What If It Wasn't Eddie Who Almost Dies, But Steve.

What if it wasn't Eddie who almost dies, but Steve.

Eddie and Dustin are in the trailer, bats running into the sides and scratching at the vent. "Go. now." Eddie tells Dustin as he nudges him towards the sheet-rope. "But what about you!" "Not until you're safe!" Dustin makes it halfway up the rope when the bats suddenly stop.  It's quiet in the trailer for a full five seconds. "Did...did they get him?" Dustin scrambles for the nearby walkie-talkie. "Steve, Come in. over."  There's static but no answer.  "Nance, Robin. over."  There were a few more seconds of static and then, "H- Help!  Steve... Vecna got Steve." Robin's voice crackled through the walkie, panicked.  Eddie and Dustin stared at each other for a second, Dustin’s "don't worry Steve, you can be the hero."  bouncing around both of their heads.

Then they were both moving, Dustin yelling into the walkie as they ran. "We're coming, We're coming!" Steve had a hole in his side the size of a baseball. When they got there, Nancy was doing triage, Robin trying to help through her panic.  Steve was unconscious. "He's got a pulse, but he won't respond." "We gotta get him out of here." Eddie said. "Is it OK for me to lift him?" "It's gonna have to be,"  Nancy said. "Gonna have to put him on my back, I can't carry him in front." Between Eddie and Nancy they, as gently as they could, maneuvered Steve onto Eddie's back and they immediately started for the gate. Eddie lungs were burning, his legs were on fire, he could feel Steve's blood running down his back and his leg. Fuck, Steve was going to die in his arms. They hefted him through the gate, Nancy checking his pulse every five seconds. Steve was still there, Still hanging on. Eddie jumped into the driver's seat of the RV once Steve was laid on the couch.  crossed the wires again and started driving. When they got to the hospital Eddie pulled Steve onto his back again and ran him through the hospital doors. Still alive by some miracle.

That was two days ago.  Steve was stable enough now to be moved into a room where he could have visitors, but he was still unconscious. They were only allowed in two at a time, so Eddie let the kids, Nancy, and Robin go in first.  Then it was his turn. He went in by himself.  The nurses said to talk to him, that he could hear what they said. "Hey, Harrington," Eddie said, sitting down next to the bed. "Glad you're alive, man, but it would be great if you woke up," Eddie listened to the machines beep, watched Steve's way too still body. "They tell me you tackled Vecna," Eddie looked down at his hands. "You saved Max.  I know you saved Robin and Nancy.  Saved Dustin... Saved me," He was quiet again. "Don't be a hero."  Eddie scoffed. "Harrington if you wake up I'm gonna kick your ass."  Eddie bit his lip to keep it from trembling, something akin to grief washing over him. For the rest of the time he was quiet, not knowing what to say, thinking if he spoke, he might start crying. He kept coming back almost every day, everyone did. But Eddie didn't know what to say or to think even. He was way more effected by Steve than he thought he would be. Turns out no matter how much trauma you've dealt with, it doesn't get easier. He spent evenings at the hospital with Robin.  They would talk to each other across Steve's bed. Robin told him about the Russians. Eddie talked about the kids. Robin came out to Eddie. "Does Steve know?" Eddie asked. "He's one of the first people I ever told." "How did he..." "Couldn't have been nicer about it," She said, looking over at Steve's face.  She looked lost, like she was drowning. "I'm gay," Eddie blurted out.  Her head whipped back around to him.  "Very gay," Eddie added.  She stared at him, processing what he said before a smile broke over her face and she stuck her hand over the bed. "It's very nice to meet you, Eddie Munson." Eddie laughed at than before shaking her hand. "It's nice to meet you too, Buckley."  Eddie replied. When he wasn't there with someone, he read.  He had a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that he always brought along. Sometimes he would read sections to Steve when he couldn't think of anything to say. Sometimes he would just talk.  Say whatever he wanted to Steve.  "You know I meant what I said in that fucking hell dimension, Stevie.  You really are changed.  You are not king Steve anymore..." He watched Steve's face.  He thought back to everything Steve did in the Upside Down, how much he cared for the kids, how much of a friend Robin said he had become. Eddie didn't realize he could grow feelings for someone when they were in a coma.  It scared him. Eddie had never had a boyfriend. Never dated. Never even developed feelings for a hookup. He was starting to think maybe he wasn't wired for it, but now he was thinking maybe being gay in a small town was really stunting his growth. Now Steve Harrington was pushing under his skin... and he wasn't even cognizant. Shit, Eddie didn't even know if he and Steve were possible. Sure, Steve had been alright with Robin, but that didn't mean he was gay himself. Eddie took a deep breath. "Look, Harrington, I don't know if you can hear me but..."   He stopped short.  What, was he going to confess his feelings to a man in a coma?  He reached up and grabbed Steve's hand. "Please wake up.  Please."  Eddie whispered.

It became ritual. Before he left every night, he would hold Steve's hand and quietly say "Please wake up, Harrington, please."  Robin had been there one night when he did it and she nearly cried. Over time it morphed. "Steve please wake up, we need you."  "Please wake up, Robin looks like she hasn't slept in weeks."  "I haven't seen Dustin smile in days, Harrington, wake up." Until finally one night "Steve... please wake up.  You can't just... give me these feelings and then skip out. Please."  Eddie stares at Steve's face, letting it sink in that he finally confessed, and then gets up to leave, still holding Steve's hand for a second longer. Steve fingers tightened around his.  Eddie stared at Steve's hand. Did he really...? "Steve?"  Eddie asked tentatively and the fingers tightened again. holy shit! "Steve!  Oh... shit. Hold on sweetheart I'm gonna get a nurse. Hold on."  Eddie burst out into the hallway.  "I need a nurse!  He's awake! help!" he was kicked out of the room as three nurses and a doctor huddled around Steve's bed.  Eddie found the payphone and called Robin and then Dustin. Ten minutes later everyone was showing up. Max with her crutches, Dustin who looked like had had been crying, Robin with the biggest smile on her face. They couldn't go in, not for a long time, but then finally, two by two, they were allowed back in. Eddie was last again. "Hey, Harrington." “Eddie,” Came Steve’s weak reply. “Glad you’re finally awake,” Eddie said, sitting in a chair next to the bed. “I know… I heard you begging,” Steve said, voice a hoarse whisper. “I was not begging, Harrington,” Eddie retaliated, though he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.  “I was making urgent requests. There’s a difference.” “Still heard you,” Steve said. “All… All of it?”  Eddie finally asked. “Not sure.  Heard something about feelings though.”  Steve said, the ghost of a wicked smile on his lips. “You’ve been awake for two hours and you’re already hitting on me? I’m gonna need you to slow down, Sweetheart.”  Steve’s smile just got bigger.  Eddie reached up and hooked two of his fingers into Steve’s. Steve’s fingers tightened around his. “Heard the part about kicking my ass too,” Steve said, voice so quiet Eddie had to read his lips to get most of it. “I promise that can be our first date as soon as you get out of here,” Eddie said. A little huff of air left Steve and Eddie assumed it was as close to a laugh that Steve could get.  “I should let you rest,” Eddie said, standing up, but Steve’s fingers tightened around his again. “Stay.”  Came Steve’s whispered request. “Yeah.  I’ll stay, Stevie,” Eddie said sitting back down. Ten minutes later Robin opened the door to Steve’s room to find Steve asleep and Eddie passed out in the chair next to him, head resting on the bed by Steve’s hip and their fingers tangled together. 

And I Snuck In Through The Garden Gate

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [18.7k] prompt: "Can I kiss you?" Childhood friends to lovers, growing up together, that damn garden gate, a slow burn like summer.

1979. Fever dream high in the quiet of the night. 

When you were twelve years old, you moved to Hawkins, Indiana: population twelve thousand. 

It had cedar lined streets, an old town hall, an outdoor pool behind a chain link fence, one supermarket and a boy next door called Steve Harrington. 

You saw him from your bedroom window, his across from yours, the house your parents bought only a stone's throw away from his. He waved at you through the glass, smile wide, hair messy and wild. He had a scrape on his cheek from falling off his bike, a poster above his bed for a band you’d never heard of. 

The next morning, he knocked on your front door and asked you if you wanted to go to the arcade with him. You rode on the back of his bike, hands clutching his shoulders, eyes bright and wide and Steve shared a slushie with you, tongues raspberry blue, cheeks sticky and sun kissed. 

He taught you how to play pac man, hands already so much bigger than yours when he slid them over your own, joystick between your fingers, laughter bubbling in your chest when you won. 

Steve came back the next morning, and the next, the days bleeding into one long summer in a new town that was all wheat fields and quarries, dust roads and white picket fences. 

Then a year later, a week after your thirteenth birthday, you came home from your grandparents in the new dress your parents bought you, a pretty, sunflower yellow thing that fell to your knees and fluttered when you spun. 

You ran straight to the Harrington’s house, one hand knocking impatiently on the door, the other holding the box of sugar cookies you had insisted on saving and taking home to Steve. 

You weren’t sure when it had happened, not really. But at some point over the course of twelve months, Steve Harrington had become your best friend. It happened the way summer did, a slow roll into warmth and blue skies, the familiarity of seeing him every day, the same way the sun slipped through the cracks in your bedroom window shutters. 

He was bike rides, fresh banana muffins from the bakery on Main Street, water balloon fights when you were supposed to be in bed, running in the back yard as your parents shared wine and barbecue dinners. He got taller, his hair got wilder and you both got closer. 

Steve opened the door, smile wide, eyes bright, just for you. He took a cookie and your hand, leading you to his bedroom as his parents yelled out their greetings from the kitchen and you tumbled into his room, chest bursting with how happy you were ‘cause the entire car ride home, you had been so excited to see Steve. 

Steve had too many pillows on his too big bed, a guitar in the corner, a basketball shirt in a frame above his desk. There were books lining shelves, a stereo on his dresser and towers of cassette tapes. His room always smelled like fresh air and boy, something minty, the summer sneaking in from his always open window, the chlorine from the pool below. 

He’d turned to you then, eyes wide and cheeks blushing, taking in your bare shins with their new bruises, one from falling in your skates, the other from tripping outside the library. Steve was yet to turn fourteen but he decided then that yellow was his favourite colour, buttercup bright, that deep rich shade that was painted on your dress. 

“You look like a princess,” he said earnestly, voice soft with embarrassment ‘cause Kyle from school said it wasn’t cool to be best friends with a girl. 

Steve had told him to shut up, brows knitted together, cheeks blushing and he’d spent that rest of recess so confused, ‘cause the boy thought you were the coolest person he knew. 

You flushed at his words, nose scrunched and you picked at the hem of your dress, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, the way all the Disney princess did on the tapes your mom let you watch. 

“Thanks,” you beamed, all teeth and sore cheeks ‘cause Steve always made you smile real hard. 

You felt nervous then, wondering where you and your yellow sundress fit into Steve’s room, but the moment broke, that unfamiliar jitter in your stomach disappeared Steve tugged you down onto his navy blue carpet, NES console beeping as it came to life and he handed you the extra controller, smile bright. 

The day turned to night too quickly, the way it always did when you were with Steve, and soon enough the Harrington’s phone was ringing and Steve’s mom was yelling up the stairs, telling you it was time to go home for dinner. 

Steve walked you out like he always did, shoulders touching as you both hurried down the stairs, eyes tired from the TV screen, fingers sticky from sugar cookies. The sun was just starting to set, the world outside was hazy and peach coloured, lavender clouds low in the sky and everything smelled like cut grass and your mom’s lemon trees. 

Steve walked you to where his lawn met yours, the streets tired and empty ‘cause the summer heat was still lingering, making the air heavy and sweet. You watched as the boy chewed his lip, uncharacteristically nervous, backs of hands brushing as you walked across the grass, damp blades brushing your bare ankles and you wondered why your best friend's cheeks were so pink. 

“Paul Matthews kissed Gemma Kennedy under the bleachers,” he suddenly blurted out, and you frowned, lips twisting. 

“He did?” You asked, unsure of why this news was being shared. You didn’t like Paul Matthews, he was annoying and never gave anyone else a shot of the swings at recess. “What’d he say?”

Steve shrugged, all boyish and innocent. “He said it was kinda gross.”

“Gross,” you repeated, features scrunched. “Why’d Gemma wanna kiss him anyways? Paul smells like gym socks.”

Steve snorted, a shoulder bumping into yours. You could smell your dad’s pasta from the open kitchen window, the pop of a bottle being opened, soft music from one of your mom’s favourite bands. 

“Do I smell like gym socks?” The boy asked, suddenly self conscious and you poked at his ribs, head shaking. 

“No,” you told him earnestly, voice all quiet and sweet ‘cause it was like you were both the only two in Hawkins at that moment. “You smell nice. Like cookies and bubblegum.”

He grinned, too pleased with your assessment and before you hopped over the flowerbed that split your home with Steve’s, he caught your hand, palm a little clammy. 

He murmured your name, voice shy and it made your tummy tumble in a way that you still didn’t understand, not properly, not yet. 

You turned, eyes wide ‘cause you were both reaching an age where boys and girls didn’t really hold hands playing in the street anymore, and if they did, it meant something else. It made kids whisper in the playground, pass notes in the classroom and suddenly watching the older students kiss each other at their lockers didn’t seem as icky. 

“Have you kissed anyone?” Steve asked you, voice laced with curiosity. 

You flushed, heart raging, pulse picking up ‘cause you hadn’t and suddenly it felt like the most embarrassing thing in the world. But Steve still had his hand over yours and he squeezed your fingers a little tighter, and something about it felt so reassuring, like he’d keep every secret you gifted him. 

“No.” A pause, a worry, a flutter of nerves. “Have you?”

Were you supposed to? Was a boy meant to like you now? Has Steve kissed a girl? Have you missed something monumental? 

“No.”

Oh. A beat of silence that seemed to stretch an age. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh. 

“You wanna kiss me?” You asked, lashes blinking slow, mouth parted. You could taste the sugar cookies you’d shared with Steve still melting on your tongue. “Me?”

Steve stumbled over his words, cheeks flushed rose and he licked at his lips, unsure of what to say ‘cause Jesus Christ he was thirteen years old and had no idea what he was doing. But he remembered something that Paul had said to him, legs kicking as they sat on the swings together, sun beating down on their backs.

“Wish I had kissed Kimmy Cheng instead,” the boy had said, somewhat thoughtful, brows scrunched. “I really like Kimmy, maybe that would’ve made it better.”

It had made Steve think then, chewing at his cheek ‘cause the only girl he really liked was you, his best friend. You didn’t make him nervous, and when the movies you watched with him got too scary, you held his hand, face behind a pillow and he didn’t hate that. Not at all. 

“I mean, I guess?” Steve mumbled and god, he didn’t understand why his stomach was flipping over, that same feeling he got when he decided he was gonna climb that old oak tree over by Fifth, the one that was too high, that had thick branches that swallowed the world below your feet. “Would be easier if our first kiss was with each other. Might be less embarrassin’, y’know?”

That made sense, you thought, ‘cause you really didn’t want another boy telling everyone your kisses were gross and Steve wouldn’t make fun of you if you were bad at it, would he?

“Okay.” You said decisively, and you took a deep breath, wondering why your heart was beating so fast, the same way it did when Steve went too fast on his bike, your fingers digging crescent moons into his shoulders, eyes tearing up at the whipping find, hair covering your face and his. “Now?”

“Now?” He repeated eyes wide and then he swore, quiet, ‘cause he wasn’t supposed to and his hand readjusted his grip on yours, palms clammy and fingers linking. 

You hadn’t held hands like that before. It felt different, a little funny, closer.

But before you could comment on it, the boy was leading you between the two houses, the air warm and trapped between bricks and he opened his garden gate, feet clumsy as you both half ran down the skinny strip of yard at the side of his home. 

It was overgrown there, the little hidden patch of long grass and wildflowers that grew underneath Steve’s bedroom window and it smelled like honeysuckle and lavender. You could hear the trickle of the pool, your mom’s music and the setting sun cut through the slats in the fences in stripes, lighting you both up with gold and bronze. 

It smelled like summer, you decided, the perfect July day and when Steve spun to face you, you let out a noise of surprise. You were happy to notice that he seemed nervous too, teeth pulling at his bottom lip, hand tugging through his already wild hair.

But you were both hidden there, in the edges of the garden, stolen away from the rest of the town and out of sight of your parents. It felt like the biggest secret of all, one to lock away in the depths of your journal and this felt so much more than giving away the last cookie, more than backseat bike rides and a handmade friendship bracelet, more than sleepovers on Steve’s living room floor, heads touching when you fell asleep.

“What do we do?” you asked, nothing more than a soft whisper. 

Steve shrugged, heart rattling against his ribcage and he licked his bottom lip and stumbled a little closer. The toes of his trainers touched your sandals and he was already a little taller than you but he blinked, gaze settling on you from underneath thick, dark lashes and you gulped.

“I don’t really know,” Steve murmured, hands flexing by his sides ‘cause he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold yours, or place them on your sides, your shoulders. 

He shoved them in his pockets instead, hiding the way they shook a little with nerves and he gasped when you moved closer still, knees bumping clumsy against his own and he could count the freckles on your nose, and he wondered if they matched the ones on his skin, a present from long summer days outside.

“Will I just-?” Steve’s voice cracked and he flushed but you didn’t mention it, you didn’t laugh, you never did. “Should I?”

You weren’t sure what possessed you, maybe all the sugar you’d consumed, maybe it was the heat of sun on your shoulders, maybe it was the way your tummy was rolling with nerves and worry but you grasped at Steve’s shoulders, pushing yourself up onto your toes and pressed your lips to the boy’s without any sort of announcement. 

Another gasp, warm skin, nails digging into arms, two pairs of eyes wide, noses bumping. 

It lasted a few seconds, maybe less. But your lips were tingling when you pulled away, cheeks a new kind of hot and Steve looked a little shellshocked. You both rocked on your heels into the grass, too tall lavender brushing against your shins and then the boy smiled, a burst of sunshine in the shadows, and he looked delighted.

You were sure your ears were burning, the tips feeling hot and when you looked at Steves, you found his were pink too. You beamed, a nervous giggle, a laugh that got caught in your chest and when you heard your mom’s voice call from the back door - so close to where you were both still standing - you jumped, two kids trying not to be caught doing something they shouldn't.

The garden gate squeaked when you ran back through it, the hinges calling after you and you smelled like a bouquet of flowers as you ran across both lawns, feet tripping over your front porch as you ran inside. 

Something pretty bloomed in between the spaces of your bones that day, when Steve Harrington decided that you were both going to be each other's first kiss. It stayed there, for so much longer than you thought it would. You’d always remember it as brown sugar and vanilla, lavender and honeysuckle, feeling brave, honey coloured eyes and complete and utter innocence. 

1981. Devils roll their dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn’t kill me makes me want you more.

You didn’t even want to go to the party, you didn’t even like Karen Vincent and you were damn sure she didn’t like you. You knew you were only invited because of Steve, a slip of pink paper passed to you after Karen and her friend Shauna slid between you and the boy at his locker, hands on his chest, on his arm.

You’d wrinkled your nose at it all, fingertips gripping the invite like a ticking time bomb but the girls had learnt the hard way that Steve wouldn’t show if you weren’t welcomed too. 

It’s how you found yourself crammed into the Vincent’s basement with too many other fifteen year olds, the music making the walls vibrate, the punch bowl spiked with something that shouldn’t have been mixed with fruit juice and god, it was too warm. 

