at you with those big brown eyes, wild hair that you ached to brush away. 

“I don’t even have a record player anymore.”

Your laugh was a whole other type of song and it warmed Steve more than the summer night did. 

“You don’t?” You grinned, nudging a foot into his thigh. “Steve Harrington, you’re a damn fool.”

“If you keep bein’ mean to me,” Steve grinned, voice full of tease and sticky sweet affection, “m’gonna fall in love with you, you know?”

And he did. 

—————

You didn’t grudge Robin for the way she rolled her eyes at you upon seeing you walk into Scoops. You couldn’t. She knew, she knew that you knew. So you just smiled.

“Is Steve….?”

“In the back,” she groaned good naturedly. “You’re lucky we’re dead.”

You grinned, blew the girl a kiss and slipped through the staff only door. The door to the walk-in freezer hummed and music came from the break room, quiet and crackling with static from the old radio. You found the boy at the table, feet kicked up on a stool as he played with his empty bottle of soda. 

Steve lit up when he saw you, an unexpected visit as you were on a late shift at your own store, the chances of you both getting lunch at the same time slim. But you’d bartered with your boss, promising that all of the new stock that had been delivered would get done before close. He’d rolled his eyes and grudgingly agreed, muttering about your new boyfriend and how he was affecting your work ethic. 

You hadn’t used that word yet. ‘Boyfriend.’ And neither had Steve, but that was okay. You were enjoying that inbetween stage that came with uncertainty and butterflies, second guesses and kicking your feet in your bed at night when he dropped you off, each new kiss feeling like another first. 

And you were still making the boy blush, the prettiest pink across his cheeks, stealing reasons to touch him whenever you could, playing with the ends of his hair as he spoke, pressing a hand to the skin under his shirt when you wanted his attention. 

Which was a waste of time, if you asked Steve - you always had his attention, whether your hands were on him or not. Not that he ever complained.

In fact, he looked downright ecstatic when you dropped yourself in his lap, pleated skirt hitching up your thighs as you grinned down at him, pink cheeks, messy hair and sailor boy uniform to boot.

“Hey, pretty boy.”

“Hello to you too, trouble,” he’d gotten better at that part, talking to you without falling over his own words, more flirt and confidence in his voice than the first time you’d met. “I didn’t think I was gonna see you until after work.”

“Sold my soul for you,” you pouted, lifting his little hat and placing it atop your own head. “Promised that a full delivery would be finished before close.”

Steve tried to pout back, but he couldn’t help but smile at how you bargained just to be able to come see him. The sailor hat was perched adorably on top of your head, a little squint and with a cherry ice cream stain on the side. His hands palmed at your hips, squeezing gently and you lifted a brow to gaze down at him questioningly. 

“Robin already isn’t happy I’m back here distracting you,” you smiled, “don’t start something you can’t finish - or win.”

“Win?” Steve scoffed, “sweetheart give me a little cred-”

The boy’s words died in his throat as you stood only to swing a leg over his lap, straddling his thighs with your own, fishnet tights stretched over your skin. You brought your hand to his chin, caught it between finger and thumb and smoothed the pad of it over his bottom lip. You tugged a little meanly, let it fall back with a cute ‘pop’ and grinned at how he was already flushed for you, eyes a little glassy and unfocused, cheeks turning pink.

“You’re too easy, Steve,” you whispered, stretching your arms over his shoulders, fingers tugging through the messy curls at the nape of his neck. You leaned in as if to kiss him, turned before he could catch you and pressed your nose to his cheek instead, letting him feel your smile against his jaw before you mouthed at it.

“You smell so good,” you sighed, voice hitched a little higher than normal, a little breathier. “Could just eat you up.”

“You’re a demon,” Steve huffed, canting his hips up into yours, hands squeezing more tightly at your waist but he did nothing to stop you from tugging at his hair. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to you and your mouth. “Baby.”

“Baby. Love when you call me that,” you cooed, planting a line of kisses along the column of his neck, nipping at his ear lobe as you pressed yourself against his chest. “Makes me feel so sweet.”

Steve groaned, barked out a laugh that ended in a hiss because you rocked yourself against him, grinding down and grinning. “Yeah? You’re anything but,” he lied.

“Mean,” you teased, bringing your mouth to hover over the boys, lips just grazing his. “You don’t think I’m sweet? That’s not what you said the other night.”

You were pouting, pushing your lips to Steve’s in a barely there kiss before pulling away, running a hand over the front of his hair, pushing it back so you could see the way his eyes glazed over at your words. He knew what you were referencing, of course he did. How could he forget?

“I distinctly remember you telling me that you thought I tasted real sweet in the back of your car,” you grinned, wicked, cupped the boy’s face and smoothed your thumbs over the high points of his cheekbones. “There is it,” you whispered.

A blush, pink and warm and rosy, just for you, even after Steve had spent countless times between you legs, lips sucking, mouth too busy to do anything but moan. He was pink even then. But this? Now?

“I think you’re the sweet one.”