It was just past ten o’clock and your parents wanted you home for eleven, which meant that, by default, that was Steve’s curfew too. You’d both been allowed to walk home on the condition that you stuck together and kept to the main roads, the summer months making the nights light enough that you could see both the sun and the moon in the sky, the clouds a hazy orange as they sunk into the horizon. 

You’d spoke to a few kids you shared some classes with, avoided the snack table and its fizzing punch bowl, the concoction no longer the same colour it was when Karen’s mom poured it. And then there was a pop of a bottle cork, splashes of spilled liquid on the already sticky floors, some cheers and a circle was made. 

Fuck. 

“Seven minutes in heaven!” Yelled a boy you didn’t really know, some kid from the same basketball team as Steve, “let’s go losers!”

There was a symphony of wolf whistles and giggles as kids piled into the middle of the room, coffee tables and armchairs pushed out of the way in favour of a seat on the floor, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder with their classmates, eyes wide and searching for their next possible date to the arcade. 

“Harrington!” the same boy called out, “get in here!” 

Steve appeared beside you, hand brushing gently on your elbow and you frowned without meaning to, wondering why it’d taken him so long to return from the bathroom. But then you saw Karen by his other side, lips glossy and smacking blue bubblegum, eyes sharp on you as she grinned.

“Are you playing Steve?” she asked, lashes blinking, voice coy. 

You grimaced, already taking a step back from the ever growing circle. Someone was placing the now empty bottle in the middle and you eyed the closet door across the room like an old nemesis. Your stomach was twirling, and it wasn’t from all the pizza rolls but the smell of chocolate pretzels and red vines wasn’t helping. 

But Steve’s hand curled around your arm, still gentle, but he could read you like a book. He tsked, his smile playful but eyes gentle, as if he could feel the nerves radiate off of you. Maybe he could, maybe he could hear the way your heart rattled inside your chest, louder than the music, deeper than the bass.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, crowding into you a little so he could find your ear with his mouth. He was so much taller than you now, the top of your head barely reaching his chin and you scowled, knowing what was coming. “Where you goin’ princess?”

“Home,” you told him stubbornly and you suddenly hated the way your denim skirt was sticking to your thighs, too constricting, too warm. 

You heard him sigh, making a noise that only a best friend could, the sound of someone being done with your shit but loving you nonetheless. You moved backwards, hips bumping into the table that was piled high with empty red cups and the boy followed, a puppy at your feet, the same way it had been for three years now. 

“Aw c’mon,” Steve groaned, “if you go home, I gotta leave too and you promised me you’d stay until curfew.”

You huffed, arms crossed protectively over your chest, ‘cause you hated the way people were starting to stare. They always did with you and Steve, especially when he touched you like, so casually, so gently. 

“I can leave on my own, Steve, I’m a big girl.”

No you weren’t. You were fifteen and still scared of the dark after Steve made you watch Day Of The Dead when both of your parents were out late at the new Italian restaurant just outside of town. 

But then, a poke to your arm, your cheek, the end of your nose. You swatted at him, hiding your smile between a press of your lips.

“You know my mom would kill me if I let you walk home alone,” he grumbled but it was soft, still gentle. “Fuck, your mom would kill me after.”

“You can’t be killed twice, stupid,” you said but it lacked heat, an excuse to say something other than agreeing to a game you didn’t wanna play. 

He still knew you too well, scoffing at your evasion, hand curling warm around your wrist and pulling you back to the party, back to him, bodies bumping in a too close proximity that became more tense with every year that you got older. 

It was becoming harder to ignore that your best friend was pretty. You were sure he’d wrinkle his nose at your choice of adjective but Steve grew up and missed the awkward stage, shoulders broad at the same time he grew a foot, wild hair becoming only a little tamer, more product in it and eyes still warm and brown, a new dimple in his cheek you loved to press your finger into. 

You’d heard the other girls in your year call him hot, a total babe, whispered through giggles in the locker room. But your best friend still looked at you all soft, the same way he did before he gave you his first kiss and he took yours, pressed against the honeysuckle in his backyard. He teased gently, took your hand when the streets got too dark and you were both late for curfew, pressed a foot over yours under the dinner table when your mom started talking about test results and extra curriculars. 

Steve was still your best friend. But he was really, really pretty. 

“There he is! Harrington!” Another boy -  Jake someone, from your English class - had forced his way through the crowd to clap a hand on each of your shoulders, pushing you both into the circle. “And you brought your princess, how ‘bout that, huh?”

You flushed, with both annoyance and embarrassment, ‘cause one day when you were all still twelve, Steve spotted you across the park, hands twisting around a basketball as he took in another new dress you wore and called you a princess again. It just so happened that his friends had heard it too. 

His nickname for you never left, but neither did your classmate's memory of the incident. 

And then Steve’s hand was ripped from your arm, bodies separating you both and he was manhandled to the one side of the circle, you to the other, shoulders squished between a boy and a girl you vaguely recognised from gym class, maybe biology too. It was warmer on the floor, heat and teenage hormones gathering sticky between too close bodies, the smell of cheap aftershave and someone’s mom’s perfume mixing with Kool-Aid and sprite. 

“Okay so! You guys know the rules!” Karen was standing from her spot in the circle, suspiciously opposite to Steve, eyes wide and hands animated as she gestured to the closet door on the other side of the room. “Spin the bottle and whoever it lands on is all yours for a whole seven minutes.”

The group giggled, excitement rippling through the circle, bodies shuffling, overflowing cups spilling. 

You panicked, scanning the line of faces until you found Steve’s, his eyes already on yours, knowing and soft. He was mouthing something to you, silent underneath the music and chatter. 

“It’s okay.”

But then Jake was shoving a hand to Steve’s shoulder, urging him into the middle of the circle with a raucous cheer that only teenage boys could make, the rest of the basketball team joining in and Steve bowed his head, lips twisting into an almost smile that he couldn’t really hide. 

You watched as every girl perked up like a meerkat, backs straight, hair twisted around fingers, elbows digging into competitors that tried to make their space in the circle more known. 

Your stomach rolled again and it only got worse when Steve spun the bottle and the glass flashed green in the centre, bodies bowing forward to see where it would land. 

It sounded like you were underwater, excited voices and yells sounding far away, dulled with the thump of the music. The bottle had spun and  spun and spun, landing on you with such precise finality that Karen audibly groaned. 

You looked up, Steve’s eyes wide on yours, lips parted and cheeks pink. Before either of you could speak, before you could shake your head or grab your jacket from the sofa and run up the basement stairs, your hand was grabbed by Jake, lips stretched wide and voice booming. 

“King Steve and the princess!” He cheered and his excitement was echoed by your classmates, hollers and whoops following you as the boy grabbed Steve with his other hand and the three of you were tripping over stretched legs and forgotten bottles, heading for that fucking closet door. 

“Wait!” You said, voice sharp and god, you could hear the panic there. 

You couldn’t kiss Steve. You didn’t want to kiss Steve. You shouldn’t kiss Steve. 

But Jake ignored you and the music was turned up a little louder again as the rest of the party lounged on their spaces on the floor, heads turned and tilted to watch you both with interest, and your arms only found Steve’s chest when the door was yanked open and a few sets of strange hands shoved you both in. 

The door closed, a gust of air, a click, the muffled sounds of the party locked away behind wood. It was dark, musty and your foot hit a shoe rack, your back against a bundle of winter coats that had been retired for the summer. 

“M’sorry,” Steve whispered and you knew he was referring to making you stay. You could’ve been half way home by now, trainers scuffing the edges of the sidewalk, fresh air kissing your cheeks. “Didn’t think it would land on you.”

You grunted an unladylike response as your eyes adjusted to the low light, a sliver of warm white coming in from the cracks on the door hinges, letting you see the way the boy was looking at you guiltily. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled ‘cause you really didn’t want to kiss your best friend but you hated the way Steve sounded disappointed at the idea. 

You weren’t sure how long you could keep lying to yourself, but you were certain you had another few years in you. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, voice still soft, as if anyone outside of the closet could possibly hear the music and yelling. “S’not like we have to kiss.”

You snorted, chest sore in a way that felt like rejection and you hated how it stung. You looked at Steve, his eyes still on you as he shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, another raking through his hair in a way you knew all too well. He was nervous, agitated. 

“Sorry I’m not Karen Vincent,” you snarked and god, you hated the way you sounded jealous, you hated the way the words burned your tongue but Steve didn’t pick up on it. There was nothing to pick up. “Promise this wasn’t some sort of elaborate cockblocking plan.”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh, a huff of air that hit your cheek ‘cause he was so close and he was all cheap beer, gummy worms and hair gel. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the boy mumbled but there was a teasing to his voice, a not so serious lilt. 

You pressed your fist into his arm anyway, a hardly there punch that packed no heat and he poked his finger into your side in retaliation. You swatted at him, glaring ‘cause he knew you were ticklish and all the movement sent an empty shoe box hurtling down from a shelf above you both. 

“I do not cockblock you,” you pouted, almost offended. 

“Not on purpose.” Steve snorted, “Took me all of freshman year to get everyone to believe you weren’t my girlfriend.”

You scrunched your nose at the memory of it, boy’s catcalling you from afar, whispers when you and Steve walked to school together every morning, the unappreciative glares from the girls who wanted him instead. 

“Whatever,” you mumbled again. “How long left?”

“It’s only been like, a minute, jeez, that bad being stuck with me princess?” Steve’s voice was teasing and his hand snuck out to grab at your waist again, touch familiar, but his fingers were tickling, poking gently at the spaces between your ribs and you wriggled against him, knees bumping off of skis and old bikes. 

“Yes,” you lied and the boy knew, ‘cause you could see the way the light through the crack lit up the curve of his grin. 

“Besides, we’ve kissed before,” Steve suddenly said, cautious and soft. His hand was still on you, cupping your elbow to hold you near and it slid down to grasp your wrist. He shrugged, eyes on the floor. “Remember?”

You warmed at the memory, wondering why on earth Steve had to bring it up now when you had both never mentioned it since.

“Of course I do,” you huffed, hating the way you sounded bothered. “It wasn’t that long ago. And it hardly even counted.”

Steve scowled, his hurt puppy expression painted across his features. Big, brown eyes set you in place with a stare. “It did so count,” he grumbled, “you were my first kiss.”

“And you were mine,” you fired back, as if this was suddenly an argument that you had to win. Steve always let you win.

“Have you kissed anyone else?” His voice was full of curiosity, void of any embarrassment, not like the way you felt when he asked you such questions. 

It made you flush, eyes wide and lips parting, as if you weren’t supposed to say, as if you weren’t supposed to let him know. Steve had told you about his kiss with Lucy Greeves, behind the bike shed, a few months back. 

He’d told you it was wet and she tasted like the chocolate milk she’d had at lunch. You remembered how he’d thrown himself into your pile of teddies and pillows at the foot of your bed, expression thoughtful as he told you he didn’t really like chocolate milk all that much. 

Then there was Samantha Duncan the year before, a game of truth or dare at the skatepark when the sun started to set and your curfews got a little later. You didn’t watch when Steve leaned into the middle of the circle, friends giggling as he pressed his lips quick to the other girls. 

“Just Miles Campbell,” you muttered, gaze lowered and set on the floor because you could feel the mischief bristle off of the boy as you spoke.

“Miles Campbell?!” He crowed, voice boisterous and no longer quiet. “He’s a giant, what did you do, climb a step ladder- ow!”

You pushed at Steve’s shoulder, face aflame. “Shut up! If you have to know, Harrington, we were sitting down.” You sounded haughty, but you didn’t care, ‘cause the boy was still laughing. 

Steve settled down, a dopey smile just on his lips and despite his teasing, his eyes were fond. Your sides bumped as he shifted, too close and not enough space in the small closet and you were so, so aware that your gaze was level with the bottom half of his face. 

His lips looked really soft. 

“Was he a good kisser?”

“Why d’you wanna know?”

He shrugged. 

“Thinking about asking him out?” You smirked. “Don’t think you're his type, Stevie.”

“Shut up.” 

There was a knock on the door, a sudden sharp sound that had you both jumping apart and you weren’t even sure when you had wandered that close. 

“Five minutes left, lovebirds!” Jake, voice muffled by the door and the music, called out, sounding way too pleased. 

Steve stared at the door, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and you knew he was thinking about something. He only hesitated a little before he knocked a foot into yours, catching your gaze and he spoke as if he wanted to get the words out fast, before he could stop himself. 

“Was he, though?” Steve asked again, voice quieter this time, almost unsure. He looked nervous, “Miles?”

You stared at him, maybe for a beat too long ‘cause the tips of his ears were turning red and he coughed, a little awkward. You made the same strangled noise, shoulders shrugging.

“I mean, sure,” you whispered, “I guess? He was… it was fine.”

You weren’t overly sure if the darkness was playing tricks on you or not, but you could’ve sworn you saw the boy smile.

“He tried to stick his tongue in my mouth,” you continued, face warm from embarrassment, ‘cause you suddenly felt like you were sharing too much, even with Steve. “It felt weird, like a dead fish. I didn’t really know what to do.”

“You’ve never made out with someone?” Steve asked and god, you were almost positive he was the only person who could’ve asked you that question without sounding like he was making fun of you. His voice was soft, all fond affection for you that he’d collected over the years and he moved closer, toes touching yours like he knew exactly how to handle you. “Kissed someone like that before?”

“That was the first time,” you squirmed under his gaze, feeling much younger than you were. Were you supposed to have that much experience in making out with someone at fifteen? Did Steve? “I don’t really know if I did it right.”

“Oh,” he breathed and he didn’t sound like he was judging you at all. There was another slow silence, warm and not at all uncomfortable because it was still Steve, and it wrapped around you both like a question. “I could show you. If you wanted.”

The music bled underneath the gap in the door, vibrated against your skin and the drums made your heart drop and stop, thundering to the beat quickly after. You were sure it was the music. You were positive it was the music.

But then Steve mistook your silence for hesitation, a silent ‘no’ and he was already opening his mouth to cover his tracks, to take back the statement, to tell you he was stupid, that he was only kidding.

“I didn’t mean-, we don’t have to… shit, I-”

Four minutes left. 

“Okay.”

You could hear the rush of your blood in your ears, skin warm, cheeks hot, tongue sneaking out to peek between your lips and you wondered if he’d still be able to taste the lipgloss you put on before you left the house. 

“What?”

“Show me.”

He took a step towards you and you watched as the boy tried to keep cool but his ever expressive face gave him away, brown eyes all wide, jaw a little slack and his hand found your waist, a sliver of skin between your shirt and skirt, a place he’d not really touched before.

“Is this alright?” His voice cracked, and he blushed but you didn’t laugh. You never laughed, but you did nod. “Just do what I do, ‘kay? Can I kiss you?”

Was it really that simple, you wondered? But you didn’t get a lot of time to think it over, because as soon as you nodded, Steve was crowding into you more, pressing you into the coats and you still had to press up on your toes to let his mouth meet yours.

It was so different from last time and it was almost the same.

Steve Harrington still tasted like sugar and vanilla, hidden under cheap beer and you gasped when his lips touched yours, the same way you did when you were thirteen. But your hands grasped at his neck, steadying yourself, and he clutched at your waist to help, as if you had both gotten a little older and suddenly knew where to touch.

His mouth was soft over yours, a little hesitant at first, but then coaxing. Your lips slid over his once, twice, three times and then you felt the soft lick of his tongue at the seam of your lips and you remembered the way he’d told you to copy him.

So you did.

Your tongue touched his and your breath hitched with how nice it felt and the kiss moved soft and slow. You grabbed Steve a little harder, body swaying into his in the dark ‘cause your stomach was swooping and your heart was hammering and it felt like you were on the front seat of a rollercoaster, hanging off the edge. 

Maybe Steve felt the same way, despite having more experience, because he gripped you the same way, fingernails leaving little half moon marks on your hips. 

It felt strange, it felt good, it felt warm and it made everything tingle, breath stuck in your throat and a sigh leaving your chest and you felt like you should’ve been embarrassed. But you weren’t, because it was Steve. 

But then voices outside were counting down from ten and they got louder and louder, hands hammering on the door and you both ripped apart before the door swung open, harsh strip lights and the smell of artificial strawberry and natty light swimming back into the closet with you. 

The walk home wasn’t as awkward as it should’ve been considering you and your best friend had had your tongues in each other's mouths. Maybe it’s ‘cause you were still too young, maybe it was because you didn’t realise it yet, but there wasn’t much about yours and Steve’s friendship that would ever be awkward. 

So you followed the yellow lines on the edge of the road home, footsteps a little behind Steve’s and every now and then, the boy would look back over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. It smelled like nighttime and summer and everything you associated with the boy, damp grass and leftover smoke from someone's barbecue, chlorine from the pools and you could hear sprinklers in backyards, hissing in the still warm air. 

You were a little late, just over curfew and the television was making your living room glow, the flicker of light coming out from the window. So Steve took your hand and led you through the back garden gate, pool lights leading you both to your patio doors, the rest of the house dark and you could smell lavender and honeysuckle from Steve’s yard.

He helped you find the key to the door, the spare hidden in a plant pot filled with pebbles and moss, one lone rose sprouting from the dirt. Both of your hands fumbled together as your fingers touched, all sudden pink cheeks and lowered gazes and Steve whispered a ‘good night, princess,’ before sneaking back down the lane, hopping over the lower part of the fence and into his own yard.

By the time you had tiptoed upstairs, past your dad who was dozing in the living room arm chair, Steve was in his room, bedroom window across from yours and the lights were still on as he lounged on his bed, shirt off and a baseball clutched in his fist. 

He was throwing it from his hand, watching it fall up and down in the air before catching it again, one arm thrown underneath his head and you couldn’t help but gaze at the muscles there, all new and never really seen before. 

You swallowed, suddenly too warm, the heat from the day trapped in your bedroom and sticking to your skin but you didn’t want to open the window, you didn’t want to alert the boy to your staring. You and Steve had spent nights, weeks, months and years hanging out from the sills, talking over the trailing ivy and flowers and growing below. 

But this felt like something you shouldn't have been doing, especially since you could still taste him on your lips, feel where his hands had burned against your sides, so you pulled your curtains and trapped all these brand new thoughts inside your room with you.

You took them to bed, slipped between the sheets with them and everything smelled like brown sugar and honey, gummy bears and Steve Harrington. 

1984. Killing me slow, out the window, I’ll always be waiting for you to be waiting below.

“Princess, c’mon, every time.”

Steve’s voice was exasperated, laced with something softer and it made swinging your leg over your bedroom window sill a little easier.

You peered down at him, long grass brushing his shins ‘cause no one but you two used that little path that took you out of the back garden gate. He was gazing back up, setting sun brushing his face with gold and caramel, peachy pink clouds in the sky and Steve held his arms out, beckoning.

“You’ll catch me?” You murmured, still unsure, despite this being a well practised escape. 

“Don’t I always?” the boy scoffed, almost offended, but the small edge below your window didn’t offer a lot of footing and you swore the drainpipe was becoming more loose than it used to be. 

“Harrington, I swear,” the threat was empty and it fell idle on your lips when you pushed yourself over the edge, hands gripping at the window frame and feet finding their footing. 

“Don’t second name me,” Steve grumbled and you sensed him moving closer, buttercups and daisy crushed under his sneakers as he kept his arms outstretched towards you. “You good?”

You mumbled some noise of confirmation, knees bent and ready to drop. You hated this part, and weirdly, it got harder as you got older, limbs stretched, body heavier, no longer small and quick to scramble up tree branches and out of windows.

“Steve?” You couldn’t really see behind you, the soft summer breeze picking at your hair and blocking your view of the ground below but you lowered yourself as much as you could, fingers too warm and slipping against the window frame.

“Yeah, I’ve got you.”

So you let go, the short drop softened by the boy’s hand catching at your waist and pulling you against him, your back to his front and he held you there, ankles swishing in the damp grass. 

Steve was all hard muscle and cologne, arms stronger than they had ever been, tanned from the summer and wrapped tight around you, hands pressed into the skin underneath your breasts. He let you go when you found your feet, white chucks soaked by the evening dew and you blew out a breath and set the boy with a stare. 

“We have front doors, you know,” you watched him grin at you, wide and bright and so familiar. “Why do we have to do this?”

“S’more fun,” the boy answered and he landed a firm smack to your ass when you bent over, fingers tugging at your laces. “Nice shorts princess.”

“Fuck you,” you squeaked, cheeks warm and you reached out to do the same, plan connecting with the denim of his jeans and Steve laughed before groaning a little dirty and exaggerated. “You’re such a dick.”

He spun you both, feet leading you backwards towards the garden gate, clumsy between the flowers and he grinned, wolfishly. 

“You know I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Steve,” you tried to sound huffy, as if you weren’t impressed by his jokes but you sounded flustered instead and you hated how the boy knew it.

But he never said anything, never commented on the flush across your chest or the way your tongue snuck out to wet at your lips, he never poked fun. He just always watched with knowing eyes and a soft smile you could never discern, and kept on teasing you. 

“Y’know it’s better if my dad doesn’t see me leave,” he finally answered, fingers bullying the lock, almost rusted shut from years of only being used by both of you. “I get asked too many questions and I give answers he doesn’t like and suddenly I’m back in my room filling out fuckin’ college applications for the eighteenth day in a row.“

A pang of sympathy hit your chest and before you could tell your friend that you understood, you sympathised, he was placing a warm hand on the space between your shorts and your shirt, guiding you out the gate. 

“Doesn’t mean I have to do the same,” you grumbled good naturedly, “I could meet you out front like a normal person.”

“Fuck off, we both know you love jumping into my arms as much as I love catching you.”

You couldn’t remember when you started flirting with your best friend, or when he started flirting with you. You couldn’t pick a place or time when it began, or who did it first. But you were both eighteen and more appreciative of all the strong lines and muscles, the soft curves and different ways you looked at each other. 

It would be a comment, a sly remark, a hand touching too close to areas yet to be discovered, a wink, a hug that went on for a beat too long. 

Nothing had happened, not really, not since the closet at Karen Vincent’s party, but everyone at school called you Steve Harrington’s girl and the boys you hooked up with in the backs of cars always pulled away mid kiss to ask if you were definitely single. 

It was all fun and teasing, familiar touches with a familiar boy, sprawled together in the same bed you’d shared with him since you were twelve years old. Except now there wasn’t as much space between you both, limbs longer, bodies taller, leftover alcohol soaking into your heads in the mornings that you woke up wrapped around each other. 

You would pretend you didn’t feel how hard he was, morning wood pressed into the small of your back, the curve of your ass and Steve wouldn’t comment when your shirt had rucked itself up your ribs in the middle of the night, too much showing to be decent. 

It was enough to keep you both on your toes, the close friendship teetering over the question of what if? Could we? Should we? Will we?

Steve didn’t hide the way he looked at you, affection always strong in his brown eyes, hands soft and face fond when he picked a wildflower off the garden wall, tucking it behind your ear but there was always a linger over your bare legs, the way the hem of your shorts cut high on your thighs, the way they pinched in at your waist and made your shirt ride up your ribs. 

The roller rink was busy as expected, ten o’clock on a Saturday night and filled with teenagers looking for something and someone to do. The kids of the day had long left and the lights were dimmer, the whole hall darker with flashes of red and aquamarine, bubble gum pink and candied lilac that flashed across the floor and faces. 

The disco ball twisted in the middle and it sent rainbows and reflections across the walls, painted Steve’s face in technicolour and you gave his cheek a little pat as you took off, wheels spinning you backwards, music thumping in your chest. 

He smiled at you, knowing, brows raised as he took a seat on the tables that lined the roller rink, crowded by the friends you’d found from school, flasks pulled from pockets, clear liquid dumped into red and blue slurpees.  

“Where you goin’ princess?”

You did a little spin, already warm from the sticky air, summer leaking in and slipping between the people skating and dancing, bodies too close. Your foot found the rink, hands leaning on the barrier wall as you sent Steve a wink, your cherry glossed lips widening in a smile that was borderline salacious. 

“To find someone to play with.”

The boys surrounding Steve whooped and hollered, cat calls ringing out underneath the music and you could hear the comments directed to Steve, playful intones about how his girl was nothin’ but trouble, and wasn’t he gonna get a pretty thing like you locked down?

But Steve just shook his head at you, playful and exasperated, while he leant back on the bench, waving away his friends remarks with quiet whatever’s and it’s not like that. 

He had nothing to say when you dropped yourself into his lap half an hour later, body warm from skating, face flushed and eyes a little too wide and bright. 

He ignored the whistles from his friends, the knowing glances, the nudges to ribs. ‘Cause you were wrapping your hands around his neck, fingers playing with his hair and your lips were at his ear. 

“There’s some creep followin’ me around,” you whispered, body tense and Steve’s hands, where they’d dropped to on instinct when you sat on him, tightened on the space above your knee. 

“Who?” Steve asked immediately, voice low and it rumbled through you, you could feel it in his chest and his eyes were scanning the crowds, brows pinched together. 

You didn’t look, didn’t turn away from where you’d pressed your nose to his temple, breathing in his cologne, his shampoo, something minty and like the forest. You caught Candance Peterson’s eye from over Steve’s head and you ignored the way she smirked at you. 

“By the lockers,” you murmured and your breath hitched just a little when Steve wrapped one arm around you, holding you closer to the other hand sliding it’s way between your bare legs, fingers curled around your thigh possessively. “Red shirt, bad hair.”

Steve snickered ‘cause he found him, a guy with an overgrown mullet and beady eyes, hanging by the lockers and benches. He was staring at you, watching the way you draped yourself over your best friend and Steve raised a hand, wiggling his fingers to show that he’d seen him. 

“He didn’t try anythin’, did he?”

You shook your head, tip of your nose brushing against Steve’s cheek ‘cause you refused to move any further away and you knew the boy didn’t mind. His hand was back on your leg, thumb stoking circles on the inside of your thigh and it took everything you had not to squirm in his lap. 

“Nah, just asked too many questions, told me he was wondering why a ‘pretty little girl’ like me wasn’t with her boyfriend,” you scrunched your face as you spoke, lips twisted. “Told him that my boyfriend was right over here.”

It wasn’t the first time you or Steve had used each other to slip away from some unwanted attention. Steve was just tall enough, just broad enough to warrant a second glance, too drunk boys weighing up their options when you snuck under your best friend's arm, wondering if they could take him. 

They usually gave up, watching with a sneer as your pressed your body into Steve’s, his hands taking advantage of your little role play game and he’d let his palm take a slow wander over the curve of your ass, a tight squeeze, a light tap and you’d dig your fingers into the spaces between his ribs for it, his laugh huffing guilty onto your neck. 

You found that you could be just as intimidating, Steve seeking you out at parties when girls from out of town got a little too much, a little too eager and kept trying to touch the hair that he spent too much fucking time styling. The boy would sneak up behind you, arms around your waist as he pulled you back against him and used you as the cutest human shield he’d ever seen. 

The sight of you in Steve’s arms usually stopped his admirers in their tracks, his lips pressed to the top of your head, smile hidden in your hair as you set them with a look that Steve said could make grown men cry. . 

“Oh you did, did you?” Steve drawled, “did you tell him I was the prettiest one out of the bunch?”

You snorted, a sound that always made Steve grin and you loved the way his arms tightened around you. Your position on his knees gave you an inch or two of height on him, a little taller, just for a change. You pulled back enough so you could gaze down at him, lashes lowered and face overly thoughtful. 

“I don’t know, Stevie,” you pondered, all faux heavy sighs, teasing and fluttering lashes. “Danny’s starting to look real cute since joining the team-”

“You shut your damn mouth,” Steve interrupted, voice huffy but he was still smiling despite himself. He took a second to watch the way a refraction of light from the disco ball travelled over your cheek, lighting up the new summer freckles there before it dipped into your Cupid’s bow. He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “We both know you think I’m the hottest guy he- oh, shit. Your friend is coming over.”

“What?” You barked out and your voice sounded strangled. You turned to see that Steve was right, the guy in the red shirt was making his way through the gathering crowds, weaving through the busy tables towards you both, his gaze set on you and another question posed on his lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Steve was already shifting underneath you, arms hooking under the backs of your knees and you knew he was ready to deposit you on the chair next to him, eyes searching for a fight. 

“Can I kiss you?” You asked instead. 

“Shit, what?” The boy’s response was garbled, words tumbling over each other as he stopped his movements and looked at you wide eyed. “Princess-”

You sighed, impatient, a hand clutching at Steve’s chin, tilting his face up to you so you could catch his gaze, the question asked again with just your eyes. A silent exchange, a secret language only you two knew. You watched his tongue swipe over his bottom lip, eyes heavy, dropping to your mouth and you waited, a second, maybe two and then fuck, he nodded, barely perceptible. 

You crushed your lips to his, swallowed the moan that Steve immediately gifted you, fingers pushing into his jaw and sighing at the way his  hand on your back dropped to the waistband of your shorts, fingertips desperately seeking the warmth of your bare skin. 

It was different to the kisses you had shared before, ‘cause fuck, now you both knew what you were doing and you had almost as much experience under your belt as Steve had. You knew boys liked it when you got a little bossy, hands on their jaw and thumb on their bottom lip, telling them to part their lips for you. You knew they liked it when you sighed all sweet and pretty, hips squirming in their hands, fingers pulling at their hair. They told you that you tasted like cherries, something sweet and tart and like dirty secrets. 

Steve seemed to like it too, ‘cause his tongue was sweeping past your lips, kissing you dirtier than he should’ve for such a public setting and you could hear your friends rippling in excitement around you. 

You pushed your thumb to the corner of Steve’s mouth and he obeyed like you thought he would, parting his lips between yours and groaning into you. It was all teeth and tongue, hot hands on bare skin, hair between fingers, threading and pulling and you wondered how you could still taste vanilla, hidden in his lips underneath blue raspberry slush. 

You liked the way he held you to him, a little too tight, a little more possessive than he’d ever been with you before. Because growing up with Steve Harrington was all protective hands, glares sent to boys who deemed not good enough, rides home from work and gentle hands taking that one drink too many from you at parties that went on too late. 

This was different, this was personal, this was a touch that screamed mine mine mine and it kinda hated the way you knew you’d think about it later, back flat in your bed, sheets kicked to your ankles and your hand pushed down the front of your shorts. 

Maybe Steve would do the same you thought, maybe he already had, you wondered. And images of Steve with his hand flat to the shower tiles flashed through your head, body wet, hair soaked, lips parted and his other palm fisting himself to the thought of you. 

It was suddenly too much and you needed air more than you needed Steve. Your lips left his and the sounds of the rink came rushing back, like you’d pushed your head out from underwater. There was suddenly music, the score of wheels on wood, the siren of a pinball machine, ice clattering into cups from behind the bar. 

Someone amongst the group let out one, long whistle and people tittered and god, it should’ve made you blush. 

It should’ve. 

It didn’t. 

You simply stood from Steve’s lap, his hands still on your waist and guiding you to your feet until you could push your hair back from your warm cheeks, feeling only slightly scandalised when your friends all started but you kept your eyes on the boy. 

You licked the taste of him from your lips, raspberry and sugar and something that you were now beginning to learn was just Steve. His cheeks were tinted pink, lips glossy from yours and his brown eyes were considerably darker, his finger trailing away from yours in a way that made you think he didn’t wanna let go. 

But you cleared your throat the same time he did, only a little wobbly on the eight wheels that held you up and he grinned when you coughed out a laugh. 

“That worked,” you told him, watching as the guy with the bad hair swung the door open, leaving without looking back. 

“Huh,” Steve murmured, “how ‘bout that.”

—————

He didn’t say anything when the lights started turning back on, when the disco ball stopped spinning and people handed back their skates. Steve just found you on the benches, pressed shoulder to shoulder with your friends and he caught your eye from the door, another secret conversation that started with a quirk of a brow and ended with a tilt of a chin. 

You said your goodbyes and followed the boy out the building, watching as Steve placed his hand behind his back, encouraging you to catch up and grab it. You held hands across the empty parking lot, fingers twisting and playing together until you hit the main road and it was normal, it was familiar, it was Steve. 

He decided he was staying with you that night, mumbling an excuse about not facing his dad in the morning, how your bed was comfier and your mom made the best waffles but you didn’t need any convincing. 

So you snuck into your house, unnecessarily quiet ‘cause your dad was still up watching TV and your mom was in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a book and they barely looked at the boy who was following you up to your bedroom, nothing more than a “night, kids,” called out into the hallway. 

You lay side by side with the boy, half dressed and with too much bare skin on show, Steve’s shirt on the floor, your shorts almost indecent around your thighs. 

It was the first time you thought that something else might happen, legs brushing against legs and hips bumping together as you tried to get comfortable, the burn of the others lips still on your own. 

But nothing did and you were starting to wonder if anything ever would. 

1985. And it’s new, the shape of your body.

It didn’t matter that it had been a Wednesday, it was the first day in weeks that you and Steve had managed to get the day off together and you were both planning on making the most of it. 

It’s why the boy woke you up early, a rucksack already in his hand as he walked through your patio door, left open for that very reason, the rest of the house empty as your parents went to work. 

You’d been surprised at how softly he’d woken you up, fingers prodding gently at the cheek that wasn’t smushed against your pillow, eyes hidden with sleep mussed hair and one leg bare and kicked out from beneath the sheets. He grinned when you grumbled and he took your sleep warmed spot when you finally dragged yourself out of bed and into a shower. 

Steve barely looked away when you reappeared in just a towel, almost too short to be decent and when you turned to your dresser to pull out a swimsuit and clothes, his eyes dipped to the backs of your legs, thighs on show, tanned from the August sun, a small freckle there he’d never seen before. 

“You said you were gonna set an alarm, princess,” Steve teased, head pushed back into your favourite pillow and if he realised it smelled like your shampoo and peach scented body wash, he didn’t say. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Jesus, give me peace, Harrington,” you grumbled, voice still thick with sleep and the summer air was slipping through your open window and it made you move slower than you wanted to. “Turn around.”

Steve did as he was told, face crushed into your sheets and a grin on his lips ‘cause he heard the soft thump of your towel hitting the floor, the shuffle of clothes sliding across your skin. He knew you were winding him up, taking that little game you both blamed to a new level, another limit, because there was no fucking way a girl that looked the way you did, didn’t know what she was doing.

Steve heard the snap of a bikini strap, the rasp of denim shorts over long legs and when you told him he could look once more, he turned around in time to see a flash of cherry red, a swimsuit that hid little, covered by the way you pulled a white shirt over your head. 

You pushed a pair of Ray Bans onto your nose, a little too big and stolen from Steve a few summers before. You grinned, knowing, and held out a hand. 

“C’mon pretty boy, let’s go.”

Steve took the car, drove it to the outskirts of town with the windows cracked, the summer air blowing in sticky and sweet. You had your feet on the dash, a new bracelet around your ankle, woven with blue and orange thread, a matching one around Steve’s wrist that he tried to protest at but his words were weak and his smile was bright. 

He let you pick the song, cassettes spilling out of the glove compartment as you tried to find the perfect mix for a day like this. There wasn’t a cloud above Hawkins and when you drove past the Burick’s farm, the sunflowers were in full bloom, making the world that flashed past your window bright yellow and the strawberry paddocks made everything smell sweet. 

The roads were quiet and the air still, and you couldn’t see another soul as Steve parked up on the roadside, a dirt corner off of the road leading out of town. You both walked into the wheat fields, long grass towering to your waists as you headed for the tree line. The crops brushed your bare legs, scratched softly against your skin and you could feel Steve behind you the whole time, eyes on you, anticipation growing, warming you like the sun. 

When he ran, you did too, feet a little clumsy and neither of you could see where you were stepping but the peels of laughter made it worth it, the rush of the summer air on your face made it better.  You chased after the boy, bag slamming on his back, eyes glancing back at you, looking like the twelve year old with the wild hair you once knew.

Steve didn’t stop running until he hit the patch of trees, legs slowing as the branches became thicker and you slammed into his back with a soft ‘oof,’ cheeks sore from grinning and neither of you thought much of it when the boy took your hand and led you through the thickets.

The trees cleared just before the cliff dropped off, the quarry vast and a pretty green-blue underneath you. The spot was secluded, familiar to you both and a well guarded secret that was kept over the years. You came every summer, secret visits that were just for you and Steve.

You’d been waiting for a day like this for what felt like months. The height of summer, blue skies, the distant buzz of cicadas and your best friend, all to yourself. 

Something told you that Steve felt the same, ‘cause when you chanced a sideways look at him, he was already gazing back, soft smile on his face.c eyes all fond and it made the day seem even warmer. 

It didn’t take long for you both to be stripped to your swimsuits, Steve’s eyes blatantly staring as you slipped the denim shorts down your hips and pulled them down your legs. He didn’t say anything when you stretched yourself out on the blanket beside him, pebbles and grass underneath, the sun beating down from above. 

You liked the way he didn’t shy from you, not like the other boys, like he knew he was yours and you were his, like there wasn’t anyone else to worry about. So neither of you flinched when you pressed yourself to his side, warm bare skin on more warm bare skin, shoulder to shoulder and your feet just reaching where his shins were. 

You tapped a toe to them, snuck a peek at the boy beside you, grinning when you saw him smile despite his closed eyes. His lashes fluttered from behind his sunglasses, waiting for the inevitable. 

“Hey, Stevie?” 

Something in his tummy clenched at the old nickname, usually said with mirth and drag of sarcasm, but your lips were at the shell of his ear and you sounded so soft. 

“Princess.” His voice didn’t hitch at the end like a question, it stayed low, a little hoarse, like a warning. 

‘Cause you were propped onto a elbow now, body leaning into him, your hardly concealed chest pressed into his bicep and he could feel the tickle of your hair on his arm, against his cheek and you were still so close that he could feel the way you smirked against his ear. 

You pushed the button on your nose to his temple, a head butt that was more affectionate than anything else and you moved suddenly, leaning over him to grab the rucksack.  

When Steve opened his eyes he saw red, that almost orange colour that reminded him of summers and pool days, the freckle below your collarbone that not many people got to see. 

He couldn’t not look at your chest, pushed out towards his face as you stretched an arm, grasping for the strap of the bag, making a little grunting noise as you reached for it. 

Red and tiny straps, sun warmed skin that was a little darker than last month, the summer making you glow. A stretch of stomach, taught as you leaned, close enough to his own that he could feel the warmth radiate from you. Long legs pushed up onto your knees, holding you over him like a treat, like a taunt. 

But then you were pushing yourself backwards to sit, gleeful with the bag in your hands and you were already unzipping it , hand delving into its contents as you muttered to him. 

“Perv.”

It was soft and fond, no heat, no accusation but it still made the boy flush ‘cause that meant you caught him looking but Christ, you were both nineteen and full of hormones - what else was new?

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, princess,” he coughed out, trying to sound cooler than he felt. His eyes stayed hooded behind his glasses, wishing the tint of them made him harder for you to read but you knew him better than yourself. Steve knew that too. “You’ll go up a cup size one day.” 

His words hurt no more than your comment had, all light, no sharpness but you smacked at his shoulder all the same, making him grin wide at you. Steve wondered if you knew he thought of you as nothing short of perfect, he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to tell you.

But you’d found what you’d been looking for, a little plastic bag filled with a few buds and some papers, a new grinder ‘cause Steve had lost the last one at a party. You wiggled it at him, Eddie’s special weed making the air grow a little more heady, a little more sweet. 

“Wanna get high with me, Harrington?“

And god, wasn’t that a question?

Steve knew you, knew you inside out and back to front, better than anyone else did. He knew how you got after a few hits, a little needy, all touchy and full of affection. The boy had been to enough parties with you to know. You’d find him, a few hours in, coming out of seemingly nowhere, face flushed and eyes glassy. 

It didn’t matter who he was talking to, who he was with, what he was doing, you’d me on him in seconds, a ball of heat that smelled like his favourite perfume and the inside of Eddie Munson’s trailer, arms around his neck and face pressed to his chest. 

You’d drop yourself into his lap, press messy kisses to his cheeks and giggle all soft when he tried to question you on your whereabouts, if you felt okay, if you’d drank enough water. 

By now, it wasn’t really a surprise to know the entire town still thought you were dating. But he stopped refuting it as much, almost preferring the way that boys kept their distance from you when he was around. He didn’t mind the way you curled into him, lips glossy and sticky and whispering into his ear. 

He liked the way you hummed happy and whispered a ‘yes’ when you’d had enough - and Steve could always tell - and he told you it was time to go home. It didn’t matter who’s house he took you to, his or yours, both were home. 

So god, wasn’t that a question?

“I’m driving princess,” Steve murmured instead of everything he wanted to say. 

‘Will you hold onto me, if I do? Will you crawl into my lap and look at me in that way that you do? Will you put your hands in my hair and tell me I smell good? Will you touch me like I’m yours? Will you touch me like you’re mine?’

But he didn’t. 

“Not until later, Steve, we’ve got all day,” you told him, all smiles and bright eyes.

And you were right ‘cause the morning was still early, the afternoon barely beginning and there were snacks in the bag, water for when it got too hot, a walkman and some mixtapes for when the day got too quiet. 

Steve just smiled and you shook the baggie at him still, a pour on your lips that he could never really learn how to say no to. 

“Roll for me anyway?” You asked because you hated it and you weren't very good, and maybe there was something about the way Steve’s nimble fingers made quick work of it, maybe it was the way you liked to watch the tip of his tongue slide slick along the edges of the papers. 

Maybe. 

So Steve because he couldn’t say fucking no to you and that’s how you found yourself back on the blanket, legs stretched out under the heat of the sun, smoke in the air and everything a little more hazy than it was before. 

It could’ve been the weed that made you do it, maybe you could’ve even blamed it on the sun, messing with your head and your heart but Steve would never have believed your excuses, ‘cause when you suddenly sat up and swung a leg over his lap, he didn’t look surprised at all. 

His hands fell to your thighs instinctively, more than ready to press his palms onto your bare thighs, the high cut of that damn bikini showing more skin than was necessary and Steve swallowed hard from where he lay under you, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“Princess.”

There it was again, that tone, the low way he said your name, rough like a warning, soft like he was asking for something. 

It almost sounded like please, you realised. 

You placed the joint between your lips instead of answering, the end of it burning amber and you inhaled softly, hating the way the smoke burned your lungs but loving the way it made you feel. But that could’ve been Steve’s hands on your hips, holding you steady as you tilted your head back, neck exposed, blowing smoke to the sky that was still cloudless. 

When you gazed back down at your best friend, his jaw was slack, eyes glassy behind his Ray Bans and you smiled, way too shyly for the stunt you’d just pulled. You took the glasses off his face, wanting to see him, all of him and you held the joint between you, brows raised. 

“Want a hit?” 

The boy nodded. 

He expected you to hold the roll up to his lips, let him take a drag from between your fingers as you sat happily on his lap. 

Steve didn’t expect you to take another draw from it, smoke held between your lips, eyes hooded as you leaned down and into him. Your hands found purchase on the blanket on either side of his head but you were still chest to chest. You didn’t talk, couldn’t talk, didn’t need to talk. You just nudged your nose on Steve’s and he tilted his chin towards you, hands tight on your sides like he was holding on for dear life - and oh my god, he felt like he was - before he parted his lips for you and you let go. 

Smoke blew gently from your lips to his, top lips just grazing, the movement accidental but neither of you apologised, neither complained. And when Steve held the hit there, in his chest, seconds ticked by like a countdown to something dangerous, to something explosive and on his wrecked sounding exhale, he pushed both of you up, a little frantic as your hips settled into the dip of his more. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You asked it softly, like you were telling a secret, like you didn’t wanna admit it, like you were scared Steve was gonna say no, but the boy didn’t answer you at all, not with words anyway.

His mouth was on yours before you could finish talking and you both groaned at the contact. Blindly, you stubbed out the roach on the ground beside you, ashes rubbing into gravel and sand before your hands found purchase on Steve’s face. 

It was a kiss you hadn’t shared before, a kiss that was messier than the others, a kiss that lacked the control the others had. 

It was a kiss that usually led to something more, hands wandering in someone’s back seat, mouths on necks, voices whispering dirty things in the last row of the cinema. 

It was something you hadn’t felt with your best friend before. 

It was hot and dirty and fast, his hands on your neck, your jaw, fingers splayed into your hair and his thumb tugging greedy at the corner of your bottom lip, desperate for you to open for him, so he could lick into you. 

It didn’t help that you were both lacking so much clothing, too much bare skin pressed against each other, chest to chest and your legs wrapped around his waist. 

It was too easy to roll your hips, to whine into Steve’s mouth at the way he let out the dirtiest, prettiest noise for you. It made you want to do it again, it made you wanna thread your fingers into his hair and tug. 

“Steve.”

He thinks that’s what broke him, the way you said his name like that, soft and whimpered, like you fucking wanted him, like you needed him. The boy was sure he’d never been that hard in his life, your ass pressed into his lap, his hands wandering over the slope of your lower back, sliding over your bikini pants, fingers toying with the tiny sides of them. 

Steve thought about all the things he wished he was brave enough to say to you. ‘Are you mine? Do you know I’m yours? Do you know I always have been?’

But he couldn’t, couldn’t find the courage, couldn’t find the willpower 

 to drag his lips from yours, not unless it was to press his mouth to your neck instead, to suck and bite a little bruise there that said what he couldn’t with words. 

Mine. 

You don’t know how it ended, you barely remembered how it had started but as the night leaked in and made the quarry glitter, Steve was smoothing a hand over your hair, messy from his tugging, as you pulled your shorts back on. 

He’d packed up the bag, shrugged his T-shirt back over his chest, lips as kiss bitten as yours, skin warm from the sun and you. It felt like there was so much to be said, it felt like nothing at all. A natural occurrence, an almost yearly event, something cosmic, something magic, like a meteor strike, like a new planet being discovered. 

You got to kiss your best friend and Steve got to kiss his and it simply felt like you were both one step closer to where you were both going to end up. You were so sure it was with him, but maybe that was just the whispers of your moms, voices hardly quiet as they gushed by the Harrington’s pool summers ago, talking about how their kids were something special together, how sometimes soulmates did exist. 

So it didn’t feel awkward when Steve swiped a stand of hair from your cheek, took your hand in his and pressed one more kiss to the top of it before letting go, stepping back for another summer, until one of you - or both of you - were finally ready to say what needed to be said. 

It wasn’t going to happen that day, but it felt closer than ever. 

And when he drove you both home, Steve didn’t tut at you for putting your feet on the dash, in fact, he smiled all soft the whole drive back into Hawkins, past the same wheat fields, the water tower, the sunflowers and fruit fields that made the night smell sweet. 

It was dark when you both snuck in through the back garden gate, Steve’s patio light still on and there was smoke coming from the little fire pit by the pool, gentle chatter and laughter from where both of your parents sat with glasses of wine. Leftover dinner dishes and empty plates sat on the wooden table and neither couple were surprised to see you both. 

You didn’t know that your parents watched the way Steve stood tall behind you, always in reach, an open hand just hovering by your side as if he was always ready to catch you. You didn’t know that his mom would smile at you, watching the way you watched her son, cheeks sore with a grin she’d never tire of seeing. 

Even Steve’s dad would shake his head, fond, making everyone titter and the pair of you blush as he asked accusingly, “and what have you two been up to all day?”

You wondered if they could see the way you flushed in the dark, if they saw the swell to Steve’s bottom lip from the way you’d been greedy with it, if they noticed the pretty lilac bruise that should’ve hopefully been hidden by your shirt. 

But it was okay. ‘Cause you felt Steve warm and solid at your back, his chest pressed against you and the leftover taste of him and smoke on your lips. The air smelled like honeysuckle and chlorine, fresh lavender and basil from a dinner you’d missed and the back garden gate was still swinging on its hinges. 

1986. And I scream, “For whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

Steve fucking hated Chris Maxwell. He’d disliked the guy in high school, always running his mouth and exaggerating his lacrosse wins, the girls he got with, the drugs he managed to score. He had the same car as Steve, the same BMW in a shitty puke green colour and he drove it like an idiot.

He hated him even more when you started dating him.

 You’d dated guys before, shit, Steve had had his fair share of girls over the years too. Nothing ever serious, nothing that meant all that much ‘cause the girls he brought to parties and basement hang outs took one look at you and tried to make him choose. 

Steve always chose you.

You’d dated less, Steve had always noticed, shying away from unfamiliar attention, choosing to kiss and run after the party was over, no numbers exchanged, no dates to be had. You’d always scrunched your nose at him and evaded the question when Steve asked, murmuring something about how it wasn’t worth the hassle.

It’s why Steve had been so surprised when you were dropped off one day by Maxwell, in his snot green car with his stupid smarmy smirk. Once became twice, twice became three times and before you both knew it, you were lounging at the bottom of Steve’s bed one day as he sat at his desk and you were shrugging.

“Uh, yeah, I guess? Maybe he is my boyfriend?”

Steve remembered coughing out a laugh, because, how could you not know?

But you were being picked up and dropped off by the boy on numerous occasions and Steve quickly grew tired of watching him try and eat your face in his front seat. But only two months had passed before things seemingly grew tired and sour, your face twisting in a veil of annoyance when you heard his car horn blast from the street.

He never got out of the car to knock on your door, Steve had noted, never walking you up the path at night to see you safely inside. Steve was sure the last straw came on the day he was already in your living room, hands clutching the casserole dish that his mom had sent him to borrow. You’d rolled up, the stupid vomit coloured car catching the curb as it squealed to a stop, music blasting from the inside and your dad mirrored Steve’s expression as the two men stood at the window.

Noses scrunched, lips downturned, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t like that little punk,” your dad had grumbled.

“Same,” Steve had answered and the two of them were oblivious to the way your mother grinned behind their backs. 

But Steve had watched you storm out, car door slamming as Chris leaned over to the open window, yelling something about coming back and let’s talk about this honey!

You’d ignored him and Steve had walked home feeling a little lighter than he had in weeks.

He still didn’t expect Chris to come sneaking into his back yard one evening, when the town was quietening down, when the fireflies came out and the sun made the sky streaky with pink and peach and lilac.

Steve had been propped against the wall of his house, just beside the back garden gate, hidden in that little lane that no one seemed to use. The space that smelled like honeysuckle and lavender, the place that grew a little wild and reminded him of you. There was more ivy on the wall that year, growing more untamed than it ever had and it made Steve smile to see that it was crawling up the side of your house too, almost to your bedroom window. 

A cigarette hung from his lips, a bad habit he hadn’t picked up since he was seventeen and easily persuaded but work was shit, his dad was nagging at him about reapplying for colleges and he hated that he’d hardly seen you in a week. 

And the reason why was creeping through the gate, shoulders hunched and eyes alert. Chris had stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Steve, a scowl on his face as he snarled at him accusingly. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Steve rolled his eyes, cigarette still wet between his lips and it moved as he replied, his words an annoyed mumble. 

“This is my fuckin’ garden, dickwad. You went through the wrong gate.”

It took the boy a moment to realise his mistake and instead of apologising, or admitting to it, he turned and continued to glare at Steve. 

“S’your goddamn fault I’m sneaking around anyway, Harrington,” Chris hissed, his eyes already seeking out your bedroom window across from them. 

It was ever so slightly cracked, curtains shut and blowing in the breeze but Steve knew you kept it open so you could smell the honeysuckle you loved so much, so that you could hear Steve if he opened his window across from you, to whisper into the night. 

It had been a long time since you shared secrets and stories across the garden gates, but old habits die hard and Steve kept his open for the very same reason. 

“My fault?” Steve snorted, an offended and somewhat dramatic hand pressed to his chest. He kicked off of the wall, cigarette throwing smoke into the air and he exhaled, smirking when some of it blew into Chris’ face. “And what the fuck did I do, Maxwell?”

“Everything’s always about you!” The other boy burst out, without much preamble, “whole fuckin’ relationship revolved around you, you’re all she talked about and then she tell has the nerve to tell me that she’s breaking up with me.”

Steve looked at Chris with raised brows, cigarette held lightly between a finger and his thumb, the top of it still burning in the dim light. 

“Is that so?” Steve took a drag, tried to keep his heartbeat steady, tried not to smile. “Had nothin’ to do with the way you spoke to her like shit and was always demanding stuff, no?”

The boy levelled Steve with a stare, nostrils flared and hands shoved in his pockets. “Of course she tells you fucking everything.”

“Of course she tells me fucking everything,” Steve repeated, emphasis on every word as he glowered at your ex, brows furrowed and fist clenched by his side. “And what’s it to you if she does-”

“What the fuck is going on?”

The two boys looked up, one grinning, the other desperate at the sight of you, hanging out your open window. 

Steve held up a hand in a way, features perfectly amicable as he beamed.

“What are you doing here, Chris? There’s a reason I’ve not taken your calls,” you sounded bored, tired and the boy had barely begun to answer before you’d already moved onto Steve. 

“Honey, please, I’m begging you can we just ta-”

“Steve, are you smoking? Again? Really?” You tutted, elbow on the window frame as you looked down at him with a soft pout. 

“My bad, princess,” but the boy was grinning, not looking very sorry at all ‘cause Chris was silently fuming beside him. “Stressful times, y’know?”

He took another long drag, blew the smoke out above the other boy's head and continued smiling that bright grin. Steve looked up at you again, head tilted as he gestured to your ex and squinted against the sun that was starting to set behind your roof. 

“Want me to take out the trash for you?”

His words earned him a shove, a bark of laughter leaving his lips as he barely stumbled against the other boy's hands. But before Steve could retaliate, you were calling down in a voice Steve knew you reserved for telling him off when he got too drunk, when he pushed your buttons a little too much. 

“Hey! Chris! Jesus, quit it!” You were leaning out of the window more, sleep shirt hanging off of one shoulder and a pucker between your brows. “Just go, okay? We’ve already spoken about this, I’m not interested.”

“See, this is what I was fuckin’ talking about,” Chris hissed, low enough so only Steve could hear and Steve didn’t know how to reply. 

Quiet wrapped around all three of you, the distant trickle of the pool, the muted buzz of Steve’s television from his living room and eventually, a strangled curse from your ex boyfriend's lips as he shouldered past Steve and swung the garden gate open, the wood hitting the brick. 

Steve tried not to grin as he looked back up at you, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek and his brown eyes glittering. The sunset made you both rosy, a sunbeam stretching across the side of your house, lighting up the bricks and you. 

“He seems touchy.”

“Shut up, Harrington,” you knew Steve heard the smile in your voice, the affection in the roll of your eyes. “You coming up?”

And then you disappeared, ducking back into your room and sliding the window closed with a click. 

Steve didn’t realise your parents were out until he walked over the empty driveway, the sun lowering itself into the line of trees across the street, the sky turning lavender, the moon making an appearance. He didn’t knock, just walked in through your front door, shoes toed off by the porch before he jogged up the stairs. 

Your door was already open and he found you lazing on your bed, sheets ruffled and the lights off, just the leftover sun trickling in through the open curtains and the crystals you hung at the windows sent rainbows scattering across your walls. 

Some of them fell across your bare thighs where you lay, stomach down, legs in the air in a pair of shorts that were hardly seen from underneath the huge shirt that you wore. Another streak of colour landed on your face, fluttering as the crystal spun on their chains, dancing in the last of the light. 

Steve wanted to kiss it, to see if the pretty shades on your cheek made you taste any sweeter than he already knew.

“You didn’t tell me you broke up,” Steve said and there was nothing accusatory in his voice, just genuine curiosity, soft and gentle. 

He fell onto the bed beside you, made the mattress dip as he shelled into your pile of pillows at the opposite end from where you lay. He pushed a socked foot into your side, digging in at the spaces between your ribs and making you squirm. Steve caught a smile, spread on your lips just for him and you twisted to bat him away, not surprised when his hands found yours and tugged. 

You let him pull you beside him, into the mess of sheets and too many cushions, lying so you were facing him, noses a breadth apart, eyes lowered as you spoke, suddenly nervous. 

You shrugged, fingers playing with the edges of a pillow, “just sort of happened, wasn’t a big deal.”

A beat of silence, the boy wondering if that was the truth, if there was something more behind your words, if you were hiding something in the way you refused to meet his gaze. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart pounding against the mattress, if it was echoing loud through your pillow the way he was sure it was his. 

It felt like something was building, like something was coming. Something big, something new, something wild. Like a tropical storm, a bolt of lightning across the town, a flash flood, a hurricane, something to announce that summer was over. 

That time was up. 

“You don’t seem too heartbroken ‘bout it,” Steve hedged, his gaze trained on your hands, the way your fingers picked and played with the cotton between you both. He wanted to take your hand in his, run a thumb across your palm and soothe you. 

“Cant get my heart broken by a guy that never had it.”

“He didn’t?”

“Don’t play dumb, Stevie,” you chided gently, teasing, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Always thought he wasn’t good enough for you,” the boy responded, keeping what he really wanted to say hidden behind his tongue. 

“You said that about all the guys I got with.”

A gentle nudge, your hand on his chest, a shuffle closer, breathing the same air, the rainbow on your cheekbone flitting to Steve’s lips as the sun moved down. He watched you chase it with your eyes, gaze soft, looking a little longingly, or maybe he was just hopeful. 

“It’s true.”

A soft hum, a pleased noise, a smile that finally reached your eyes and a hand that fell to Steve’s arm, running down the length of it until your fingers found the cuff of his sweater and played with that instead. 

It was the closet Steve had been to holding your hand for a while and it felt like the beginning of summer again, back to bike rides to the arcade, sticky fingers tips and slurpees that were almost too big to hold. 

“Why’d you break up with him?”

You stopped, fingertips brushing over Steve’s wrist, a pause on his pulse point that told you that maybe he was as nervous as you felt. Your knees bumped his, rough denim on soft skin, the day leaking out of your room as the sun fell behind the treetops and suddenly everything was blue. 

Navy tinted shadows, inky skin, indigo lines of barely there light that turned Steve’s skin lilac and you breathed in, held it, let the burn in your chest for a second or two before letting it back out. 

Summer was leaking away, slipping behind the moon and the night, and you suddenly felt too tired to lie anymore, to pretend. 

“He wasn’t all that happy that I was in love with someone else.”

God, you felt brave. 

Bold. 

Blue. 

Steve didn’t look all that surprised, a flicker of soft realisation over his eyes, no shock, just a gentle breath of ‘it’s time?’

“I can’t say I blame the guy,” Steve murmured, chin ducking to meet yours, foreheads pressed together on the same pillow and his hand found yours, fingers twisted together. “Don’t think I’d be very pleased either.”

“I know,” you told him, gaze trained on the way his lips moved when he spoke. “I didn’t mean to, I don’t even know when it happened.”

“No?”

You shook your head, feeling heavier than you had, like you were pulled into the boy and something magic was keeping you there. You could smell lavender and cedar and smoke and Steve. 

“Might’ve been at this party, in someone’s basement. Might’ve been the time I was pushed into a closet and my best friend kissed me.”

“That sounds awful,” Steve mused and the beginnings of a grin were pulling at his lips, “a whole five years, huh?”

“Right? Isn’t that just the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

He liked the way you said those words, like it was the opposite, your voice all sunshine and warmth and leftover summer. You were blue skies and honeysuckle, wildflowers and long drives, sleepovers on your bedroom carpet and sneaking out through the back gate. 

“Y’know, I think I’ve got you beat,” said the boy, all faux seriousness as he brought his hand to your waist, palm wide and warm as he pushed at your shirt, bunching it up over your ribs until he could touch bare skin.

“You do?” You felt a little breathless at his touch, a feeling you’d craved since last summer at the quarry, a feeling you’d missed despite knowing you’d get it again soon, eventually. Now. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve scoffed, voice teasing, gaze staring at you from between dark lashes. “I once knocked on this girl’s front door, asked her if she wanted to go to the arcade with me and I didn’t even mind when she hogged all the slurpee. I was a goner.”

“I did not!” You laughed, the sound pressed to Steve’s neck ‘cause he was pulling you into him, beaming bright and more carefree than you’d seen him in a while. “Liar.”

“Fell in love with the first girl I ever kissed,” he whispered, cheek pressed against yours as he whispered into your hair, like a secret he was sure you already knew. “How sad is that?”

You shook your head, hands clutched the material of Steve’s shirt, fists to his chest as if he was going to leave. 

“S’not sad at all,” you told him and god your voice was a hush, your lips against the shell of his ear and you felt the breath that he sucked in and held. “Long time to wait though, huh?”

Steve nodded, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he pulled back, seeking you out in the dark of your room, noses bumping. 

“Feels worth it, don’t you think?” 

And god, it did. 

It happened the way summer did. Slow and inevitable, like the gradual pick up of warmth through the year, the way you expected the sun in the morning, blue skies through your window, ice cream for lunch. 

It happened like it was supposed to, like it was meant to, like you’d waited all that time just to greet it with a warm shyness, a coy, “oh, I’ve been expecting you.”

It rolled in like a present, like a gift, like a reward. Like something that the world wanted you both to have, like the universe knew you were supposed to be together. So you shared first kisses between the wildflowers, let the seeds of something more bloom between your ribs, the spaces between your chests and your hearts. You let it simmer in the warm afternoons, burn a little stronger on cliff tops over quarry’s, picnic blankets rough under bare knees and hands in hair. 

“It does,” you breathed, closer to the boy than you had been, noses pressed into cheeks and for the last time, your best friend asked you your favourite question, one that tasted like fresh lemonade and smoke, cherry slurpees and fresh flowers in the air. 

“Hey princess?”

You hummed a response, eyes already closed, lashes brushing at the corners, a small smile playing on the curve of your lips. 

“Can I kiss you?”

You were on Steve before he could finish asking, hands on his jaw, tugging him into you, the hand that he had on your waist tightening its grip as your lips met. 

It felt different than last summer. Slower, deeper, lazier, like you both knew that this wasn’t the last kiss, like you both knew you didn’t have to wait until next year, or the year after. 

Like you both knew that this time was it. 

You moved in the dark of your room together, Steve pushing you back into the plush of your bed, moving over you to hold himself there, chest just brushing yours as one hand found purchase in your sheets, careful not to crush you. 

He caught the leg that you brought up to his side on instinct, desperate to feel more of him, wanting to press into him. Steve’s finger curled under the space behind your knee, hooked there so he could hold your thigh against his hip, so he could move into the space you created for him, body rolling into yours. 

He swallowed the gasp you gave him, kissed away the sigh and the blue of the room seemed a little brighter with his lips on yours. You whined against him until the boy caught on, moving back onto his knees only for you to follow, chest pressed against his and only breaking the kiss for him to lift his arms for you. His shirt hit the floor, yours following suit, all bare skin underneath with some new freckles to find, a trail of summer; water fights, sneaking out and greeting the morning together on the hood of Steve’s car. 

Steve ducked down to meet you, to let you kiss him a little deeper, a little dirtier, tongue licking at the seam of your lips, groaning when you opened for him, hand spanning the width of your back, hips pressed together with intent. 

“I’m fucking desperate for you, y’know that right?” Steve groaned, words sinking into your mouth with every push of his lips against yours and you swore you’d never heard anything prettier. “Always have been, totally gone on you, princess.”

“Steve,” you felt hot with the prick of emotion, tears brimming at your lashes ‘cause it was all too much and not enough, want and longing and need building up, years of looking, of touching and just tasting, searching kisses, useless excuses, never talking about it after. 

And then his hands were back on your legs, palms hooked around the backs of your knees and you were falling together, bouncing off of the mattress, pillows falling to the floor and god, you were crashing into each other. 

It was mixtapes on birthdays, fresh strawberries after swimming, a hand held in the dark after a scary movie, sitting in the yard after dark when the night was still warm and you don’t know how to tell your best friend that you thought they were perfect. 

Your shorts slid off too easily, hips raised from the bed and Steve’s fingers curled into the waistband. He kicked off his jeans with the help of your feet, toes pushed into the denim as he shucked them to the floor. 

Suddenly, there was more skin to touch, to taste, to look at, and Steve took note of every curve he hadn’t seen, every little mole and scar, tan lines in places he always tried not to stare at. 

But he kissed them instead, lips trailing hot over your chest, kisses pressed to the dip of your clavicle, the patch of sunburn on your shoulder and you felt like you had caught the entire months of summer in your chest. 

It all felt a little golden.

But night had crawled in and the shadows were darker, making every touch more intense, every kiss feeling like a confession. Your underwear joined his, piled at the foot of your bed with spilled sheets and pushed pillows and the world fell into silence for you both. 

No buzz or insects, no sprinklers in the yard, no screech of brakes from the street, no yelling from a tv. 

Everything was hushed as Steve spread his fingers over you, a choked gasp at the way he made you feel, a kiss to soothe. He kissed you through it, fingers feeling thick as he slid one and then two inside of you, curling up and searching, face pulled back from your own so he could watch you fall apart beneath him. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, so pretty,” Steve told you and you felt it, you believed him, forehead pressed to his as you gasped out his name, hands wrapped around his biceps as he coaxed you over the edge. “Can you come for me princess? Please?”

You did as he asked, as if you had any say in the matter, crashing and tumbling and falling into him, body tight, eyes clenched shut and lips falling apart in the prettiest moan Steve had ever heard. 

“Oh shit, babe, that’s it, ‘atta girl, princess.”

He pulled your hands from his length when you made an eager grasp for him, not cruel, just desperate. Steve shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly, jaw slack and eyes heavy. 

“Babe, if you touch me s’all gonna be over in a second,” he admitted hoarsely and his voice held no shame. 

So you covered him in kisses, flipped your positions from where you lay on the bed and pushed the boy into the pillows instead. You caught his lips on yours, messier now that you’d had a taste of what was to come, mouth leaving gloss over his jaw, down his throat and you felt the vibrations over your tongue when Steve moaned. 

You moved over him, slick and warm, hips pushing into his as you straddled him, making a mess of his boxers and short circuiting his brain as Steve gripped your thighs, touch almost cruel as he held on for dear life. 

You pressed your palms to his chest, dropped yourself down a little so your lips could graze his own, a new kind of kiss, teasing, a whisper that was barely there. 

It promised more to come, it kept him waiting and wanting, made Steve groan out at the realisation that he was entirely yours and god, maybe, just maybe, you were his too. 

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, and his voice was shot, “princess, please, s’not nice to tease a man like that.”

You grinned, filled with a confidence you only ever gained from being near Steve, bolstered by the way he looked at you - all heavy lidded and slack jade, chest and cheeks flushed underneath you. 

“You’ve never complained before,” you murmured back, mouth parted over his, Cupid’s bows touching but never really pressing your lips to his. 

It made you both think back to all the looks, the gazes, the stares filled with longing and wanting and yearning. That same question, asked with uncertainty, with a tumble of nerves, a burst of wonder, over the years until you knew what each other would taste like, until you knew how their lips felt between your own. 

“Vixen,” Steve mumbled and it should’ve been said like an insult, like a curse but his voice was molten honey, sweet caramel and the start of a summer morning. 

“Can I kiss you, Harrington?” The question wasn’t needed, and you were starting to think it never had been, but you loved the way his lips lifted into a soft smile under yours, noses brushing as he nodded, waiting patiently with his hands smoothing over the backs of your thighs. 

Steve made a pretty noise at the back of his throat, a gasp and a moan, a wrecked, “please,” falling onto your lips. 

You kissed him without any worries, without any thoughts of what does this mean for tomorrow? You kissed him like you were greeting summer, like he was the month of June and blue skies, like you could taste peaches and fresh lemonade on his lips, like he held all your secrets behind his teeth. 

He did.

Your harsh pants and soft moans mixed as you moved together, the boy shuffling underneath you as he rid himself of his underwear, boxers kicked to the end of your bed where they’d eventually be lost. 

He took himself in his hand, hard and long, his breath shaky as you slid down, gasping into his mouth as you got yourself seated, tightening around him for the first time. 

Steve whispered your name, soft, sinful, like a prayer, like a praise. 

“I’m not gonna last long,” he grunted, eyes squeezed shut as he clasped your face in his hands, fingers splayed across the line of your jaw, over the apples of your cheeks. “M’sorry, it’s just- you’re too much, princess-”

You cut him off with a kiss - a silent ‘it’s okay’ -  hips shifting, rolling over him as you moved, whimpering into his mouth. Steve swallowed your noises, gave you back his own and it wasn’t long before he was rolling you both over. 

His hands found the insides of your thighs first, spreading them so he could fit between, length still inside of you, pressing into all the right places. Palms smoothed up your sides, over the ripples of your ribs, calluses catching soft skin and the feel of it all made you sigh, head tilted back. 

Your hands found his, fingers intertwined as he pressed them back into the pillow below you, chest brushing up against your own as he moved, your legs curled around his waist and it was bliss, it was bright white behind your eyes, it was glitter in the dark, it was a electricity in your bones. 

“Steve,” your voice was a whimper, an almost cry, your hands grappling at his shoulders for purchase as he pushed you into the mattress with thrust after thrust. 

It all felt a little wild, gasping into open mouths, lips barely managing to find the other for a kiss, sliding messy over each other as hands pulled hair and fingers squeezed at arms, at thighs, at waists. 

“I know,” the boy said, sounding just as wrecked as you did, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his hands under the small of your back, fingers splayed wide so he could lift your hips into his own. “I know, fuck, you close? Please tell me you’re close.”

You answered with a moan, a pitched keen, your fingers tugging the lengths of hair at the nape of the boys neck and he groaned, a deep dirty sound in response and then you were falling apart, a vice around him, eyes clenched shut and teeth biting down on the muscle in his shoulder. 

Your name tumbled from his lips, a holy sound and Steve moved a little messier, his hips stuttering before he pulled out, both of you sighing at the loss, before he spilled onto your stomach with the help of your hand. 

The air smelled like summer and sex and Steve. 

Your pants filled the air, mixing with the boys and the trickle of the pool in the backyard. You lay together, breathless and skin slick, flyaway hairs sticking to your forehead, eyes a little glassy and lips rosy from greedy kisses. 

Steve pressed another to you then, and you were almost dizzy with it. He didn’t ask, neither did you. You didn’t have to. Not anymore. So he kissed you a little harder, tempting pretty sounds from your chest that he chased with his mouth, body still pressed against yours in a way you were sure you’d never grow tired of. 

No one spoke until you were both cleaned and half dressed, bodies lazy across your sheets, the night still too warm to wear anything more than your underwear, chests bare in the dark and pressed greedily to each other. A slow hand brushed across the small of your back as you lay on your stomach, head on the boy’s chest and your fingers carding through his hair. 

Every now and then you’d press a kiss to wherever you could reach: his palm when it smoothed over your cheek, his sternum where you lay, the sharp line of his jaw when you found the energy to tilt your head up. 

Steve responded in kind, his lips on your forehead, the top of your crown, the end of your nose. 

The silence was filled with the wonder of each touch, both of you bursting at the seams as you pressed your mouths to each other without worrying, without asking. 

But then Steve shifted against the pillows, moved until you were over him, chest to chest and your legs in the space between his. You propped your chin on his chest, eyes sleepy as you looked up at him and you hummed in delight when he smoothed hand over your hair, tucking it behind your ear. 

“You know I’m in love with you, don’t you?”

Heavy words were said so simply, so easily, and you did. You knew. But it still sucked the breath from you, it still made you ache to hear it out loud. 

“Yeah, I do,” you answered, because you did. You knew it from the way Steve looked at you, the way he liked to be near you, to sit a fraction too close. You knew it from the way he shared his slurpees, his car, his bed, his thoughts, his secrets. You felt it in his gaze, his touch, in the way he’d grown with you. “I’m in love with you too.”

“Yeah, princess, I know.”

And it was as easy as that. Simple like summer, inevitable, like the way the month of June rolls in after May. It was expected, like the warmth and the heat, like the sun in the morning and the clear starry skies at night. 

It was an eventuality, a slow burn, a want, a need, a necessity. 

It was Steve and it was summer and they belonged in their entirety to you.

Winner, Winner

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.5K] smut, eddie's a little shit, bottom!steve if you squint and and impossible quest.

You were being cruel, you knew that. 

But good god, Steve looked so fucking pretty and it was so much fun. It started with a dare, a challenge, a joke among friends, a bet that was sealed with an almost kiss that had Steve hanging his head back and groaning two seconds in. 

‘Cause it was a Saturday night and you were on his lap in a booth at the diner, for no real reason other than you wanted to be close. There was plenty of room between your friends, Robin curled into the corner by the window, Nancy and Jonathan pressed into each other's sides and Eddie leaning lazy on across from you both. 

Milkshakes were half finished, stray fries and spilt ketchup on the table and Robin was rolling her eyes at you both when you abandoned your dinner for the sake of pressing your nose to Steve's cheek and whispering in his ear. He responded with a grin, a hand on your thigh that almost slipped indecently high for such a public setting and finally, your friends cracked and—

“Can you not keep your hands off each other for more than an hour?” Eddie asked. His question was blunt but his tone was good natured, filled with humour and Jonathan snorted. “We’re eating.”

“No,” Robin answered for you, “they can’t.”

“Leave them alone,” Nancy defended, smiling from behind the dessert menu. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s borderline pornographic,” Robin responded mildly. 

Eddie cackled. “If only, Hawkins is dull without the gates of hell opening up.”

Steve glared.

“Seriously though,” Eddie continued, brandishing a half eaten fry in you and Steve’s direction. “S’like you gotta be touching each other twenty four seven. You gonna keel over if you don’t have your hands on her, Harrington?”

Jonathan stretched out from where he was slouched against the leather booth, grinning at Eddie and ignoring his girlfriend's long suffering sighs. “I think he would, y’know,” he laughed. “Did he tell you about how he almost ran over Mrs Lafferty’s cat?”

Robin gasped, eyes wide as she leaned over your and Steve’s laps to gawk at Jonathan. 

“Mr Pebbles?”

The boy nodded, smile sly and Steve was groaning, swiping the hand that wasn’t on your leg over his eyes. He hated his friends. 

“Too busy groping each other in the front seat.”

Eddie hollered and you turned, cheeks warm as you slapped softly at your boyfriends chest. “You told him that?” You cried out, but your friends were up in arms, voice clamouring to be heard. 

“Steve! Mr Pebbles is the backbone of Maple Street!”

“Honestly, you guys, you really should be more careful when you’re driving—”

“We’ve walked in on them doing worse, I dunno why anyone is surprised. Remember that time at Hop’s birthday dinner? Dustin almost opened the bathroom door and saw them fu—”

And then Eddie was slamming his palm on the table, cutlery clattering and the elderly couple across aisle glared at him even more than they had already been doing. 

“A bet!” He declared and everyone groaned. “A challenge  - a quest - if you will.”

“Oh Jesus,” Robin sighed tiredly, rolling her eyes as she fell back against the window. “Here we go.”

The diner lights glowed neon and somewhere in the back of the kitchen, a drying pan hissed and popped. Steve’s hand was still on your thigh and Eddie was looking at you like his new favourite game. 

The curly haired boy wiggled his eyebrows at you and Steve, his grin sharklike. “Up for it, kids?”

Steve was muttering something under his breath and it definitely involved obscenities and snippets of a story about how Eddie’s last ‘quest’ got them all banned from the library and Robin a sprained ankle. 

Neither Robin nor Nancy had yet to forgive him. 

 But you just leaned back into Steve, smiling when he hooked his chin over your shoulder and you matched Eddie’s smile, head tilted to the side, watching him, calculated. 

“What is it?”

————— 

And now it was three days later and you were sitting at the bottom of Steve’s bed, shirt lost on his floor and your skirt indecently high, the fabric hitched up across your hips as you ran your fingertips across the skin on the inside of your thighs. 

The only light came from the bedside lamp, the last of the day giving away to night as the sun sunk behind the houses across from Steve’s bedroom window. 

Everything was pink and rosy, the light, the lavender tinted shadows, the rumpled bed sheets, Steve’s cheeks. 

“Baby,” Steve groaned, saying the pet name like a curse, back pressed to the headboard as he stared at you from behind messy hair. “Baby, c’mon.”

You grinned. 

“S’wrong, Steve?” You cooed, bordering on patronising but the boy didn’t care. He just huffed out a hot breath and squirmed, chest bare and his palm dragged across the hard outline of his cock. “You look a bit pent up.”

“I am,” Steve grunted, eyes squeezing shut as you brought your knees up to your chest and spread them, legs stretching back out to show off the white underwear you wore. “Babe, this isn’t fuckin’ fair.”

“What’s not fair?” You were being mean but fuck, if it didn’t made Steve’s cock jump under his sweatpants. “You said you could last, that’s what you told Eddie, right? A whole week, yeah?”

The boy huffed, eyes opening to watch you trace a finger along the cotton between your legs, the wetness there turning the material a little translucent. Your lips parted and Steve moaned, sounding wrecked. 

“Christ, can we not talk about Eddie right now, please,” he choked out, grabbing at the sheets, fishing them in his hands. “Babe, c’mon, wanna touch you.”

“Touch me and you lose, Stevie,” you told him sweetly. “S’only been three days.”

“Tell me about it,” he huffed, eyes hooded as he gazed at you, his stare following the hypnotic motion of your finger moving up and down your cotton covered slit. “Feels like m’gonna burst. Jesus, babe, you’re killin’ me.”

You were smiling, a little cruel but then Steve was swearing wildly, pushing himself onto his elbows when you tucked a finger under the cotton and pulled it to the side. 

“I know,” you whined back, over exaggerated and pouting. “Got me so wet, Steve, just wanna feel you.”

“You can’t say things like that,” Steve groaned, “baby, please.”

So you took a little pity, although the boy swore louder, crawling over his lap so you could sit yourself pretty there, legs splayed on either side of his hips. You traced the lines of his hip bones, the v shape that framed the ladder of hair on his tummy and you grinned when he rocked up into you, lips parting on a sigh. 

“Better?” You whispered. 

“Yes— no! I don’t fucking know, Jesus Christ, I just need to touch you.”

“Touch me and you lose,” you reminded him again, voice sticky sweet, your palms pressed to his bare chest as you leaned down, tits pushing against the lace of your bra and Steve felt like he was about to bite through his cheek. 

“I don’t care about the stupid bet,” Steve huffed out. He looked broken, head pushed back into the pillow, jaw slack and pupils blown wide as he let his gaze roam over you, his skin as warm as yours, cheeks flushed from the way you wiggled on top of him. “Fuckin’ Eddie.”

“I thought we weren't talking about him?” you quipped lightly, bringing your hands back to your skirt, pulling it up your thighs to flash your underwear again. 

“Shit,” Steve choked out, hands coming to his hair to pull at it in frustration. “We’re not.”

“Wanna watch?” You murmured, smiling as one bra strap fell down a shoulder. You didn’t bother to fix it. “Watch me touch myself, Stevie?”

Steve hissed, hips canting upwards and his hands hovered at your waist, fingers twitching. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” you admonished, feeling the ghost of a touch over your skin. “No touching. You just gotta watch, yeah? Can you do that?”

Steve wasn’t sure he could but he nodded anyway, desperate, eyes wide as your hand went back to your underwear, tugging aside the cotton once more and letting two fingers push into the slick there. You sighed, breath stuttering and Steve lost it underneath you, cursing and groaning, his cock jumping at the sight of how wet you were. 

You took your time with it, made the boy whine as you pressed circles to your clit, slow and lazy, head hanging back, chest pushed out, your other hand curled into the soft cotton of Steve’s sweats for balance. You were dying to feel his hands on you, but there was a masochistic need to hear the boy beg for you. 

“Holy shit, sweetheart,” he breathed out, “that’s so hot.”

“Yeah?” You asked nicely, voice soft and breath stuttering as the pleasure started to pick up. You wiggled a little, lifting yourself up enough to be able to push a finger inside of you, another to make yourself gasp. “You like watchin’, huh?”

Steve nodded, head bobbing frantically and his dick was throbbing beneath you, twitching against your thigh and you wondered if you could make him come like this, if he’d fall apart for you with the briefest of touches. 

“Such a good boy,” you whispered and you were half joking, only teasing until Steve’s lashes fluttered and he gasped out at your words, fingers twisting the bedsheets into balls once more. 

If Steve got harder, you only got wetter, and you whined at his reaction, eyes wide and you leaned down to him. Your hand was still crushed between you both and you rutted against the friction it created, your clit grinding against your fingers and the feel of Steve’s hard cock. 

You didn’t kiss him, not yet, just pressed your nose against his and panted against his mouth, both sets of lips parted as Steve did his best to arch up into you. 

“Y’know,” Steve breathed out, chest heaving against yours, “I don’t think this is what they meant when they said we had to keep our hands off each other for a week.”

You huffed out a laugh and Steve grinned, lips brushing over your jaw and chin, soft and sweet enough to make your eyes flutter shut and you leaned into it, fingers moving faster, trying your best to find that spot inside you that only Steve seemed to be able to reach. 

“Technically,” you gasped, “you’re not touching me.”

Steve threw his head back and let out a loud, filthy sound as his cock moved under his sweats, slipping to sit underneath your cunt, the pressure of it becoming too much for him. 

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he hissed. “Need to though, please baby, c’mon—”

And then: “Oh god, oh shit, Steve! Fuckfuckfuck.”

“—are you gonna come?” Steve gasped out, falling back into the pillow as his eyes rolled back and he groaned. “Fucking hell, sweetheart, that’s it, c’mon, let me see you.”

You keened high as you kept rocking yourself against the boy and your fingers, reaching up to fist Steve’s messy hair in your hand and you pulled, tugging him up to kiss you as you came. You couldn’t help the way you pushed and pulled yourself over his lap, getting him and yourself a little messy, your fingers circling your clit. The friction was too much and it wasn’t enough and it felt too good but fucking hell it still wasn’t Steve that was inside of you. 

But he was swearing into your mouth, stuttering and groaning between each lick of your tongue over his and your hips twitched over his, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. You felt a little dirty, using him to get yourself off as he lay hard as a rock underneath you, eyes dark and hooded with need as he gazed at you. 

“That’s it baby,” Steve huffed out a laugh, voice a little strained as he stared up at you, lips shiny from your kiss, cheeks pink and warm. “Keep goin’, yeah, that’s it, you look so fuckin’ pretty when you come, Christ.”

You were panting as you came down, slick fingers pushed to Steve’s chest and he groaned, eyes pleading with you even though he kept his hands by his sides. 

“Was that good?” He murmured. 

You nodded, too gone to speak, your eyes a little watery from the intensity of it all and you burned when Steve said:

“Show me.”

So you brought your fingers to his lips, letting out a little whine when he sucked them almost obscenely, tongue on the pads of your fingers so he could taste what you refused to give him. He looked like a man stared as his eyes rolled back at your taste, humming around the two digits, his own hips stuttering under your own. 

It was only then you realised that you weren’t the only one to have made a mess, a dark grey spot on Steve’s sweats that only seemed to grow. 

You gasped, all faux dramatics as you slipped your fingers from the boy’s mouth and tucked them under his waistband, pulling back the elastic to let it snap against his tummy. Steve whined, sensitive, and you grinned down at him, shaking your head. 

“Steve Harrington,” you tutted, full of playfulness. “You’re filthy.”

His cheeks burned, hating that he liked the way you teased him, a little in awe that you made him come in his pants like a fucking teenager. 

“D’you really blame me?” He asked. “Grinding all over me, looking like that and then you come?” Please, give a guy a chance.”  

You preened a little at his words, skin warm and slick to the touch from your exertion but you rewarded him with a kiss, chest pushed to his as he hummed against your lips, happy to feel you. 

You pulled away too quickly though, the boy chasing your mouth with his and he finally gave in and grabbed your chin with one hand to keep you where he wanted. 

You grinned against him, nipped at his bottom lip and pulled back just enough to pretend to scold him. 

“M’tellin’ Eddie,” you whispered, all faux seriousness. “That’s a rule break.”

Steve rolled his eyes and huffed before switching your positions, reminding you just how easily he could’ve overpowered you if he wanted to as he flipped you underneath him. You squeaked at the movement, the mattress bouncing and Steve blew a raspberry onto your neck. 

“New rule: no talking about Eddie fucking Munson when we’re half naked.”

You snorted, titling your chin up to let Steve kiss a line down your throat, teeth grazing at the space where it met your shoulder and you moaned breathily, already wanting more of him now that he finally had his hands on you. 

“Deal,” you murmured. “You still lost, though.”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh and he rocked his hips down into yours, the feel of his cock hardening again making you ache. 

“Did I?” 

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.”

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. 

hideout

also on AO3 based on this post i made even tho i said i wasn't gonna write the actual fic (i lied) There’s a new singer at the Hideout. Eddie falls hard, watching from where he’s sitting on the bar across the room, his beer almost slipping from his fingers. The singer’s voice is smooth and soft, and it makes the rest of the world go silent and Eddie’s head go cloudy.

The only problem is that Eddie recognises him from physics.

Eddie didn’t recognise him at first. He’d been taking a sip from his beer when he was announced, introduced as Anonymous, and then the boy appeared on stage, guitar in hand, tossing the chords out of the way so he didn’t trip on them. Eddie had lowered his bottle, his eyes narrowing, but he was too far away, and the lighting hadn’t adjusted on stage, and the boy’s face was lowered.

The boy stopped in front of the microphone. Slid his fingers down the neck of the guitar, making the strings squeak. Took a breath that Eddie could hear over the speakers placed around the bar, even though it’s noisy with chatter and laughter and the sound of glasses on wood tables.

And then he started playing. It was a soft, slow melody, much much different that what Eddie plays. Perfect for the beginning of the night. Eddie had tilted his head, listening intently, setting a foot on a stool by the bar, almost leaning over to listen harder. The room fell a little quieter, and then it fell even quieter when he started singing.

His voice was soft.

Smooth and low and almost soothing, and just as Eddie realised who he was listening to, the lights on stage flicked on.

And now Eddie is sitting on a bar, staring at fucking Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, who’s playing guitar and singing into a microphone in front of a room full of people who have no idea who he is.

Eddie sets his bottle down next to himself, setting and elbow on his knee and and tilting his head as he listens.

He doesn’t know what Steve is singing about.

Something about “flower-faced demons and father figures.” Something about the monsters under his bed, and a baseball bat. Something about kids with decades in their eyes and blood on their sneakers. Something about hiding away in his closet when the booze comes out, about his back hitting glass bottles taken with nimble fingers and desperate hopes.

Eddie almost wants to cry. He doesn’t know why.

If they could see me now would they still care about those cigarettes

Eddie leans back onto the counter, finding his beer and taking a little sip as he watches. Steve’s hair is perfect, of course. He isn’t wearing one of those cute polo shirts like he always wears at school. (Eddie chastises himself for thinking they’re cute. There’s nothing cute about them. Even if they make Steve look like a preppy school boy that should be giving out church pamphlets or something, and even if that makes Eddie want to see him on his knees. He pushes the thought away with a little shake of his head.) He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of pants that reach to just above his chucks.

My head hurts and the sun is too loud, but I’m scared of the dark and the storm clouds

Steve can’t see him from the stage. Even if he could, he spends almost the whole time with his eyes half-shut, looking at the edge of the stage or at his feet. Like he’s shy. Which feels out of character for King Steve, though Eddie supposes he’s never been quite as obnoxious as Tommy H. Or as obnoxious as Eddie himself.

When he finishes singing, there’s scattered applause around the room, and Eddie sets his bottle down to clap, smiling when there’s a little hoot from behind him and Steve smiles bashfully.

“Thanks,” he says quietly into microphone, and Eddie wants to cry again. He doesn’t know why.

Corroded Coffin performs later that night. Eddie sits on the bar all night, waiting to see if Steve comes by to get a drink, but no dice. He doesn’t even know what he’d say if he saw him, if they made eye contact and if, by some small mercy from God, Steve recognised him.

Eddie tosses the chord of his guitar aside, blinking in the intense light that shines on him and his band mates, looking around the bar as some people crowd up around the edge of the stage.

“Good evening, Hideout,” their singer says loudly into the microphone as he tunes his guitar. “How we doin’?”

Eddie grins as cheers fill the bar.

“Eddie, say hi.”

His grin widens, and he steps up to his microphone.

“Do I have to do this every time?” he asks through his smile, and a few laughs scatter around the room.

“Yes, you’re the heartthrob.”

Eddie shakes his head, strumming a chord as the drummer hits two beats in a row. The lights flash.

“Hi,” he says softly into the microphone. A girl screams in the back of the room, and he throws his head back with a laugh.

He spots Steve when they’re on their second song, as he almost yelling into his microphone, and he falters slightly, but manages to catch himself and continue. He can’t tell if their eyes have met or not. They’re too far away and the bar is too dark, the light flashing too much for Eddie to really see him clearly. But it’s definitely Steve. Sitting in the same place Eddie had sat earlier.

He looks away when the song ends, rubbing his cheek and turn away to take a breath. No one can really tell in the dark.

“Our next song is called Class.”

Eddie almost laughs out loud, turning back to face the mic, spotting Steve by the bar again, sipping a beer. The song starts abruptly after a soft two, three, four, and Eddie plays with a grin throughout it all. It’s one of his favourite songs of theirs, and the thought of rich boy Steve Harrington listening to them, and a bunch of people around the stage, belt about how much they hate rich people, amuses Eddie to no end.

You don’t know how good you got it, cash and checks in your silk-lined pockets

Steve is watching, an elbow set on the bar, his chin in his hand. Eddie is out of breath, sweating and panting, and his fingertips hurt like they might be bleeding, but Steve is watching him.

Pay your bail off for the same shit I do, but of course it’s not the same

Eddie takes a deep breath before he speaks into the microphone as the music cuts off, switching to sharp, monotonous beat. His voice is low and scratchy and soft, right up against the mic, his eyes lowered to the edge of the stage.

“Coke is classy on a silver tray instead of the dashboard of a broken down car. Day drinking if it’s a champagne glass instead of a paper bag, celebration instead of self pity. You pay thousands for art in gold frames, but hate the art on the streets. You claim to work for everything you earn, even though your rough start was in the family business. Must be nice to not worry about it all. Must be nice to have a table to put food on. You stare in the streets because I’m not a cookie-cutter man from a cookie-cutter house. Look at those jeans, bet he smells like a trailer park. He has long hair, he must be a fag. He has art on his skin, he must be the antichrist. Don’t look, kids, don’t look! He’s fucking trailer trash!”

His voice escalates through it all, and he shouts the last words before they begin to play again, music crashing down in the bar like a tidal wave, loud and nearly discordant.

Eddie is smiling.

Steve’s eyes meet his a while later, while Eddie is sitting on the edge of the stage talking to a boy with spikey hair and heavy makeup. Eddie’s voice gets caught in his throat as he looks over at him.

He’s pulling the strap of his guitar of his head, and he seems to falter too, but he looks away sharply and goes outside.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking back at the guy sharply. “Sorry, I’m here.”

He laughs lightly. His black lipstick is faded on his inner lips, probably left behind on rims of glasses.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says again, shaking his head with a smile. “Tired, y’know.”

He laughs again, giving him a sympathetic smile, but Eddie interrupts before he can say anything.

“Sorry, I’m—“ He hips down from the stage. “I need, uhm. Some air.”

He leaves before he can say anything else, only feeling partially guilty about leaving the boy hanging, but Steve is already gone by the time he gets outside.

Steve definitely recognized him. It kind of makes Eddie happy. Kind of makes him excited, even though he absolutely hates that it does; Steve Harrington is just a preppy rich boy that doesn’t give even half a shit about anyone like Eddie.

There was that one time he’d told Tommy H to cut it out, man when he tripped someone in the cafeteria that one time. Not that it really meant anything.

Eddie spends the whole weekend worrying.

—————————

Their eyes meet in the hallway on Monday. He’s by his locker talking with Nancy Wheeler, and he looks at Eddie as Eddie passes by.

Eddie looks away.

He doesn’t see him again until physics, second to last period. He’s sitting at his desk staring at the worksheet blankly, watching letters and numbers and symbols swim around the paper, when something drops onto the page in front of him, and he blinks. It’s a folded piece of paper, and he cuts his eyes up without moving to find Steve walking to the teacher’s desk. He says something to the teacher and then turns to the door, glancing back at Eddie.

Eddie looks back at the paper, tentatively unfolding it to find Steve’s pretty girly handwriting.

Bathroom. 5 min

His face flushes with heat, and he covers it with a hand, pulling his hair across his face and folding the note again before he tucks it into his pocket.

He waits a few minutes, glancing at the clock, and then goes to the teacher.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

The teacher looks up over his glasses at him. Eddie holds back a deep sigh at the judgement shining in his eyes.

“Did you finish the worksheet?”

“I… No?”

“You can go when you finish it.”

“But.” He pauses. “My bladder doesn’t care about your worksheet. I need to pee.”

“Edward—“

“I’ve been drinking a lot of water lately—“

“Alright, go,” he interrupts, frustratedly. “Whatever.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says curtly.

Steve is leaning against the wall in the bathroom when Eddie gets there. They look at each other silently as Eddie shuts the door behind himself, taking a deep breath and moving to stand across the room, leaning against the graffitied tile and twisting one of his rings.

He looks at Steve. Steve looks at him.

He’s wearing a white shirt. It’s tucked into his jeans with a little belt, and his hair looks perfect even though he’s running his hands through it.

“Hey,” Steve says finally.

Eddie almost flinches, expecting a jeer at his ripped pants and frizzy hair, but Steve isn’t looking at him the way the others do. He face almost looks soft.

“Hi,” Eddie says quietly. He pulls a ring off and twirls it between his fingers. Steve takes a breath to speak, but Eddie blurts, “I haven’t told anyone.”

Steve blinks, and then nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Cool, I— I haven’t… either.”

Eddie nods, taking a breath that shakes against his will. He looks at the floor awkwardly, but Steve keeps looking at me. Eddie doesn’t often feel self-conscious, or insecure, or anything like that. He doesn’t care if people stare at him. But right now…

He wants to hide.

Steve is hot, he decides. He hasn’t allowed himself to think it until now, but he glances up at him, looking at the way he leans against the wall leisurely, the way strands of his hair fall in his face. He’s hot. It’s irrelevant. It doesn’t matter.

So what if he’s looking at Eddie like he doesn’t mind the fact that he’s a freak? Or if he plays guitar and has one of the prettiest voices Eddie’s ever heard? Or if his eyes sparkle and he has cute moles scattered all over his skin?

Eddie wants to slap himself.

“You’re really good,” Steve says abruptly, and Eddie looks up at him, slipping his ring back on.

“Yeah?” Steve nods. “You into metal, Harrington? Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Steve scoffs lightly.

“Not particularly.” He shifts on wall. “But I still liked it. You’re talented.”

“Jesus.” Eddie looks at him blankly. “You’re laying it on thick. I already said I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

“I’m not—“ Steve’s cheeks redden. “I’m not trying to butter you up, I just… It was cool.”

“I’m messing with you.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, looking away, suppressing a smile. “Of course you are.”

“You were really good too,” Eddie says after hesitating. “Like… weirdly good.”

“Weirdly good?” Steve says with a light laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It was unexpected,” Eddie says with a shrug, moving his hands to play with the ends of his hair. “Didn’t recognise you at first. But you seemed… I don’t know, like, in your element.”

“I really like music,” Steve says softly.

“And your lyrics?” Eddie does a chef’s kiss. Steve laughs again, rubbing his cheek. “Genius.”

Steve rolls his eyes, his cheeks pink.

“I mean—“ Eddie ignores it. “‘Flower-faced demons?’ Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Uhm.” Steve’s smile falters and he looks away for a second. Something flashes in his eyes that Eddie can’t quite read. “I, uhm. I have recurring nightmares.”

“Oh.” Eddie stares back at him for a moment. “Well that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a laugh. “It does.”

“Whats your favourite song?” Eddie asks, twisting his hair. Steve’s eyes follows the movement.

“Uhm.” He takes a breath. “I guess. Boys Don’t Cry. The Cure.”

Eddie nods slowly, twisting his hair around his finger.

“Yeah? Do I pass?”

A little laugh bursts out of Eddie.

“I’m not testing you, man, you can like whatever you like. The Cure’s nice.”

“What do you like?”

“Uhm.” Eddie sighs, pushing his hands into his pocket and flicking his head to get his hair out of his face. “Metallica. Mötley Crüe. Ozzy, for sure.”

“Ozzy?”

Eddie looks up at him. He’s looking at him curiously.

“Ozzy Osbourne?” Eddie says. Steve shrugs. “He’s the, uh, lead singer of Black Sabbath. Bit a bat’s head off on stage a few years ago. Real metal.”

“He fucking what?”

Eddie cackles, looking at the way Steve’s face changes, his brows furrowing, his eyes wide. Eddie nods, and Steve laughs, looking at Eddie the way people do when they make fun of him, but he’s still smiling.

“That’s what you’re into?” Steve says.

“Well—“ Eddie laughs again. “Yeah. And the music.”

“The music,” Steve repeats with a teasing nod. “Right.”

Eddie makes a face at him.

It feels like they’re flirting. Eddie supposes he’s flirting with him, the way he does to the popular girls so they think he’s loveable freaky instead of insane stalker murder rampage freaky. And so they tell their boyfriends to leave him alone.

He can’t tell if Steve can tell that he flirting. Or if Steve is flirting back.

“You should show me sometime,” Steve says softly.

And oh.

Eddie stares. Looks back and forth between Steve’s eyes like he’s trying to see if he’s fucking with him or not. But Steve looks earnest. And nervous.

“Okay,” Eddie says. His voice is also soft. He might be mirroring Steve. “You should, uhm. Come over.”

Steve looks at the floor. And he smiles.

“Yeah, okay.”

Eddie stares at him, twisting his mouth.

“You’re not messing with me, right?” he asks. Steve’s eyes cut up to him. “You’re not gonna like… I don’t know.”

Steve stares back at him for a moment. And he shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. Eddie can just hear him across the room. “I’m not fucking with you. I think you’re cool, Eddie.”

Eddie guffaws, and Steve looks offended.

“What, I can’t think you’re cool?”

“No!” Eddie exclaims, laughing. “No one thinks I’m cool, that’s— that’s my whole thing!”

“Okay, well…” Steve laughs lightly, tucking his hands behind his back against the wall. “I’m different. You’re cool.”

“Oh, you’re special?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie looks at him.

He is.

“Fine,” he cedes, and Steve grins. He has a beautiful smile. Eddie has to look away. “You wanna come over tonight?” he asks before his brain catches up. His cheeks flush with heat. “I mean— Unless you have, like, homework, or your parents need you home, I…”

“My parents aren’t even in the country,” Steve says. “And I can do my homework when I get home or something.” Eddie stares. “Yes. I’d like to come over. You can show me your music. We can light up a joint or something.”

“Oh, I see,” Eddie says, nodding. “You’re in it for the weed.”

“…I mean it definitely helps.”

“Wow.”

Eddie frantically cleans up as soon as he gets home. He doesn’t think he’s ever cleaned like this before, organising his and Wayne’s shoes at the front door, gathering dirty dishes and stacking them in the sink, wiping counters and sorting the cushions of the sofa. He’s almost out of breath after a while, standing at the door and scanning the trailer for anything out of place. It’s still cluttered and probably nothing at all like Steve’s home, but there isn’t really anything else he can do.

So he goes to his room and finds some weed, taking it to the living room and anxiously rolling a joint as he waits for Steve. Part of him thinks he won’t show up. That he really was just fucking with Eddie. That tomorrow he’ll avoid his eyes and pretend they’ve never spoken.

He’s in the middle of rolling the third joint when he hears a car pull up in front of the house, and he freezes, staring at the door, wide-eyed. He stays like that until there’s a knock on the door, and he scrambles off the sofa, dropping the unfinished joint to the coffee table.

Steve’s eye are wide when Eddie opens the door.

“Was worried I had the wrong place,” he says, exhaling, and Eddie laughs lightly, pushing the door open for him to come in.

“Welcome to casa a la Munson,” Eddie says as he comes in, shutting the door. Steve looks around the trailer, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his face light and curious. His eyes trail across Wayne’s mug and hat collection, across the sofa and table and television, the kitchen and table. “It’s not a lot, but…”

“I like it,” Steve says simply. “It’s…”

“It’s?” Eddie questions, leaning against the small table by the doorway. Wayne hates when he does. Tables are for glasses, not asses and all that.

“I don’t know,” Steve says softly, almost bashful. He’s still looking around. “It looks like people actually live here. My house looks… like a photo set for a catalogue.”

Eddie laughs, crossing his arms, watching Steve wander around, looking at everything.

“Is it all pristine and white?”

“Unless I throw a kegger, yeah.”

Eddie laughs again. He hates himself for it, how much Steve gets him to laugh.

He watches Steve look closely at every one of Wayne’s trucker hats, watches him laugh at the stupid ones, and Eddie furrows his brows in judgement.

“These are your uncle’s?” Steve says, pointing up to them, and Eddie nods. “Your uncle’s funny.”

“I think your brain is broken.”

Steve hesitates, then shrugs.

“Only a little.”

Eddie laughs again. (Fuck.) He shakes his head.

“Music?“

“Yeah, lead the way.”

“Apologies for the state of my room,” Eddie says as Steve follows him down the hall after he grabs the joints from the table, even though he knows he cleaned it up in a rush before Steve arrived.

“I don’t judge.”

Eddie almost scoffs.

“Oh, woah,” Steve exclaims when he enter his room, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie. He turns to ask if he’s judging him, but Steve is looking around the room, his eyes shining brightly. He’s staring open-mouthed, gazing around the room like he’s entered a portal to another world. Maybe he has.

“Woah? Good woah?”

“I— Yeah.” Steve looks around again. He’s smiling. “Yeah, it’s cool. My mom would shit a brick if I tried something like this.”

Eddie looks around his own room. At the posters and tapestries and the white sheet he spray painted CORRODED COFFIN onto that’s pinned in the corner. It looks like a disaster, but Steve is looking around like he’s in the Louvre.

“What does your room look like?” Eddie asks, shutting the door and kicking his shoes off to sit on his bed.

“Uh. Well.” Steve sits on the edge of his bed, still gazing at the walls. He looks awfully, perfectly out of place. “My walls are plaid.”

“Your walls are fucking what??”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh.

“Plaid,” he repeats, still laughing. He kicks his shoes off too, turning to face Eddie and crossing his legs. “My mom picked the wallpaper when I was, like, thirteen.”

“Jesus.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve never felt pity for a rich person, but—“

Steve laughs again.

“You should be rebellious, Harrington. Get an ABBA poster or something.”

Steve shrugs.

“I might. You gonna show me some music, or what?”

“Uh-huh. But first, what you really came here for.”

Eddie tosses a joint to Steve, who catches it against his chest with a grin. Eddie has to lean over to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table, pushing past the half-empty bottle of lube and hoping his cheeks don’t flush, until he finds a lighter. He turns back to look at Steve, popping another joint between his lips, to find him leaning over his lap, an elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm, his joint already dangling form his lips.

Eddie has to take a breath, looking, before he flips the lighter in his hand and leans in. Steve mirrors him, leaning in until the joints are almost touching, and he flicks the lighter a few times before it lights. They both pause for a moment before Eddie leans away, his cheeks flushed red as he inhales the smoke deeply.

Steve sits on the bed and continues to look around while Eddie looks through his records.

He picks a Metallica record, carefully lowering the volume before the music starts.

“Are you gonna hate me if I don’t like it?” Steve asks as Eddie crawls back onto the bed. He looks hot when he smokes. Which Eddie should have seen coming, really, but the way he sucks air between his teeth before he exhales the smoke slowly is doing things to Eddie.

“Nah,” Eddie says easily. “‘S not for everyone.”

“But it’s for you.” Eddie nods, taking a drag off his joint, watching Steve’s chest rise under his t-shirt. “Why?”

Eddie pauses, exhaling, listening to the heavy music for a moment.

“I dunno,” he says lightly. He’s never thought about it before. The music’s always just made sense to him. Always fitted. “Makes my brain go quiet, I guess.”

“Could you sleep with it on?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Steve snickers, taking another drag.

“Can you play this one on guitar?” he asks after a moment. Eddie nods.

“We’ve covered this at the Hideaway before,” he says. He sticks the joint in his mouth, lifting his hands and playing an air guitar, humming along as Steve watches his hands.

“I like how you dance,” Steve says softly, and Eddie grins around the joint.

“Headbanging?” Eddie says, and Steve nods with a grin. Eddie does it harder, listening to the way Steve laughs lightly.

“You have great hair for headbanging,” Eddie comments.

“You think?”

“Mmhmm.”

He gets to see Steve headbang. Steve Harrington. With his lovely hair flying around his head without a care, laughing as Eddie cheers loudly, a joint between his fingers and Eddie’s favourite blanket under him.

“Steve Harrington, I’ll make a metalhead of you yet.”

Steve just laughs again.

—————————

He decides to be brave on Wednesday. He slips a note into Steve’s locker as he’s passing it in the hall. Just a short note, reading having lunch in my van if you want to join signed with a small E.

Even though he knows that it’s unlikely anyone saw him, and even though it’s fine if Steve doesn’t join him, and it’s fine if he does, Eddie feels sick and spends the next ten minutes standing with his face to the wall in a bathroom stall with his eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths.

And then a few hours later he’s sitting in the back of his van, the doors open so he can sit in the sun, and then Steve Harrington is joining him, silently climbing up so sit next to him and pulling a sandwich out of his bag.

“You’ve got shit handwriting,” he says after a minute, and Eddie almost chokes on his water, snorting and covering his face as Steve laughs.

“Sorry my handwriting isn’t pretty like yours,” he says defensively, coughing lightly.

“Oh, my handwriting is pretty?”

“A lot about you’s pretty,” Eddie says before he can actually think, and Steve looks at him. His face flushes and he avoids Steve’s eyes.

“I think you’re pretty too,” Steve says after a moment.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve laughs again.

“Do you wanna come over this week?” Steve asks as Eddie is kicking his feet. “Like on Friday?”

Eddie looks at him.

“Your parents won’t mind?”

“My parents probably won’t ever find out.”

Eddie blinks.

“Oh, you said they’re travelling, right?”

“Yeah.” He takes a bite from his sandwich.

“Where are they?” Eddie asks, shifting to lean again the wall, facing Steve.

“Somewhere in Canada.” Steve brings a leg up in front of himself, swinging his other leg. “Dad has a conference or something, and after the last time he went to Canada, Mom didn’t trust him to go alone.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and Steve snickers, nodding.

“Although,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure she’s hooking up with his boss. But also I don’t really care.”

“Jesus. How long are they gonna be gone?”

“Two more weeks.”

“You miss them?”

Steve scoffs, giving Eddie a look like the question is absurd.

“No,” he says when Eddie just looks at him. “I don’t miss them.”

“Do they suck?”

Steve laughs softly, moving to sit across from Eddie.

“Yeah, kinda.” He hesitates, looking at the ground between them. “I don’t think they like me very much,” he says thoughtfully. “But I don’t really like them either, so. Oh well.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

Steve hesitates again, nibbling his sandwich. He really is cute.

“I don’t think they actually meant to have me,” he says after a moment. “They’d stick me with random nannies and babysitters until they could leave me home alone, and then… Well, they saved money, I guess.” He shrugs. “They don’t really talk to me anymore. And when they do, it’s…” He trails off, and it looks like he’s zoning out, breathing shallowly. “My dad yells a lot,” he says softly.

“Sounds like a dick.”

Steve just nods.

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I’m actually… I don’t know, like. Scared I’m gonna end up like him.” He takes a breath, blinking, and he looks up at Eddie.

“You’re not,” Eddie tells him. Steve just looks.

“It’s how everyone knows me,” he says. “Even though I hate it. Steve fucking Harrington.”

Eddie’s chest clenches.

“And I’m…” Steve looks away again. “I don’t know. If I’m not Steve Harrington, who the fuck am I?”

It’s not really a question. Eddie answers anyway.

“Your own Steve Harrington,” he says. “Not your dad’s. Or fucking Tommy H’s, or anyone else’s. Just… You’re Steve.”

Steve is almost smiling.

Eddie was to hug him. His eyes are shining almost vulnerably, and he looks tiny, sitting up and against the wall of Eddie’s shitty van.

“What about your parents?” Steve asks through another bite of his sandwich, changing the topic. Eddie lets him.

“Well.” Eddie takes a breath. “Mom was too coked up to be a mom. And Dad wanted me to his little mini-me. And when I refused he treated me like a punching bag instead of a child.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you end up Wayne?”

Eddie looks up at him. Something shifts in his chest. He ignores it.

“When Mom OD’d in the living room, Dad wanted it to be my fault, so I left,” he says, moving down the wall, relaxing. He twists a ring. “I went to my aunt’s house because she was close, my— my mom’s sister— but she, uh, like… genuinely thought I was the antichrist, so—“

“She what?”

Eddie laughs, nodding.

“Genuinely, entirely,” he says, watching Steve’s brows furrow. “She’s one of those people that’s, like, preparing for the rapture or something.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

Steve laughs. He leans his head back against the wall, and Eddie’s eyes get caught on the line of his neck, on his Adam’s apple. Eddie wants to press his hand to it. He ignores the thought.

“She told me wanted to save me and stuff but that I was ‘hopeless.’ So I called Wayne and he picked me up and we moved like a week later so Dad couldn’t find me.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve says softly, and Eddie looks up at him. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks away after a moment, twisting the sleeve of his jacket. “Safe.”

“Me too,” Eddie breathes.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“So was that a yes on Friday?” Steve asks. “I don’t think you actually answered.”

“Oh,” Eddie realises. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Okay, cool.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Uh,” Steve sighs. “I dunno. Watch a movie or something.”

“You’re inviting me over for no reason?” Eddie says incredulously. Steve laughs.

“Why do I need an excuse to hang out with you?” he asks, still laughing, and it makes butterflies erupt in Eddie’s stomach.

“No weed or anything?”

Steve tosses a hand, making a face.

“I don’t need to be high to enjoy your company.”

The butterflies swarm. Eddie almost feels sick.

“Steve Harrington.”

“Mhmm?”

“You slick fucker.”

Steve laughs. It’s almost a giggle. Eddie dies.

Steve ends up laying down as they continue talking, looking at the ceiling of the van. It’s badly spray painted with song lyrics that are barely legible, but Steve looks up at it like he’s stargazing.

He looks like he might fall asleep. Eddie kind of hopes he does. But he sits up after a little while, holding a die in his hands, looking at it like he’s almost marvelling.

“Oh, I was wondering where that was,” Eddie says when he sees the deep purple colour. He lost it ages ago.

“Was under the blanket.” Steve is almost marvelling at it, rolling it in his hands. “This is a D20 right?”

Eddie blinks. Looks at the die and then at Steve again.

“You know your dice?”

Steve glances at him. His cheeks flush pink and he sighs.

“Yeah, the kids I babysit have me well-trained.”

Eddie blinks again.

“The… The kids you babysit?”

“I mean, I guess it’s not really babysitting as much as it is me driving them places and watching while they play D&D, but…” He looks up and laughs at Eddie’s expression. “It’s not officially babysitting, I just— I just get along with them, for the most part. Their parents trust me.”

Eddie stares.

“How old are these kids?”

“Middle school,” Steve says. “Like thirteen or fourteen or something.”

“You… hang out with a bunch of middle schoolers,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “While they play D&D. You know what D&D is.”

Steve laughs again, nodding. He tosses the die and Steve catches it against his chest.

“Why do you hang out with them?” Eddie asks, tossing and catching the die. “If their parents aren’t paying you?”

“Someone needs to make sure they don’t get themselves killed,” Steve says, and he suddenly seems too serious, too worried and forlorn. Eddie watches as he looks at the ground before he looks up again. “They’re good kids,” he says, his voice softer. “Fucking smart. Smarter than I’ll ever be. They don’t deserve half the shit they get.”

“Shit like what?”

Steve sighs.

“Kids are assholes. Bullies, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And…”

“And?”

Steve takes a breath, his mouth twisting as he thinks. He’s fiddling with the lace of his shoe.

“You know that kid that went missing?” Steve says, looking up at him. “Everyone thought he died?”

Eddie remembers it. Remembers how Wayne worried and worried like it was his own kid. Remembers seeing the kid’s face on a pinboard at the school, remembers hearing what people would say about the kid’s brother.

Bet the freak killed him.

“Yeah, I— I know of him.”

Steve nods, looking back at the lace that he’s twisting around his finger.

“Yeah, that fucked him up,” he says. “The kids at his school called him Zombie Boy, it’s… Jesus.”

“He’s one of your kids?”

Steve smiles at his shoe.

“Yeah.”

“He plays D&D?”

“Mhmm.” Steve nods and looks up at him again, still smiling. “Will the Wise,” he says fondly. There’s a shine in his eye. “He has a wizard robe and hat and everything. I think you’d love him.”

Eddie stares at him, open-mouthed.

“…Who are you?”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh. Real.

He moves forward, holding his hand out.

Eddie slides his hand into Steve’s, and Steve’s fingers tighten around it. He shakes.

“I’m Steve.”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. His hand is warm against Eddie’s, and Eddie wants to pull him in and kiss him. “It is… really nice to meet you.”

Steve’s smile could outshine the sun.

—————————

Steve was right about his house looking like a catalogue. It almost makes Eddie sad, the lack of personality and anything that could make it look like a home. There aren’t any photographs anywhere except one in the living room of Steve’s parents at their wedding. No magnets on the fridge, no unique dishes, no worn and walked over runs. It would look abandoned if it weren’t for the few used dishes in the sink and the flowers on the kitchen table.

Steve’s room is heartbreaking.

The bedroom of a thirteen year old boy with physics and world history textbooks on the desk. It’s clean, and Eddie wonders if Steve cleaned it before going to school today.

The walls are absolutely horrendous. Eddie tries not to laugh, Steve gives him a look that makes his snort and choke.

“You have any tape?” he asks Steve after looking around. (There isn’t much to look at; nothing on the walls except a framed picture of some car. Books stacked on and papers spread across his desk. A pair of slippers by the door. A photo of him and Nancy Wheeler on the wall above the desk that Eddie wants to stare and stare and stare at, but he looks away.)

“Uh, yeah.”

Steve rummages in a drawer before he finds a roll of masking tape, and he tosses it to Eddie before he sits on his bed and watches Eddie cross the room to a wall, reach into his backpack, and pull out a poster that he took off his own wall last night. It’s a worn AC/DC poster, the corners of it curling in as he holds it to the awful plaid wall and rips tape with his teeth. Steve is laughing, and Eddie smiles until the poster is stuck to the wall. It’s not straight, but Eddie doesn’t really care. Steve doesn’t either.

“Highway to Hell?” Steve questions when Eddie joins him on the bed, spinning the tape around his finger.

“Mhmm.”

“Yeah, my parents are gonna love that.”

He’s grinning.

Steve orders pizza for them.

They watch three movies before he goes to the kitchen and comes back with two beers.

And then he sits next to Eddie again, but this time he’s a cushion closer. Eddie almost can’t breathe with him so close, and his hands shake as he cracks the can open. He has his legs pulled up onto the sofa, comfortably curled up in the bland living room of the Harrington mansion.

Eddie drifts off after a while.

He falls asleep.

He wakes up after a while to find the room dark, tv screen full of static and Steve asleep next to him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his head fallen forward. Eddie allows himself to gaze for a moment.

He’s beautiful. He probably has no idea how gorgeous he really is, Eddie thinks.

He looks around after a moment, at the television and the empty cans between them. He moves them carefully, setting them on the ground and sighing.

He’s adjusting the cushion behind him when he hears Steve exhale sharply, and Eddie looks at him. He hasn’t moved, but his eyebrows are furrowed slightly.

Eddie pauses, looking at him, and after a moment, Steve exhales sharply again, gasping, and then it looks like he’s hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyebrows furrowing and relaxing and furrowing like he’s going to cry.

I have recurring nightmares.

“Steve?” Eddie whispers. He wants to reach out and touch him. But he doesn’t know what to do. Steve doesn’t respond, still asleep.

His eyes squeeze. He exhales again.

And a moment later he lets out a whimper so small Eddie almost doesn’t hear it.

“Steve?” he says again, louder. “Hey. Stevie.”

Steve awakes with a start after a minute, and it startles Eddie. Steve’s whole body moves sharply, his eyes flying open, a kind of fear in them that Eddie’s never seen before.

“Steve,” he says gently, but Steve is already getting up, using a trembling hand to shut off the television. The room falls slightly darker, and Steve turns in the center of the living room, looking around like he’s gaging the safest part. “Steve?”

Steve startles again, his eyes finding Eddie on the sofa.

“Eddie?” he asks breathlessly, confused.

“We fell asleep,” Eddie explains softly. “I think you had a nightmare.”

“A nightm—“ Steve cuts off with an exhale, and he averts his eyes, looking to the floor and then around the room again. “Fuck.”

“You’re okay,” Eddie says softly. Steve swallows, looking at the ceiling. His eyes are shining. Eddie’s chest aches.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Steve says breathlessly. “I—“ He takes another breath, and Eddie worries that he might start hyperventilating.

“Steve, it’s fine,” he says gently, shifting on the sofa so he’s sitting in the edge of it. “I know, it’s okay.”

Steve covers his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Don’t apologise,” Eddie says, watching Steve take stuttering breaths. “I— I know you have nightmares, I’m not… I’m not judging you or anything, Steve, it’s okay.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie can tell that he’s crying, and his whole body hurts as he watches, unsure and lost on what to do.

He gets up slowly like he doesn’t want to scare him, and he carefully, tentatively approaches him.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers. Steve nods, wiping his eyes but still hiding his face, and Eddie sets a hand on his back, gently sliding it up to the back of his neck. Steve exhales shakily. “Come here, Stevie.”

Steve falls against him as he wraps his arms around him, and they sway as he cries.

“You’re okay, Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “I got you.”

Steve apologises again. Eddie tells him not to.

He pulls Steve to the sofa, pushing a hand up into Steve’s hair and combing through it.

“Take a deep breath,” he says softly, reaching to take Steve’s hand and squeezing it. Steve is shaking, but he tries to take a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “You got it.”

Steve falls against him as his breathing levels back out, and Eddie hugs him tightly, pressing his face against the top of his head. Steve shifts, and their legs twine together until they’re tangled together on the sofa, wrapped around each other.

Eddie wonders if Steve is going to fall asleep again. But he can tell that he’s not.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Eddie whispers softly. “Your nightmare?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, his face pressed into Eddie’s shoulder.

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

Eddie combs through his hair again.

“Okay.”

They both sigh, and relax against each other, and Eddie wonders if he’s in some kind of parallel universe.

A parallel universe where he gets to cuddle with Steve Harrington.

Steve smells nice. Like fancy, expensive shampoo and something masculine that belongs just to Steve.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks in a small voice. Eddie’s arms tighten.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

He wakes up in the morning with Steve laying on his chest, Eddie’s hand in his hair. Steve is still asleep, breathing steadily, curled up next to Eddie on the sofa. Eddie looks down at him, and he wants to kiss him.

He lets his head fall back against the sofa, smiling at the ceiling.

Steve sleeps. Eddie wonders how often he sleeps this soundly, this peacefully. He can feels Steve’s chest and see his shoulders rise and fall with every breath. (He ignores the part of his brain that wants to swallow his breath.)

“That feels nice,” Steve grumbles after a long while as Eddie is slowly, gently playing with his hair. Eddie almost startles, looking down at him, but he can’t see his face.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

Eddie continues. He runs us fingertips across his scalp, dragging through his hair, scratching and pulling through little snags. Steve sighs. He falls asleep again. Eddie can tell when he does, by the way his breathing becomes heavier, the way he presses his face into Eddie’s chest. Eddie doesn’t stop playing with his hair even though Steve is asleep.

Something changes after that. Everything easy between them. Steve reaches across the table to push Eddie’s hair out of his face as they eat the eggs he made for breakfast. Eddie fixes the tag of Steve’s shirt as he’s passing him in the hallway on Monday. They eat lunch in Eddie’s van, listening to metal and chatting with their legs tangled between them. Steve puts his leg over Eddie’s the next time they’re at Eddie’s trailer watching a movie, and he smiles softly when Eddie sets his hand on his leg. A while later Eddie is laying on Steve’s floor, slowly working through his homework (his brain keeps going back to next week’s D&D campaign) while Steve is working at his desk. After a few minutes Steve gets up and sits on the floor next to him, but before he can ask what’s up, Steve is laying down, resting his head on Eddie’s lower back and sighing. (Eddie somehow finishes all his homework with the steady weight of Steve’s head on his back, careful not to move as Steve hums along to the music that’s playing from his radio.)

Steve goes to the next gig at the Hideout, and he allows Eddie to trace dark eyeliner around his eyes and smudge it with his fingertip. He just giggles when Eddie stares at him afterward.

“Christ.”

“No, it’s just Steve.”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie throws his battle vest into Steve’s face so he can finally look away. Steve puts it on over his black t-shirt, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

He looks good.

He looks… really fucking good.

His hair is tousled from the vest hitting his face, and his eyes are shining and framed by messy smudged eyeliner, and he’s grinning lazily like he knows all about the crisis Eddie is currently having.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

When Eddie has to say hi on stage again, this time it’s Steve that gives a little scream, and it elicits a laugh from the bar, but it makes the butterflies in his stomach swarm again.

Steve sits close enough that Eddie can see him while he’s on stage, sipping a beer and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling.

Eddie gets pulled aside after Corroded Coffin is done by a girl, but another band is already playing, and he can barely hear her. He plays along for a moment before she leaves with a bright smile, and then he slides his guitar to hang on his back as he goes to find Steve.

Who is still at the same table, holding a glass bottle in his hand, but now there’s a man talking to him.

And man that Eddie doesn’t recognise, but immediately doesn’t like.

He’s smiling too fondly at Steve, not that Eddie can really blame him, talking and smiling like he’s fucking flirting. Eddie freezes, watching, a fire growing in his chest even thought it’s stupid. Steve isn’t his. It’s not like he belongs to him.

And it’s not even like the man is being a creep. He’s not touching Steve, or leaning into his space, or biting his lip or touching the bottle Steve’s holding the way Eddie’s seen some perverts do. He’s just talking. Smiling at Steve and nodding and laughing and being friendly.

But Eddie still finds himself striding across the bar and stepping up next to Steve, looking at the man with a too-bright smile and too-bright, “Hi!”

The man’s face lights up with recognition. He tells Eddie he was amazing, man, and Eddie manages to get out a thank you before Steve’s arms are flying around his neck. Eddie startles and hugs him back with a laugh.

“You okay, Stevie?”

“You did so good.”

“…Are you drunk?”

“Only a little.”

The man leaves them alone after exchanging a look with Eddie. They’re both laughing.

Steve pulls away but leaves his arms over Eddie’ shoulders. His eyeliner is even more smudged than it was when Eddie did it for him, and his cheeks are flushed, and the bright lights of the bar are flashing and shining in his eyes.

Eddie wants to kiss him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

The feeling doesn’t go away.

Eddie wonders if it’ll ever go away.

He doubts it.

Because every time their eyes meet in the hall at school, and every time Eddie traces a finger across the back of Steve’s neck in physics and Steve looks up at him with a sly smile, and every time Steve nods his head along with Eddie’s music while they sit in his van, and the first time Steve slides his hand into Eddie’s, Eddie wants and wants and wants and wants.

Steve is a dream.

A daydream.

Eddie barely believes he actually exists.

He listens to Eddie rant about Lord of the Rings and D&D and all the bands he loves, and he listens to Eddie’s music, and even seems to like it a little bit. He lays on Eddie’s bed with his head hanging off the edge upside down and looking around with a smile even as he and Eddie talk. He keeps all the stupid notes Eddie leaves in his locker, and when Eddie finds out, he almost cries. He asks clarifying questions about Lord of the Rings, and he doesn’t get it all but it still lights Eddie on fire. He talks about his kids like they’re the stars even though he refers to them as the little shits. (Except some girl named Elle, who Eddie’s never heard of but apparently is a sweetheart.)

He doesn’t laugh when Eddie pulls out a sewing kit and stitches an old t-shirt that ripped. He just looks at him and smiles and keeps talking.

—————————

It’s a Saturday.

Eddie’s got his van parked in a clearing in the woods, and it’s so bright and sunny that he wonders if he should have brought sun lotion.

The back doors are open and Steve is sitting across from him, Eddie’s acoustic guitar in his lap. He’s plucking at the strings, playing some melody that Eddie doesn’t recognise. He wonders if Steve wrote it himself. He doesn’t ask.

He’s sewing a patch onto an old jacket. He messed it up and is pulling at the thread, careful not to snap it, the sewing needle held between his teeth, his brows furrowed.

The guitar falls quiet as he’s working, and he looks up to find Steve watching him, holding the guitar in his lap, frozen like someone’s taking a picture of him. Eddie gives him a grin, the needle sticking out of his mouth, and Steve’s lips curl into a little smile before he sets the guitar aside carefully. He moves to reach between the front seats and switches on the tape that Eddie had playing on the way over, turning it down so it’s playing softly in the background.

And then he’s crawling across the van and laying next to Eddie’s legs, tossing an arm across his lap, carefully ensuring he doesn’t hit the jacket and mess Eddie up, and he’s pressing his face into Eddie’s leg.

“You gonna take a nap?”

Steve nods, sighing.

Eddie smiles and continues pulling at the thread.

“You know you’re my best friend?” Steve mumbles after a while. It makes Eddie freeze. It makes him look down at the side of Steve’s face, and it looks like he’s sleeping, but Eddie knows what he sounds like when he’s sleeping. It makes the butterflies swarm and his heart pound and it makes him want to cry.

“You’re my best friend too.”

He really is.

He comes to Eddie’s gigs and cheers for him and calls him Eds. He wears Eddie’s battle vest every time. He has posters from Eddie’s room on his walls even though his parents did “shit a brick” when they come home and see them. (He tells Eddie this with a grin, and Eddie says he might be a bad influence for Steve. Steve’s smile widens and he just tells him it’s fun. Eddie wants to die.) He explains basketball to Eddie, which really, in any other context, Eddie wouldn’t give even half shit about, but Eddie fucking listens like his life depends on it. He remembers Eddie’s favourite gum flavour and that he hates bread crust and that he hates with the seams of his sleeves rest on the sides of his wrists.

Steve sleeps peacefully with his head on Eddie’s lap. Even with one of Eddie’s metal mixes on.

—————————

They’re high.

Steve looks so pretty when he’s high. (He always looks pretty.) His eyes are glazed over and half shut, and his cheeks are flushed red, and he looks like he might keel over and fall asleep at any second. Eddie knows he must not look much different. His hair is probably frizzier. Steve’s is still perfect.

“What are you looking at?”

Eddie blinks. He’s staring at Steve, and Steve is staring back, smiling, like he knows. Eddie shrugs lightly, watching Steve take another rip from the bong in his hands. Watching him blow smoke into the air between them, wishing he’d blow it straight into Eddie’s lungs.

“Think you’re pretty.”

Steve smiles as he finishes his heavy exhale.

He stares back at Eddie again.

Eddie doesn’t know how long it lasts, this quiet, gentle tension, until it snaps when Steve says, “I wanna fucking kiss you.”

Eddie blinks.

He wonders how high he is.

“…You do?”

“Jesus. Yeah.” Steve sighs heavily. “Yeah, I do.”

“Please.” Eddie’s voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. Too. “Please do, I— Please, Stevie.”

Steve exhales, and his eyes look even glassier than they did a minute ago. He leans over, setting the bong down and tossing the lighter to the ground, before he moves and crashes his mouth against Eddie’s.

Eddie’s eyes shut and his hands fly up to hold Steve’s face between them, and after a moment the kiss softens, and he might be ascending.

Eddie’s kissed people before. He’s fucked people before. He likes making out with people, and he likes sex. Really likes sex. But this.

This is better than anything. He’d trade every single sexual experience he’s ever had for this moment.

Steve’s head is tilted, and he sighs as he catches Eddie’s lower lip between his and sucks gently. Eddie furrows his brows, pushing a hand into Steve’s hair and lowers the other to his waist, pulling at him until he moves without pulling his lips away, lowering himself to Eddie’s lap.

Eddie groans. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck and lets his lips part for Eddie’s tongue, and Eddie’s hand tightens in his hair.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps when they part. His lips are shining. “Wanted to do that for so long.”

“How long?” Eddie asks breathlessly, combing through his hair, stroking his waist. He’s heavy on his lap, firm and solid and real even though Eddie still feels like he’s floating.

“Since you got up on that stage and fucking said hi like that.”

He kisses Eddie before Eddie can say anything, and Eddie kisses him back, hard, tugging his hair and listening to him whine.

“Seriously?”

“So fucking hot, Eddie, shit.”

“Jesus, Steve.”

“Eddie, please.”

He kisses him again.

They’re both uncoordinated and smiling, and Steve is running his fingertips across the back of Eddie’s neck under his hair, and Eddie is shivering like he’s freezing.

“I like you so much,” Eddie says softly when they part, letting his head fall to Steve’s, his forehead pressing against Steve’s cheek. “You’re everything, Stevie.”

Steve sighs. He pushes his head into Eddie’s hand.

After a moment he pulls away and their eyes meet. They stare.

They gaze.

Steve takes Eddie’s hands in his and looks down at them. Gazes at them. Strokes them with his fingers and traces the lines of his palms and veins below his knuckles.

“I really like your hands.”

“Yeah?”

Steve nods. He drops one of his hands and Eddie slides it over his hip, watching Steve analyse his hand like he’s studying it, like he’s trying to memorise it.

“Can I?” he breathes. Eddie doesn’t know what he’s asking. He doesn’t care.

“You can do anything, sweetheart.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut.

He seems to hesitate, sliding his tongue over his lips and taking a breath like he’s nervous before he lifts Eddie’s hand up to his mouth.

He drags his tongue up Eddie’s palm to the tips of his fingers, and Eddie’s breath cuts off.

Steve hums like he’s drinking a milkshake, and Eddie smiles at him even though he isn’t looking. Steve turns Eddie’s hand and licks it again, over the side of his hand, over his knuckles, over his fingers. He sucks the tips of Eddie’s fingers into his mouth, furrowing his brows like he might cry.

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. He presses his fingers into the heat of his mouth, hearing a soft whimper escape Steve’s throat. He leans in and kisses the side of Steve’s neck, sighing as Steve flicks his tongue over his fingers. Steve hums softly, tilting his head to the side.

When he pulls away there’s a bruise blooming on Steve’s skin. It’s beautiful. Eddie didn’t know he was capable of creating anything beautiful.

Steve holds Eddie’s hand between both of his, and he pulls it away. His spit is dripping between Eddie’s fingers. Eddie shivers.

“Fuck.”

Steve moans softly, licking his fingers again before he looks into Eddie’s eyes.

He looks almost shy. Embarrassed. Which doesn’t fly with Eddie, so he leans in and kisses him like his life depends on it, biting Steve’s lip and pressing his tongue into his mouth. He drags his wet fingers over Steve’s cheek, down his neck, and Steve whines.

“Alright?” Eddie asks softly. Steve nods desperately, pulling him back in.

They’re barely even kissing. Steve’s mouth is warm and wet and he tastes so good Eddie can’t stop. He’s holding Steve’s neck lightly, his other hand gripping Steve’s hip, and he pulls when Steve rolls his hips against Eddie’s subtly.

“‘S okay,” he says when Steve pulls away, wide-eyed. “It’s alright, Stevie, you can…”

Steve exhales sharply. He slowly rolls his hips, and Eddie bites his lip, trying not to groan.

“Don’t do that,” Steve says softly, breathlessly. He touches Eddie’s mouth, pulling his lip free from his teeth and leaning down to suck on it. “Wanna hear you.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie closes his eyes.

Steve whines as they move together, kissing and clutching at each other desperately. He grabs at Eddie’s hand that’s on his hip and lifts it to his face, turning his face into it and moaning, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Eddie,” he chokes. “Eddie, baby, please.”

“What?” Eddie asks. His voice is rough. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“Shit. Fuck, Eddie, touch me.”

Eddie thinks he might be dead. Steve looks like he’s glowing. Fucking ethereal. A blessing sitting on Eddie’s lap. Maybe it’s because Eddie’s high. Maybe it’s because he’s in love.

Oh.

Eddie exhales shakily, his thumb brushing over Steve’s cheek.

“Hey,” he says softly. Steve looks at him, his eyes shining desperately. “You change your mind, or it’s too much, or anything like that— you— you wanna stop, and you tell me, okay?”

Steve smiles at him. Kisses him.

“Okay.”

“Open your jeans for me, baby.”

Steve grins and releases Eddie’s hand to unbutton and unzip his jeans. Eddie watches. Steve leans in and kisses him deeply as he shifts on his lap, lifting up onto his knees to tug his jeans and boxers down his hips.

When he pulls away, Eddie lifts a hand to his own mouth, spitting into his palm, and then he holds it in front of Steve.

“Spit.”

Steve looks down at his hand. Stares at his palm. Leans down and licks Eddie’s spit off before he closes his mouth and closes his eyes like he’s savouring it. Eddie’s eyes widen. Steve spits into his palm again, smiling at Eddie’s expression.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Steve giggles.

“Fucking filthy,” Eddie says fondly, reaching down to touch him, and Steve’s head falls back as he lets out a disgustingly beautiful moan.

Steve is holding the hem of his shirt out of the way. When Eddie looks down he can see the softness of his belly, and he wants to press kisses to it, go suck bruises into it. (He will eventually, he decides, if Steve is cool with it. He has a feeling he will be.) He wants to do that everywhere, leave bruises and bites and love across Steve’s whole body. Eddie wants to make him feel beautiful. He wants to worship him.

Steve finds Eddie’s free hand and holds it tightly as he squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie likes how he sounds. Every breath comes with a soft noise from the back of his throat, weak and desperate and so pretty that Eddie’s eyes burn.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Stevie,” he breathes. Steve’s hand tightens on his.

He watches Steve’s face. Watches him bite his lip and furrow his brows and squeeze his eyes shut. He listens to his breaths, to the slick sounds of Eddie’s hand moving.

“Eddie—“

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. He’s breathless. Steve isn’t even touching him. “It’s okay, Stevie, I got you.”

Steve looks down at him. There are tears in his eyes, and Eddie knows that he’s remembering that first night he had a nightmare while Eddie was there. (He’s had plenty of nightmares since. Eddie’s been there for lots of them. He’s heard Steve whimper names and words that make no sense, heard him cry and scream, and he’s held him after every single one. Wiped his tears. Kissed the top of his head because he couldn’t kiss his lips yet.)

Steve kisses him. His lips don’t land square on Eddie’s, and it’s messy and wet and they both have tears falling down their cheeks, but Eddie doesn’t care. It’s beautiful.

“Fuck,” Steve says sharply, pulling away enough that his forehead rests on Eddie’s. He’s breathing hard. Eddie is too. “Eddie, I’m—“

“‘S okay,” Eddie whispers. “Come for me, baby.”

Steve drops his shirt to wrap his arms around Eddie’s neck tightly. He’s trembling as he comes, letting out a long groan into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his other hand into Steve’s hair and holding him as tears slide down his face.

“Did so good for me, Stevie,” he breathes as Steve comes down. “My sweet boy.”

Steve whines, tightening his arms. Eddie hugs him back, pressing a hand to the small of his back as he combs through his hair.

“Eddie,” Steve says after a few minutes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Need you to take your shirt off.”

Eddie giggles.

—————————

They fall asleep naked, under Eddie’s blankets and quilts, facing each other. Steve falls asleep first.

The barely present light that sneaks under his door from the hallways lights his room up the slightest bit. When his eyes adjust to the dark, it’s enough to see Steve’s face. Eddie traces his features, trailing the very tip of his finger over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, over his lips and chin and jaw. He tucks his hair back when a strand falls in his face.

“I love you,” he breathes, soft so it doesn’t wake Steve up. He never wants to wake Steve up, never when he’s sleeping like this: peaceful and quiet and calm.

He lifts his head and moves closer to kiss his forehead. He falls asleep with a hand on Steve’s warm, soft waist, and sunlight in his head.